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Wild Kitty by L. T. Meade

L >> L. T. Meade >> Wild Kitty




"Really, Kitty, you are quite too ridiculous; as if I were the cause of
your trouble. You are in trouble because you disobeyed a strict rule;
and my locking the door or not had nothing whatever to do with it. You
are quite the most tiresome, inconsistent girl I ever came across."

"Well, it is nothing to you what I am," said Kitty. She sank down on a
chair by the side of her little bed as she spoke; her expression was so
woe-begone, her face so pale, the droop of her eyes so pathetic, that
Alice was slightly touched in spite of herself.

"I am going to see Bessie Challoner," she said. "If you were different I
would not leave you."

"Oh, never mind me, pray."

"All the same, I would not leave you, Kitty; for remember I am the only
girl belonging to the school who may speak to you for the next week;
but, really, your ways are so unpleasant----"

"And I so infinitely prefer your absence to your company," retorted
Kitty. "So you may go with quite an easy mind."

"Thanks awfully," replied Alice, with a sneer. Her momentary good-nature
had dried up like the dew. She put on her hat, wrapped a shawl round her
shoulders and left the room.

Kitty returned to her place by the window. It was now between eight and
nine o'clock. She had refused both dinner and tea, and was in
consequence feeling weak and faint. There was a giddy sensation in her
head to which she was not accustomed. She did not connect it with the
fact that she was starving, and wondered what was the matter with her.
She was too excited and wretched to feel her ordinary appetite. She had
gone through a great deal, and her nerves were reminding her of the
cruel trick she was playing on them. It was very dull in her room; the
gas jet shed a hideous glare over the place. The room in itself was by
no means pretty, for the paper was the worse for wear, and the paint was
nearly worn through to the woodwork. The hangings to the windows and to
the two little beds were of an ugly drab color; and the view out of
these windows only revealed a narrow street. At Kitty's own home she had
a bedroom in the Castle end; the paper hung in ribbons, the door was
draughty, the bedstead rickety and old; but what a view there was from
the windows! A view of Lake Coulin and the mountains in the distance,
and the park lying verdant and green between the lake and the house.
What a breeze blew in at those windows!

"Oh, I should never be dull if I were locked up in the dear old bedroom
at home," thought the girl. "But here! here it is enough to madden one;
and yet I must stay here, for I cannot talk to the others. I will not
allow Fred to guess my secret. Oh, what a miserable, unhappy, wretched
girl I am! I am a prisoner. Oh, if only Laurie saw me! Dear Laurie; the
darling, the treasure that he is! It would break his heart if he knew
what I am suffering."

There were no books at all interesting to Kitty in the room, so she
could not while away the lagging hours with a novel. As a rule the
arranging of her wardrobe, the trying on of her many dresses, gave her
pleasant occupation; but she was in no humor to make herself smart that
evening.

"I suppose the love of dress is a sin," she said to herself; "although
it is one of the rules of the Tug-of-war Society that the girls are to
be fashionably dressed. Anyhow, it seems to have been my undoing, for if
I had only gone out in somber ugly attire last night I might have the
money now for my darling Laurie; and this heavy, heavy weight would be
off my mind, and I should not be in disgrace at Middleton School--not
that that much matters."

She went to the window, flung it open, and looked out. It was a clear,
starlit night. She could see the sky from between the long rows of
houses. She looked up at it, and then put in her head again.

"I shall suffocate if I stay any longer in this room," she said to
herself. "After all, why should I obey Miss Sherrard? She spoke about my
word of honor; but I have not given it. I was silent--I was silent on
purpose. If I could only see Elma and get my money back all would be
right, and I could really bear the rest of this terrible week. I have a
great mind to risk it and go to her."

No sooner had the thought entered the head of the wayward girl than she
proceeded to act upon it. She put on a long cloak which reached nearly
to her feet, a little cap of blue cloth was secured over her mass of
curling hair, and then going cautiously across the room, she took the
key out of the lock, unfastened the door, shut it behind her, locked it
from the outside, put the key in her pocket, and ran downstairs.

