Wild Kitty by L. T. Meade

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"I have failed, darling; I have failed entirely," she gasped out, "I
meant to do right, but I did wrong; I have become worse and worse,
although I cannot see the wrong myself. But Miss Worrick has found it
out. I want to give up the school, darling, and to go back to Old
Ireland. They don't think so badly of me in Old Ireland, and they'll let
me dress as I like and go out when I like; and--and, I am not fit for
England, dear. Please write to dad and tell him so--tell him I am a
failure as far as England is concerned. He'll understand, dear old man.
He'll be sorry, but he'll understand. Let me go home again, please, Miss
Sherrard--let me go home!"

"No, Kitty, I shall do nothing of the kind," answered Miss Sherrard.
"You must not kiss me just now, my dear; no, I am not pleased at all.
You did very wrong to go out as late as you did last night. You broke
one of the strictest rules of the school, and have brought discredit
upon us all. Miss Worrick, will you please relate exactly what
occurred?"

Miss Worrick now stood up and made as much as she possibly could of poor
Kitty's little escapade in front of the "Spotted Leopard." The story so
described made anything but a pleasant picture. Miss Sherrard who was
tenacious with regard to the school, and most anxious that each and all
of her girls should bear the highest character for quiet and orderly
behavior, was deeply annoyed.

"Kitty," she said, "I have always been strangely unwilling to punish
you. I have never ceased to remember that you have not been brought up
like most of the girls here--that you have enjoyed a freer, wilder life.
On that account I have tried to be very patient with you, my dear; but I
am sorry to say that I have no alternative now. I must punish you, and
severely. For the next week you are to stay in during the morning
recess, and after school is over will remain here day by day to learn
different tasks which will be set you. Further, my dear--and this, I am
sure, will be the most severe part of your punishment--your school
companions are absolutely forbidden to speak to you, and you must give
your word of honor that you will hold no communication with any of them
until the week has expired."

This very severe sentence made poor Kitty quite collapse. She sat down
on the nearest chair and her rosy face turned pale.

"Oh, I cannot give my word of honor," she gasped. "I must speak. I must
at least speak to Elma Lewis."

"You are not to speak to any of your companions, with the exception of
Alice Denvers, in whose house you live," said Miss Sherrard. "Kitty, if
you disobey me, I shall have to expel you, and then indeed you will be
disgraced for life. My dear you must bow to my authority--you are to
speak to no girl in the school. I trust to your honor to obey me in this
particular. If you are expelled--and it will certainly happen if I find
that you are not keeping your word--you will be branded for life."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE LOST PACKET.

After parting with Kitty, Miss Sherrard went back to the school. As she
did so, she said a few words to Miss Worrick. The result of this was
that all the girls were summoned to appear in the great central hall.
When there they were told very briefly--Miss Sherrard standing by her
desk as she spoke--that Miss Malone was in disgrace.

"Miss Malone has done something which obliges me to put her into
Coventry for a week," said the head-mistress. "Her schoolfellows are
forbidden to have any intercourse with her. If she attempts to speak to
any girl belonging to Middleton School, with the exception of Alice
Denvers, in whose house she is living, that girl holds communication
with her at her own peril. Such a girl stands a grave chance of being
expelled from the school."

Miss Sherrard then descended from her platform, and the usual work of
the morning went on.

It may easily be guessed that Kitty Malone, and Kitty Malone only, was
the subject of conversation during recess. What had she done? Why was
Miss Sherrard so very severe on her? It was not often that a Middleton
girl was given such a very terrible punishment. Alice who knew all about
it, and Bessie, who knew a little, were therefore in immense request.
Girls came up to these two in groups to find out what was the matter;
and when they heard from Alice the very glaring account of what Kitty
had really done on the previous night, they listened with open mouths,
giving vent to their feelings in different ways. The larger number
pronounced Kitty's conduct to be the height of all that was disgraceful.

"Is it true," said one, "that she really wore the college cap? Oh, what
will Dr. Butler say if he finds it out? Alice, you cannot mean that she
had bare arms, bare from the elbows? Oh, impossible!"

"But Alice," said another, "tell me, did she really, really, knock one
of those horrid boys down?"

"Yes; like a ninepin, so Fred says," replied Alice. "Oh, it was
disgraceful. Don't talk of it any more; my cheeks burn whenever I think
of it."

"But after all, Alice"--said Gwin, who came up at that moment. Gwin's
tone sounded quiet, stately, penetrating; it rose above the din which
the other girls were making. "After all, Alice, don't you think that you
were to blame too? Why did you not let Kitty get into your room and
hers? If she wanted to go for a walk it was surely natural enough to ask
for her hat and jacket; you refused to give them to her."

