Wild Kitty by L. T. Meade

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"Yes; I shall like you for what you are. You have always been nice to
me, and I wish to be nice to you. Please understand that this will make
no difference."

"And you won't tell what I came about?"

"No, I shall never mention it. Now, must you go?"

"I must," said Elma.

The full morning light fell upon her face as she spoke, and Gwin
noticed that it looked small, pinched, and thin.

"You must have some breakfast first," she said. She walked across the
room and sounded the bell. The servant appeared in a moment.

"Order breakfast to be served here this morning," said Miss Harley, "for
two, please." The maid withdrew. Gwin opened the window and looked out.

"I am very sorry for Kitty," she said, after a pause.

Elma did not reply. After a time she said slowly:

"Did you see Miss Sherrard last night?"

"I did; but it was useless. She won't retract her mandate."

A sigh of relief came from Elma's lips.

The servant again appeared with breakfast. Gwin poured out tea for her
friend. Elma drank a cup, her throat felt dry. She saw no way out of her
difficulty. She could scarcely bring herself to eat.

A few moments later she was on her way back from Harley Grove. She
hesitated whether to go straight to the school and wait there until nine
o'clock or to return to Constantine Road. After a little reflection she
decided on the latter course. She reached home hot and weary between
eight and nine o'clock. Carrie was seated at the breakfast table; a
letter lay on Elma's plate.

"Why, Elma, what have you been doing out and about at this unearthly
hour?" said Carrie, as she cracked the shell of an egg by no means
fresh.

"Where is mother?" remarked Elma, as she seated herself at the table.

"She has a bad headache. I have sent up her breakfast. Are you going to
see her?"

"No, I think not. I shall just have time to eat something--not that I am
specially hungry--and then start for school."

"There's a letter on your plate. Why don't you read it?"

"I know; it's from Aunt Charlotte."

"Well, well, and you are interested in Aunt Charlotte more than I am,"
said Carrie. "Do read your letter."

Elma somewhat languidly tore open the envelope. The next moment she
uttered an exclamation, and her face went first red and then pale.

"Aunt Charlotte writes to say she is coming here to-day."

"To-day! Good gracious!" said Carrie. "She doesn't want me to stay in,
does she?"

"Oh, no; but this is terribly awkward."

"Why so, Elma? Why shouldn't you ask her to lend you the money?"

"Ask Aunt Charlotte! I may as well put my hand into the fire."

"Well, suppose I were to help you," said Carrie, after a time.

"You, Carrie; how could you?"

"But suppose I were to--I am not the sort of person who does anything
for nothing. What would you give me if I got you out of this?"

"But how could you get me out of it?"

"Why, I suppose by giving Kitty the money."

"Carrie, you talk nonsense. Unless, indeed, you were to persuade Sam
Raynes----"

"Oh, it's useless to worry poor Sam. He has speculated with that money,
and if he doubles it we shall have it back. I think when that time comes
the very least you ought to do, Elma is to give me half of the balance
over and above what you borrowed. That would be three pounds ten, for me
quite a nice little sum. It would keep me in ribbons, gloves, and boots
for a bit. I get such a very small salary."

"Well, the money has not been doubled; it's time enough to talk of our
chickens when they are hatched," said Elma. She rose from her seat,
looking despairingly at the open letter which she held in her hand.

"After all, I may as well take this up to mother," she said.

"One moment before you go, Elma. Would you like me to help you, or would
you not?"

"If you could help me, Carrie, of course I should be obliged."

"And what is the punishment they have inflicted upon that Irish lass?"

"Oh, dear me, Carrie, I told you all about that yesterday; she is in
Coventry--we are none of us allowed to speak to her."

"All the same, you did speak to her last night, don't forget."

"Yes, I could not help myself; but if it was found out it would go hard
with us both."

"Then I am the one to interfere," said Carrie _sotto voce._ "I'll do my
best, Elma, and trust to you to make it up to me when I have got you out
of this scrape."

"I wish you would do something, Carrie; but I don't suppose you can.
It's awful to think of Aunt Charlotte coming now. If I can't help Kitty,
Kitty is sure to tell, and then it will be all over the school. They
won't blame her so much as they'll blame me. Oh dear, dear! if you would
do something!"

"Well, I promise that I just will," said Carrie. "Now go off to school
with an easy mind."

CHAPTER XIX.

KITTY TELLS THE TRUTH.

Early the next morning Kitty received her telegram. It certainly was not
at all calculated to soothe her. She was restless and miserable before;
now her hands shook so violently that she could scarcely eat her
breakfast.

Alice acted somewhat the part of a jailer; she had to convey the
disgraced girl to Middleton School.