"If the servants or Alice come up they will think I have gone to bed.
What fun if I keep Alice out of her bed for an hour or two!" laughed
Kitty. She was now once more in high excitement and pleasure. It never
took long to raise her volatile spirits. "I hope Fred won't be about. I
don't want to get the poor darling into mischief," she said to herself.
There was no one in sight, however. The younger children were away in
another part of the house, Mr. and Mrs. Denvers were out, the servants
were in the kitchen, Alice was with Bessie Challoner, and Fred was down
in his shed mourning the absence of Kitty, whose bright ways were
fascinating him more and more.

"It's all right," thought the girl. She left the house, and a few
moments later was walking at a rapid pace in the direction of
Constantine Road. The thought of her disobedience, of the daring of her
own act, but added zest and pleasure to her walk.

"How happy I shall be when I get the money," she said to herself. "I'll
coax Fred or Mrs. Denvers to get me a postal order to-morrow, and I'll
send it to Laurie at once. Oh, what a weight will be off my mind! Why,
I'll almost feel inclined to turn good again!"

The walk to Constantine Road was a long one, and Kitty on this occasion
was determined to avoid the neighborhood of the "Spotted Leopard." In
preference she took the short cut across the common. It was very lonely
here, but she had no fear of ghosts or bogies. She walked with her
upright, young carriage, her quick, alert, dancing step. It was ten
o'clock however, before she reached Constantine Road. She ran up the
steps of No. 14, and rang the bell. The door was opened to her by the
servant, Maggie.

"Oh, Miss Malone," cried that young woman, "is that yourself, miss? I
has got into the most terrible trouble."

Maggie's face was flushed and blistered with crying.

"They has took away my wiolets, miss, and I call it a bitter, cruel
shame."

"Never mind that now, Maggie," answered Kitty, "I want to see Miss Elma.
Is she in?"

"That she is, miss, and she shan't escape you this time. Come right into
the parlor, and I'll send her down to you."

Kitty danced into the house. As far as her appearance now went she had
never known a sorrow nor a care in her life. She stood in the center of
the room, waiting impatiently for Elma to appear.

Maggie having shut her in, went cautiously upstairs. Elma and Carrie
were in their bedroom. Carrie was already in bed.

Maggie, who seemed to scent mischief all round, thought she would now
act with considerable guile. She knocked a low and gentle knock on the
panel of the door. Elma came to open it.

"What is it, Maggie?"

"Miss Helma, will you come outside on the landing for a minute?"

Elma went out.

"I have a bit of news about that money, miss. If you'll come right down
to the dining-room I'll tell you there."

"News about my money, Maggie? Oh, impossible!" But hope, ever ready to
dawn in the human breast, could not help rising now on poor Elma's
horizon. It all seemed utterly impossible; but what earthly sense would
there be in Maggie telling a lie.

"I was just getting into bed," she said. "Can't you tell me here?"

"No, miss, it's not me at all; it's news of the money you'll get if you
just come down to the dining-room, and be quick about it."

"Well, _I_ may as well go. Is there anybody there?"

"You go and find out, miss."

"Oh!" thought Elma, "Sam Raynes has repented. He was able to find money
after all, and has brought it to me. This is nice."

"What's the matter, Elma?" called Carrie from her bed.

"Nothing, Carrie. I'll be back in a few moments."

Elma hastily refastened her dress; put up her hands to her hair to
smooth it, and tripped downstairs, full of expectation and hope. Maggie
had relit the gas in the dining-room. Elma bounded into the room.

"Well, Sam," she exclaimed. Then she stepped back a couple of paces; she
was confronted not by Sam, but by Kitty Malone herself.

"Kitty!" cried Elma. There was a faintness in her voice, which Kitty had
no time to remark.

"Yes, Elma, I have come. I have broken my word of honor; but after all,
I never really gave it. I dare say I shall get into a worse scrape than
ever; but I can't help it. I came to you, Elma, because I _must_ have
that money. Will you let me have it now at once please--my eight
sovereigns--will you give them to me now? If I had seen you last night I
should not have been so miserable. I was coming to you when Fred and I
passed the 'Spotted Leopard.' Oh, please, Elma, give me my money at
once!"

Elma's face could scarcely turn whiter. She looked piteously at Kitty.