"Of course I refused," said Alice, who did not at all wish to share any
of poor Kitty's blame. "Kitty knew perfectly well that she was breaking
one of the school rules as well as one of our home rules by going out at
such an hour--it was between nine and ten o'clock. As to her going
without her hat and jacket, such an idea never entered my wildest
dreams. No; bad as I thought Kitty, I did not think her bad enough for
that. There is no excuse for her. She is well punished, and for my part
I cannot but rejoice."

"For my part," said Gwin gravely, "I am extremely sorry. I like Kitty; I
like her much. She has her faults of course; she is different from any
of the rest of us; she is wild and daring and eccentric; but she is also
the soul of honesty and candor. She is very affectionate and very
generous. She has not been brought up in the least as we have been.
Things we think wrong are not considered wrong by Kitty Malone. As she
herself expresses it, she is a little bit wild. Oh, I am sorry for her,
dreadfully sorry; and I think Miss Sherrard has been too severe. I
wonder at Miss Sherrard. I thought she understood Kitty. She spoke to
mother so kindly about her yesterday; she said there was a great deal of
good in the Irish girl, as she called her; and also said that she was
very glad that I was her friend. Although Miss Sherrard does not know
any of the rules of the Tug-of-war Society, she naturally knows that we
have formed it. She told me that she could not express how pleased she
was at our having asked Kitty to become a member. Girls, I wish I could
speak to Miss Sherrard. I think I will. It will break Kitty's heart to
be kept in Coventry for a week."

"I doubt if she has a heart," said Alice. "It is all very fine to talk
of her affectionate ways; for my part I call them nothing but impetuous.
She is vain, conceited, and selfish; and provided she gets her own way
does not care what prejudices she rides roughshod over. Oh, I have no
patience with her."

"But," said Bessie Challoner, who was standing stolidly by, looking
very determined and very quiet, "what did Kitty want out at that hour?
Kitty with all her faults, would not break the rules unless she had a
strong motive. What could have been the matter?"

"And why did she want to see you, Elma?" said Gwin. "Can you throw any
light on the subject?"

Elma colored first and then turned pale. Several pairs of eyes were
immediately fixed on her; one girl looked at the other, and a few nodded
significantly. Elma observed the looks and turned away in hot fear.

"I don't know what she wanted with me," she muttered.

The rest of the school hours passed as usual, and just before dinner,
when the great school broke up for the day, Kitty was still the subject
for conversation. Gwin lingered a little behind the others, and Bessie
stopped to ask why she was doing so.

"I have almost made up my mind," she said, "to plead with Miss Sherrard
for Kitty."

"Oh Gwin; how noble of you. I respect you, I do from my heart; but I
tell you what. Would it not be better for us to do something of this
sort? Why should not all the Tug-of-war girls plead for her? That would
seem more effective and stronger, would it not? Suppose we wrote a
letter, a sort of round-robin, and sent it to Miss Sherrard, begging of
her to forgive Kitty this time; and taking upon ourselves the
responsibility of her future conduct. Oh, I say, Gwin, could we not do
it?"

"It is a splendid thought," said Gwin; "much--much better than my
talking to Miss Sherrard alone. Look here, Bessie; could we not manage
to have a meeting of the Tug-of-war at my house this evening? Oh,
there's Elma; I'll ask her at once. Elma come here."

Elma who was just shouldering her books preparatory to leaving the
school, turned when she heard Gwin's voice.

"What is it, Gwin?" she asked; her manner was a little nervous.

Gwin hastily repeated Bessie's daring suggestion.

"Oh, I'll come of course," said Elma; but there was a certain amount of
apathy in her tone.

"And I will secure Alice; I am getting quite to dislike Alice, though,"
said Bessie.

Gwin promised to write to the other girls at once, and it was finally
arranged that a meeting should be held at Harley Grove that evening
between four and five o'clock.

Elma walked home alone, musing much over the aspect of affairs.

"I wonder what Kitty did want with me," she said to herself. "Doubtless
it had something to do with that money. Kitty was in despair, so it
seems. Oh, there's Fred Denvers; perhaps he can tell me something?
Hullo, Fred!"

Elma stopped; Fred was on his way from college; he was whistling a gay
air, and did not see Elma until he had almost reached her side.

"Hullo, Elma," he answered; "how are you?"

"Oh, I am very well, Fred, thank you; but have you heard about Kitty
Malone?"

"How everybody does cry out Kitty Malone; it will soon be sung by the
birds in the air," said Fred; "Kitty Malone! Kitty Malone! What's the
matter with her now?"