"I am ill; I won't go," said Kitty, bursting into tears.

"You had much better come, Kitty," said Alice, speaking almost kindly
for the first time in her life; she really pitied poor Kitty at that
moment. "If you will only take your punishment patiently it will soon be
over, and I know for a fact," she continued, "that many of the girls are
only too anxious to make it up to you by and by."

"Oh, it's not that," said Kitty; "it is because I am so wretched. I have
a great trouble at home; but there, there's no use in talking to you
about it, Alice."

"So you always say," answered Alice. "Whenever I want to be the least
bit good to you, you put me off; but never mind, I am sure I can do
without your friendship. Anyhow, I think you must come to school unless
you are so ill that mother will be obliged to send for the doctor."

"Oh, I don't want that," said Kitty, "I never had a doctor in my life.
If you'll wait for me, Alice, I'll go upstairs and put on my hat."

She rushed to her room, flung herself on her knees for a moment by her
bedside, and uttered a frantic prayer to Heaven.

"Oh! God, in your mercy, keep Laurie from doing anything desperate,"
cried the unhappy girl. She then joined Alice downstairs. Her face was
white; there were heavy black lines under her eyes; she had never looked
prettier, more pathetic, more likely to win sympathy from the other
girls.

At prayers that morning all eyes were directed to Kitty Malone. She was
not allowed to sit with the others, but was given, a place on the bench
with the teachers. Here she faced the rest of the school. It would have
been a cruel position for another girl; but it did not matter to Kitty,
for she saw no one present. Her eyes, with that queer inward look in
them, were gazing straight, not at the scene before her, but at the old
home in Ireland. The squire, whom she so passionately loved, roused to
the last extremity of anger; the boy, whose heart was hers, crushed,
trapped, imprisoned, his liberty taken from him. Kitty trembled from
head to foot; she could scarcely restrain her terrible emotion.

After school she accompanied the others to the classroom, but in
absolute silence. She was given her usual lessons to do, but at a table
by herself. Her punishment was to be carried out in all its fullness;
but, dreadful as it would seem to most, it did not touch her at all
to-day. Her head ached, her eyes felt dim. Laurie's telegram, which lay
in her pocket, seemed to scorch into the very depths of her heart. She
had not even been allowed to answer it; the whole weight of her trouble
lay unrelieved upon her. The poor child was unaccustomed to such
anguish, and her self-control was in danger moment by moment of giving
way.

As she strove to get that dull piece of English history into her head,
as she endeavored to follow the rules of syntax, as the knowledge that
she never, never to the longest day of her life, would understand what
was meant by the possessive case, alongside with these feeble little
efforts to follow her lessons, ran the dark thought of how, by what
possible means, she could help Laurie. And more and more as the time
went on she felt that she could not keep her promise to Elma. Elma had
been cruel to her; she had borrowed her money when she knew she had not
the most remote chance of paying it back; she had spent it according to
her own saying in the most frivolous way. Now, for the first time, Kitty
learned to despise dress. How could Elma spend the money which was to
save Laurie in anything so contemptible as ribbons and finery? Kitty
looked down at her own neatly-appointed clothes; her perfect little
shoes peeped out from beneath the frill of her dress. Notwithstanding
her misery she was as neat as usual in her attire; but now she had no
heart to appreciate gay clothes, good looks, pretty ribbons--any of the
things which usually delighted her. Laurie seemed to cry to her; she
fancied she could hear his voice coming across the waters to her
ears--Laurie, who had always trusted to her, who, strong as he was, was
not quite so strong as Kitty when scrapes and troubles were about. Oh!
if only she could go to him! If only she might relieve her feelings and
tell the exact truth to Miss Sherrard! What kept her back? Nothing
whatever but the thought of Elma. She had given Elma a promise, and,
tempted as she was, she must not break it.

As this thought came to her she remembered that she had only promised
Elma to keep the secret until after morning school. That time would soon
be up.

"Once Miss Sherrard knows I am certain she will help me," thought Kitty,
"though I don't want to excuse myself; yet I know that a great deal of
the blame of my proceedings will be lifted from my shoulders to Elma's.
Why should I go through all the suffering, and Elma sit there looking so
calm, and quiet, and still?"

As these thoughts rushed through Kitty's mind she glanced up for the
first time, and calmly surveyed the great room full of her
fellow-students. As if with one impulse all the girls raised their eyes
and looked back at her. There was pity on most of the faces, amusement
on a few, curiosity on a few others; but on Elma's face alone was an
expression of intense anxiety and misery. Kitty had the kindest heart in
the world. The moment she saw this expression the idea of betraying Elma
melted from her mind.