"I wish I could give it to you," she began; "but----"

"What do you mean; can't you let me have my own money? You have not
spent it, not all of it, have you?"

"Yes, I--I spent it."

"You spent all that money! all those eight sovereigns? Oh, Elma, you
must be joking. Can't you let me have some of it back? Please, Elma,
don't say no. It is for Laurie; he is in the most awful trouble. I must
have the money, and at once."

"I can't give it to you," said Elma. "I am awfully sorry. Sit down,
please, Kitty. Oh, Kitty, you won't tell on me?"

"I don't know what I'll do," said Kitty. "I am nearly distracted."

"But you promised you would not tell. You don't know what an awful
scrape I shall get into if you do. And you--oh, yes--you shall have the
money soon."

"What do you mean by soon; to-morrow? Shall I have it to-morrow?"

"Not quite so soon as that. Give me a week, Kitty."

"I can't," answered Kitty. "It is a case of life or death to Laurie.
Your mother must give it to me if you cannot; but have it I must."

"But you are rich; surely you can manage without it for one week."

"It is not that, and I am unable to explain. Laurie must have the money.
He wants me to help him about something, and I must send it to him
to-morrow."

"I wish I could give it to you," said Elma. "I would do anything in all
the world to let you have it back; but it isn't my fault."

"What did you spend it on? Dress?"

"Oh, in different ways." Elma had made up her mind not to tell about
Carrie and Sam Raynes.

"I'll let her think that I spent the money on finery," she said to
herself. "She is sympathizing about dress. I'll let her think that."

Kitty's hands had dropped to her sides; a look of despair filled her
face.

"What is to be done?" she said. "I never thought for a moment you could
not let me have it back."

"You shall have it in a week; that I promise you faithfully."

"But a week will be no good, Elma. Oh! Elma, Elma, Laurie will suffer
for this. They will take his freedom from him; he will be like a chained
lion; he will lose his spirit; perhaps--perhaps he will die. I cannot
stand it, Elma, I cannot."

Kitty covered her face with both her hands, and the tears which with
difficulty she had been keeping back all the evening burst forth in
torrents. Kitty did not cry as an English girl might. She cried with the
wild, passionate sobs of those who have seldom exercised self-control.
Elma was dreadfully frightened.

"Do stop, Kitty," she said. "You make so much noise; mother and Carrie
will hear you. Carrie will come down."

"What if she does?" cried Kitty. "Oh, Laurie, Laurie! this will break
your heart. You are ruined; ruined for life!"

"There are more than Laurie ruined for life, it seems to me," said Elma.
"Kitty, I am ever so sorry; but if you will only be patient I will try
and think of some plan of helping you. Now, please, please, promise me
one thing--you won't tell that I asked you for this money?"

"Why not? I must tell some one. I must get the money somehow."

"But you made me a promise you would not tell. It is very wrong to break
a promise."

"I don't care whether it is right or wrong. I cannot keep this secret,
Elma. I must remember Laurie, Perhaps Mr. Denvers will lend me the
money. I must think of Laurie first."

"Please, Kitty, listen to me. If you will promise to keep my secret I'll
manage to get you the money somehow."

"But how, Elma?"

"Oh, I'll think out some plan. Do promise me that you'll keep my secret.
It would be my ruin if it were known. Do promise, Kitty; do, please."

"I cannot," said Kitty. She walked restlessly to the door. "I must go,"
she said; "if I don't they will discover that I am out."

"And if they do you'll get into an awful scrape."

"Oh, it doesn't matter; I can't be worse off than I am. My one hope now
is that they will expel me; then I'll have to return to Ireland; and
perhaps I may coax father not to be too hard on Laurie."

"Then Kitty, you have quite made up your mind to tell all about me?"

"I think so. I cannot imagine why it matters."

"But it does, and I must give you the reason. I did wrong, dreadfully
wrong, ever to ask you for that money. I broke one of the strictest
rules of the school."

"What do you mean?"

"It is one of the strictest rules of Middleton School that no schoolgirl
must ask another to lend her money. The governors are terribly
particular. If it is ever known I shall be most likely expelled. Anyhow,
my character will be gone, and I shall be ruined for life. Oh, Kitty,
you have not such a hard life as I have. Do have pity on me."