"Oh, she has got into the most awful scrape; of course you know what
occurred last night?"

"Rather!" said Fred. "I was with her. I say, Elma, she is about the
pluckiest girl I ever met. Didn't she hit out straight from the
shoulder; and didn't that fellow go down like a ninepin! I don't believe
he is able to see out of his eye to-day. Why, that little hand of hers
is as hard as iron. Who taught her the art of boxing like that? She's a
born fencer! She's a splendid girl. I never met any one like her."

Elma did not feel so much annoyed at this praise of Kitty as Alice would
have been; but all the same it was scarcely gratifying to her. After
reflecting for a moment, during which Fred was preparing to continue his
swinging pace toward his home, she said suddenly: "But where was she
going, Fred?"

Fred's big blue eyes lit up with a sudden light of intelligence.

"What a fool I am!" he said. "You perhaps can throw light on this
mystery. She wanted to see you, Elma. I cannot imagine what about. You
know how fond she is of her brother Laurie? Well, it seems that Laurie
got into some sort of scrape; and Kitty, poor girl, she was in a way
about it; fretting like any thing, and she said no one could help her
but you. Can you tell me what she wanted with you? She was in a rare
hurry to get to your house."

"Of course I cannot tell," answered Elma. "Who could be responsible for
the vagaries of Kitty Malone? I thought I would ask you. I thought
perhaps you would know. Of course they are talking about it at school,
and they are wondering what I can have to do with it. It is anything but
pleasant for me I can tell you."

"Oh, you'll manage well enough; you'll fight your own battles. Well,
what have they done with her at the school? You look quite mysterious."

"I forgot I had never mentioned it to you. They have sent her to
Coventry; Miss Sherrard has done it. We are none of us to speak to her
for a week."

"Whew!" said Fred, rounding his lips for a prolonged whistle. "Well,
that won't bother Kitty much; I don't suppose talking to you would be
much of a loss to her."

"But you don't understand, Fred. It's the disgrace, and Gwin Harley
thinks it will break her heart; and--But I must not tell you any more; I
must hurry home."

"Poor Kitty! Anyhow, there's no embargo put on my talking to her," said
Fred to himself. "Poor old Kit, poor old girl; I'll make it up to her if
I can."

Fred ran home as fast as he could, and Elma continued her way.

"There's no doubt of it," she said to herself; "she wants that money.
She will manage, Coventry or not, to ask for it. She promised me
faithfully that she would never tell that I borrowed it from her; but,
being an Irish girl, she is scarcely likely to keep her word. Now that
she is in trouble for some unknown cause, she is certain to blab it
out. Did she not say herself that she could never keep a secret? Oh
dear, what an awful mess I have got into. If it gets to be known that I
borrowed eight pounds from Kitty I shall be expelled. If there is a rule
that the Middleton governors are strict about, it is that by which the
girls are forbidden to borrow money from one another; and eight pounds
is such a large, large sum. All my future will be ruined if this is
known. I had better give her back all the money that is left, and at
once. It would be the safest plan. I can at any rate let her have seven
sovereigns; and perhaps if she has that, she will not say anything
whatever about the matter. How miserable I shall feel without it; but
anything, anything is better than the dreadful fact getting to Miss
Sherrard's ears that I broke one of the strictest rules of the school,
and borrowed eight pounds from Kitty. The Tug-of-war Society would never
again have anything to do with me. I should have the poorest chance of
remaining in the school. It would get to Aunt Charlotte's ears. Yes,
yes; all my future depends on keeping this thing dark. I must get rid of
that dreadful money as quickly as possible. I thought my luck was going
to turn; but it is far too good to be true that I might keep such a
large sum of money safely. Poor Kitty! yes of course, I'm sorry for her;
but she is certain to tell on me. She would think nothing of getting me
into the most terrible scrape. I--I am bound to think of myself first."

At this point in her meditations Elma reached the house in Constantine
Road. She ran up the steps, let herself in with a latchkey, and went
straight to her room. She opened the drawer where she kept Kitty's
precious sovereigns and put in her hand to take out the little paper
parcel. More than once since she had possessed this money had Elma
examined that little packet, getting up early in the morning to gloat
over it, looking at it the last thing at night; but always taking care
that Carrie should be sound asleep. It gave her comfort, the comfort
almost of a miser to gaze at her gold. She used to forget at these
supreme moments that the gold was in reality not hers at all. She used
to forget everything but the delightful sense of possession. She felt as
if she could never spend the money, as if she must hoard it and hoard it
just for the mere pleasure of looking at it. She knew the exact corner
of the drawer where she kept it; no one ever dared to meddle with Elma's
drawers. She kept the rest of the family more or less in awe of her. As
to Maggie, she was honest as the day. But what was the matter? Search as
she would she could not find the precious little packet. She looked
frantically here, there, and everywhere. Soon she had removed the drawer
from its case and had tumbled all the contents on her bed. Nowhere was
the money to be found. Elma's face turned white as a sheet. She trembled
from head to foot. In the midst of her meditations Carrie entered the
room.