Kitty stood silent; she was thinking deeply.

"You'll promise; won't you?" repeated Elma.

"I can't say. I scarcely know what I am doing at the present moment."

"Then listen to me. If you tell about the money I'll tell about this
visit. There; don't you see now we are quits."

"You tell! That would be mean of you."

"Yes. I'll tell that you broke your parole."

"But I never gave it."

"Oh, that is only begging the question, Kitty. Miss Sherrard understood
that you had given it. When you came here you broke it. You'll get into
a terrible scrape."

"And you spoke to me, Elma; so you too will get into a scrape."

Kitty's tears stopped like summer rain, and a flash of sunshine flew
across her charming face.

"Poor Elma, you will be in hot water too," she said. "What a muddle
everything is in."

"You see, Kitty, we must cling together, for we are both in the same
boat. I'll do my utmost to get you that money. I am sure I can manage
somehow. But you must not tell."

"All right. I'll keep the secret until after school to-morrow. Good-by,
Elma."

She left the house, and Elma returned to Carrie.

"Who were you talking to all that time?" exclaimed Carrie.

"That unfortunate girl, Kitty Malone."

"You mean to say she was here?"

"Yes; she came about the money. I am miserable about it. I promised to
get it for her by hook or by crook. How can I manage?"

"Look here," said Carrie after a pause, during which she was sitting up
in bed and thinking intently. "You say that Kitty Malone is very rich?"

"Yes, of course she is. She has more money than she knows what to do
with. Why, I tell you, Carrie, the day she lent me those eight
sovereigns I saw fifteen in her purse. Fancy a girl having fifteen
sovereigns just to do what she liked with? I could scarcely realize it.
I took the money before I knew what I was doing. She did tempt me so
sorely when she showed me her purse."

"Oh, I'm not a bit surprised," said Carrie. "If I had been in your shoes
I'd have taken the whole fifteen sovereigns just as soon as the eight.
But listen to me, Elma; I have a plan in my head. I'll talk it over with
Sam to-morrow; perhaps we can get the money; but there's no saying.
I'll talk it over with Sam."

"I wish you would not. I would rather not get it through his means."

"What a dislike you have to him."

"I have. He is not good enough for you, Carrie. Oh, Carrie, dear, I vow
and declare that I'll work for you and mother; I'll work my very fingers
to the bone; I'll do anything for you. Only don't marry that horrid
fellow."

"How excitable you are, Elma, and queer. Sam suits me very well. Oh, if
you don't want his help you need not have it--remember it is your
scrape, not mine."

"It is your scrape, too, Carrie. You stole the money and gave it to Sam
Raynes. You are a thief, and you have ruined your sister."

"If you begin abusing me I shall certainly not stay awake any longer,"
said Carrie; "I'm dead with sleep as it is. Now, do put out the candle,
like a good girl. I'm off to the Land of Nod."

Carrie pulled the clothes over her head and struggled down among the
pillows. Elma stood and stared out of the window.

"I wonder if I could do it," she said at last to herself. "It might be
the best plan; and Gwin is very kind and very rich. I wonder if I dare.
Anything seems better than my present predicament."




CHAPTER XVIII.

"I CANNOT HELP YOU."


Elma scarcely slept that night. At an early hour on the following
brilliant summer's morning she stole softly out of bed, glanced for a
moment at Carrie, as she lay sleeping the sleep of the just, with her
towzled hair tossed about the pillow, and then, getting deftly into her
own clothes, left the room without arousing the sleeper. She had made up
her mind very definitely what to do. Without even waiting to get any
breakfast, she unfastened the hall door, opened it, and stepped out into
the full radiance of the summer's morning. A quick walk brought her in a
little over half an hour to Harley Grove. When she went up the ponderous
flight of steps which led to the principal door of the mansion a clock
far away struck the hour of seven.

"It is terribly early," she said to herself, "terribly early to disturb
her; but it is my only chance. I must have time; I cannot rush this
thing. If she can help me I believe she will; and anyhow, I do no harm
by what I intend to say to her."

Elma rang the bell, but her early summons was not immediately attended
to. Presently a servant girl, who looked as if she might be one of the
under-housemaids, unbolted and unbarred the door, and opened it a few
inches. "When she saw a neat-looking girl, in all probability a
schoolgirl, standing outside she opened it a little further and her jaw
dropped in some astonishment.

"I have come here," said Elma to know if I can see, Miss Harley
immediately on very special business."

"I don't know, miss, I am sure," answered the girl, who was a stranger
in those parts. "I can't say that you can see Miss Harley now, for I
think she is fast asleep and in bed, miss."

"It is of the utmost importance or I would not disturb her," said Elma.
"I have brought a note with me; can you manage in some way to have it
delivered to her? I can wait downstairs in any of the rooms until I get
her answer."

As Elma spoke she slipped a little three-cornered note into the girl's
hand, at the same time placing in it one of her own most valuable and
very few and far between shillings.

"Can you manage it for me?" she said. "It is really of the utmost
importance."

A shilling was a small bribe; but the housemaid was young and
tender-hearted. She looked again once or twice at Elma, who could wear a
most pleasing expression when she chose, and then, ushering her into a
small room to the left of the wide entrance hall, departed slowly
upstairs on her errand.

While she was away Elma fidgeted, walking from end to end of the little
room into which she had been admitted. All depended, or so she imagined,
on her note reaching its destination. She knew Gwin's kind heart; she
was certain that if Gwin received the note, however tired and sleepy
she was, she would at least see her for a few minutes. Elma had worded
it craftily.

"I am in great trouble," she had written. "It is connected with Kitty
Malone. I see my way to helping Kitty if you, Gwin, can help me. But I
must see you now at once. Let me come to your bedroom. I would not
disturb you if it were not a matter of life or death."

This note, sufficiently startling in its contents, was given by the
under-housemaid to Gwin's own special maid. The girl, after some
deliberation, said she would venture to give it to Gwin, early as the
hour was. Accordingly she stole into the shaded bedroom, drew up one of
the blinds, and when Gwin opened her sleepy eyes presented her with the
little three-cornered note on a salver.

"There's a young lady, a Miss Lewis, waiting downstairs. She brought
this note and begged that it should be delivered to you at once, miss. I
ventured under the circumstances to wake you, as the young lady seemed
from all accounts to be in a desperate way."

"What can it mean?" said Gwin. She sprang up in bed, tore open the note,
and read the contents.

"Is my cold bath in the room, Simpson?" she asked of her maid.

"Yes, miss; in your dressing-room."

"Well, I shall dress at once. Go down, please, to Miss Lewis and tell
her that I'll be ready to see her in my study in twenty minutes."

The maid departed on this errand, which brought much relief to poor
Elma.

In less than the time named she was summoned by Gwin's maid to come
with her to Miss Harley's study. There a moment later she and Gwin were
clasping each other's hands. Gwin was in a long white dressing-gown; her
hair streaming over her shoulders.

"Well, to be sure, Elma," she exclaimed, "you are an early bird. Now,
what do you want with me? I am full of curiosity. You are in trouble,
and it is something connected with Kitty Malone?"

"Yes," said Elma. "I am desperate, and I have come on a desperate
errand, Gwin. Can you manage, somehow or other, in some fashion, to let
me have the use of eight pounds for--for say a fortnight?"

Gwin Harley gasped; not only at the magnitude of the sum demanded, but
also at Elma's audacity in asking for it.

"You want eight pounds," She exclaimed. "But, Elma, you know the rule?"

"Oh, yes, I know the rule; and it is because I am fairly desperate I
apply to you. You might lend the money to my sister Carrie; or perhaps
mother would be best. It might be managed so that I didn't appear to
borrow it. I would not ask for it if--if the trouble were not terrible;
and--and the secret belongs to another."

"What do you mean?"

"It belongs partly to Kitty Malone."

"I cannot help you," said Gwin decidedly.

"Why? Oh Gwin, I did not know you could be so cruel."

"You don't understand, Elma. I am surprised that you should ask me. How
could I break one of the strictest rules of the school?"

"Oh, but you need not really break it; I mean it could be managed in
this way: Would not your father lend mother the money? You need not do
it at all; all you have to do is to ask him."