"My dear Elma, what is the matter?" she cried.

A glance had shown her what was really wrong. A smile crossed her face.
She walked deliberately across the room and flung herself on her bed.

"How hot it is," she said with a pant.

"Dear me, Carrie, why are you so incorrigibly lazy?" said Elma. "Not
that I care--I am in dreadful trouble I------"

"You look like it," said Carrie. "What is the matter?"

"I am looking for some money."

"Money? What money are you likely to have?"

"Well, it so happens that I have some--a good deal. Carrie have you seen
it?"

"Have I seen what?" asked Carrie in a provokingly drawling voice.

"Why, my money. How did you think I got that dress, that dress which you
are racking through at such a furious pace?"

Carrie was attired in the pale blue nun's-veiling. It was Carrie's way
to have a dress and to wear it morning, noon, and night, destroying all
its freshness. The nun's-veiling was already dirty and draggled-looking.

"How do you think I got that dress that you made such a fuss about if I
had not money to pay for it?"

"I am sure I couldn't tell, and what's more, I didn't care," said
Carrie. "What is vexing you now, Elma? Oh! what a commotion you are
making in your poor drawer!"

"I have just lost seven sovereigns and--Carrie, I see by your face that
you do know something about it. Is it possible that you stole the
money?"

"How dare you accuse me of such a thing?" said Carrie, flaring up in
apparently most righteous indignation--- in reality she was enjoying
herself immensely. She had made up her mind not to tell Elma the truth
at present. By and by she would tell, after she had well frightened her
sister, but certainly not yet.

"I know nothing whatever about it," she said, caring little for the lie
which she was telling. "I am sorry you have lost it; but how did you get
it?"

Elma was silent, shutting up her lips tightly. The dinner-gong sounded,
and the girls went down to their midday meal.

Carrie soon perceived that Elma was in real trouble. With all her low,
idle, careless, and unprincipled ways, at the bottom of her heart she
was fond of her sister. She made up her mind to visit Sam Raynes that
evening and get him to return the money.

"Poor old Elma," she said to herself. "I don't want to be too hard on
her. It is not the fun I expected when she looks at me with such
miserable eyes. It would certainly not do for her to get talking to
Maggie."

"You leave the matter to me. I may have a clue," she said, when dinner
was over. "But rest assured on one point, Maggie has nothing to do with
it, nor has mother."

Here Carrie ran upstairs, to put on her things preparatory to returning
to her pupils.

Elma was now alone. The hour was three o'clock. At half-past four she
was to meet Gwin Harley and the rest of the Tug-of-War girls. In the
meantime she knew she could not possibly have any peace of mind until
the seven sovereigns were discovered.

Mrs. Lewis had gone up as usual to her room to lie down. She had a
headache and was in very low spirits. Elma glanced at her once or twice
and determined not to worry her; but Maggie she considered her lawful
prey. She had given Carrie no promise, and felt sure that Maggie and
Carrie between them were at the bottom of the mystery. She determined to
go into the kitchen and terrify Maggie into confession.

That young woman was busy giving sundry touches to the charming toque
with which she intended to electrify her young man on the following
Sunday.

"Maggie," said Elma, "I wish to speak to you."

"Oh lor! miss, how you startled me," cried Maggie. She jumped up as she
spoke, dropping Kitty's violets to the floor. They were so natural, so
beautiful, so exactly like the real flowers, that more than one girl had
remarked upon them, and among these had been Elma. As they lay on the
by-no-means-too-clean kitchen floor, she stooped now to pick them up.

"Where did you get these?" she asked in a sharp voice.

"Oh, Miss Helma, they're mine, and you have no right to 'em," was the
quick reply.

"Where did you get them, Maggie? You're a bad girl; you must have stolen
them."

"I steal 'em! I like that," said Maggie, turning first crimson and then
very white. "They was give to me by the young Irish lady."

"By Miss Malone, Miss Kitty Malone?"

"Yes, miss; the prettiest young lady I ever clapped eyes on; she give
'em to me herself."

"Look here, Maggie," said Elma, "the violets don't matter. Let us talk
of something else. Do you know anything about some money which I keep in
my drawer upstairs? Now look me straight in the eyes. I miss that money,
and you know I can call in the police and have your boxes searched. Do
you know anything about it? If you'll tell me the truth I'll be merciful
to you. Last night I had seven sovereigns in my drawer, but now they are
gone. Did you touch them, Maggie? Tell me the truth and at once."

"I touch your money, miss! I didn't know you had any, that I didn't."

Poor Maggie's face was a study. Perplexity, despair, indignation swept
over it in a sort of terror.

"Miss Helma, you're cruel to talk to me like that," she cried. "Me touch
your money! No, that I didn't. Oh, miss, is it the money Miss Malone
come about? Is it gone?"

A wild hope flashed through Elma's brain, to be discarded the next
moment. Could Kitty have come to the house and visited her room and
taken away her own money herself?

"What do you mean about Miss Malone?" she cried.

"She come here miss. Oh, Miss Helma, don't look at me so scornfully. She
came here yesterday and asked for you and when I told her you was out
she writ a letter, and said you was to have it the moment you come in,
and that it was as important as the Bank of England. Yes, that she
did--and she laid it on the blotter in the dining-room. She was the
prettiest young lady I ever set eyes on, and she took them violets out
of her cap and give them to me. She was in an awful way, and said she
wanted to see you on a most important matter. I don't know what she
wrote in the letter; but it may have been about the money, miss."

"Of course it was about the money," said Elma, who felt more and more
uncomfortable each moment; "but where is the letter, Maggie? Why did I
not get it?"

"You ask Miss Carrie that, miss. She come in, and--. Oh, but I mustn't
tell any more."

"But you must and shall," said Elma. She took hold of Maggie fiercely by
her arm, dragged her forward to the light, and looked her full in the
eyes. "Now, tell me every single thing you know, or I'll summon the
police this moment," she said.

Thus adjured, Maggie fell on her knees and made an ample confession.

CHAPTER XV.

GWIN HARLEY'S SCHEME.

Elma felt nearly driven to distraction. All her future depended on the
character which she was able to maintain at school. She did not, and she
knew it, belong to the best class of girls who attended Middleton
School. Elma's father was a man of bad reputation. He had long ago
disgraced his family, and had been obliged to go to Australia. Mrs.
Lewis was better born than her husband; and when trouble came, a sister,
who had been much shocked at her marrying Lewis, came to her aid. She
did not do much for her; but she did something. This sister, a certain
Mrs. Steward, the wife of a clergyman in Buckinghamshire, promised to
look after Elma, who was the cleverest and most presentable of the two
girls. Mrs. Lewis begged that Elma should not be taken away from her;
and Mrs. Steward, angry with herself for what she termed her folly, had
yet yielded to her sister's entreaties. She said she would give Elma
what would be better than a fortune--namely, a first-class education;
and if, when her education was finished, she showed intelligence, and,
above all, a good, sterling, moral character, she would do what she
could to place her in life. Her present intention was, after Elma had
gone through a course of instruction at Middleton School, to send her
to Girton, thus enabling her by and by to take a really good position as
teacher.

All these things Elma knew well. She was an ambitious girl; she
earnestly desired to secure a good position for herself in life. She
hated her sister Carrie's ways, and detested the grumbling, weak sort of
character which she could not but see that her mother possessed. All the
same, she was not really scrupulous nor high-principled; it was only
that the little mean ways and the petty shifts which went on in the
small house in Constantine Road sorely fretted her. Her intercourse with
girls like Gwin Harley and Bessie Challoner could not but raise her
standard. Carrie's manners and ways disgusted her more and more each
day.

Now, as she put on her hat and prepared to walk to Harley Grove, she
could not help thinking, with great bitterness, of the unlooked-for
calamity which had come upon her. She was naturally intensely selfish,
and had no idea of sacrificing herself on this occasion. No matter to
what subterfuge she must be obliged to stoop, she would never, never,
let any of the Middleton girls know that she had broken the rule of the
school, and borrowed money from Kitty. For a Middleton girl to borrow
money at all was a black crime; but for any one to take advantage of
Kitty's innocence, her _naivete_, her wild, daring, reckless ways would
make the crime all the blacker. Elma, were such a sin to be discovered,
would be, if not expelled from the school, which was extremely likely,
at any rate tabooed on the spot by all the nice girls who went there.
Above all things, she longed for and esteemed popularity. Such a course
of treatment would be intolerable. As a matter of course, Mrs. Steward
would be told of her niece's transaction. Mrs. Steward would say, "Like
father, like daughter." She would cease to patronize Elma. The fees for
her schooling would be withdrawn, and Elma herself must sink to the
level which Carrie had long ago reached.

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