"You must tell me everything, Elma. This is most mysterious. Why do you
want money? Is it for yourself? You must tell me every single thing."

"I cannot tell you, because the secret is not mine."

"You say Kitty is mixed up with this?"

"Yes, yes."

"And you will not tell why?"

"I cannot. I wish I could."

"Then, Elma, I also must be firm. I cannot help you."

"You will not ask your father?"

"How could I? It would be a subterfuge--the whole thing would be a
subterfuge. I must have nothing to do with it. I am sorry, Elma, for I
see you are in great trouble; but I am powerless."

"Then I am ruined," said Elma. She covered her face with her hands, and
the tears trickled slowly between her fingers.

"I wish I could help you," said Gwin kindly. "Is there any other way?"

"No other way. I want eight pounds for a fortnight--I want it
desperately. You could manage to let me have it without breaking the
rules of the school, but you will not."

"I am truly sorry, but--I will not."

"Oh, Gwin, if you would only trust me. We were always friends, were we
not?"

"Yes," answered Gwin slowly. "I have always liked you, Elma."

"We were friends," continued Elma, wiping the tears passionately from
her cheeks; "and I did think last night, when I was in such trouble,
that perhaps you could come to my aid. I thought you would trust me
without my telling you everything."

"I cannot, Elma," said Gwin again.

"Why?"

Elma now looked steadily into Gwin's face. Gwin looked gravely into
hers. After a time Gwin spoke slowly:

"Because," she said--"forgive me, Elma--you are not trustworthy."

"Oh!" said Elma. She turned first pale and then red.

"There is no use in my staying," she said, after a pause. "I am sorry I
got you up so early."

"Oh, that does not matter," said Gwin, in an altered tone. "I would do
what I could to help you; but I cannot do the impossible."

"I see that I was mistaken in you."

"Not at all," replied Gwin. "You found me what I have always been. I am
naturally careful. I never jump to wild conclusions; I am not impulsive.
I have liked you, and I shall go on liking you in the future."

"Even though I am not trustworthy?"

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Turkey is restoring the citizenship of its most famous 20th century poet Nazim Hikmet over 50 years after it branded him a traitor.

Hikmet, a communist who died in exile in Moscow in 1963, was imprisoned in Turkey for more than a decade. He was stripped of his Turkish nationality in 1951 because of his communist views, but despite a ban on his poetry which remained in place until 1965, has remained one of Turkey's best-loved poets. His work, much of which was written in prison, including his masterpiece Human Landscapes, has been translated into more than 50 languages.

"This is very good news," said Richard McKane, Hikmet's English translator. "The restoration of his Turkish citizenship is long overdue: the people of Turkey and his readers are owed that."

Immortalised by Pablo Neruda, with whom he shared the Soviet Union's International Peace Prize in 1950, with the lines "Thanks for what you were and for the fire / which your song left forever burning", Hikmet was also supported by Jean-Paul Sartre and Pablo Picasso. Nobel laureate Orhan Pamuk, when given the editorship for a day of Turkish newspaper Radikal two years ago, used the example of Hikmet in his cover story to criticise the lack of freedom of expression in Turkey. In 2000, 500,000 Turks petitioned the government to restore Hikmet's citizenship rights and repatriate his remains.

Deputy prime minister Cemil Cicek told the Associated Press that it was time for the government to change its mind about Hikmet. "The crimes which forced the government to strip him of his citizenship at that time are no longer considered a crime," the BBC quoted him as saying.

Hikmet, whose remains are currently in Russia, had said that he wished to be buried in Turkey in his 1953 poem Testament, translated by Ruth Christie. "Friends if it's not my lot to see the day / of independence... / if I die before that day / - and it seems I will - / bury me in a village graveyard in Anatolia / and if it's fitting / and a plane tree grows at my head, / then there's no need for a gravestone or anything else."

Cicek said that Hikmet's family would now decide whether to ship his remains back to his homeland.

Hikmet introduced free verse to Turkey in the 1930s, with his themes ranging from war to love. Despite his imprisonment he retained a deep passion for Turkey. "I love my country", he wrote in one of his poems. "I swung in its lofty trees, I lay in its prisons. Nothing relieves my depression like the songs and tobacco of my country."

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