"She does look wretched," she said to herself. "I must not speak to her;
I dare not, and yet--yet--I should like her to know that I am not going
to be hard on her."

Kitty tore off a piece of her exercise book and managed, when she
thought no one would see, to write a little note to Elma. In this she
said, "Don't be afraid, Elma; I have made up my mind not to tell."

This note she twisted up, and, as the girls were going to the playground
for recess, managed to flash an intelligent glance toward Elma. Elma
approached close to her table, Kitty stretched out her hand, and Elma's
fingers were just about to close over the note, when, by an unlucky
chance, there came a breeze through the window, and the note, for some
inconceivable reason, fluttered from Kitty's hand to the floor. In an
instant Miss Worrick had seen it. She was just stepping forward when
Elma like a flash caught it up and tore it into fragments. She would not
for the world have the note seen. Miss Worrick, filled with anger, came
up to Kitty.

"You are a bad girl, the worst girl I know," she said. "You are not even
honorable. Did you not give your parole that you would not hold
communication with another girl in the school, and yet you have been
trying to communicate with Elma Lewis by means of writing?"

"Writing is not speaking," said Kitty, now standing up very erect and
proud, and replying to Miss Worrick as pertly as she could.

"Don't answer me, miss; you grow worse and worse. Elma Lewis, do you
know anything about that note?"

Kitty looked full at Elma. If she was going to be true to Elma, would
Elma be equally true to her?"

"I know nothing about it," said Elma promptly.

Kitty's eyes filled with withering scorn; an expression of disdain
curled her pretty lips.

"You are quite certain, Elma? Kitty Malone seems to have a great anxiety
to communicate with you. Can you throw any light on the scrape she has
got into?"

"I know nothing whatever about her secrets; I--I have nothing to do with
them," said Elma in an agitated voice, which she endeavored in vain to
render calm.

Gwin Harley, who had stopped on her way out of the classroom, paused to
listen to Elma's words.

Kitty's face was now white as death. She did not glance at Elma; she was
looking the other way.

"Leave us, girls," said Miss Worrick.

The next moment the great classroom was empty, with the exception of
Miss Worrick and Kitty Malone. Kitty was standing upright as a dart.

"Take me to Miss Sherrard; I want to speak to her," she said.

"I am certainly going to take you to her. You are a very, very wicked
girl. I doubt not you will be expelled."

"Oh, I hope I shall," said Kitty. "I should like nothing in all the
world better."

"You would? You are quite incorrigible. Do you know, you wretched girl,
what it means?"

"No," answered Kitty; "I wait for you to tell me. What does it mean,
Miss Worrick?"

"That you are tainted for life, disgraced for life. Wherever you go it
will be always remembered to you that your conduct was so bad at school
that you were obliged to be expelled."

"But that won't matter in old Ireland," said Kitty with a hollow,
forced laugh.

"Yes, it will; it will break your father's heart. There are no people so
proud as the Irish. They can stand a good deal; but any cloud on their
honor----"

"Ah, you are right," cried Kitty, standing still, and a queer change
coming over her face. "Our honor--no one ever touched that yet."

"It will have a nice blow when you are dismissed from Middleton School,"
said Miss Worrick, glad to find a point in Kitty's hitherto invulnerable
armor. "Come with me at once, you bad girl. I must explain your conduct
to Miss Sherrard."

"I have something on my own account to say to Miss Sherrard," answered
Kitty in a proud voice; "something which will explain a good deal."

"I am glad to hear it; but I scarcely think any words of yours can
remove the stigma on your character. But come; I have no time to argue
with you further."

Miss Worrick now led the way into Miss Sherrard's little sitting-room.
Miss Sherrard was standing near the window; she turned quickly when she
saw Miss Worrick, and a displeased and withal a troubled glance filled
her eyes as they rested upon Kitty."

"Anything fresh?" she said, turning to the teacher with a weary
expression in her voice.

"Only just what I expected," said Miss Worrick with bitterness. "Kitty
Malone is not to be trusted. Yesterday she gave her word of honor----"

"I didn't," interrupted Kitty.

"Kitty my dear, allow your teacher to speak."

"She gave her word of honor, or equivalent to it, that she would submit
to the punishment which you rightly inflicted upon her. Well, I found
her just now in the act of smuggling a note into Elma Lewis' hand."

"Oh, but this is very bad, Kitty," said Miss Sherrard. "Did you not know
what your word of honor meant?"

"I never promised anything," replied Kitty. "You spoke; but I was
silent."

"Pardon me, my dear; that is begging the question. You were told that
you were not to communicate with any of your fellow-pupils. Your silence
signified consent. Kitty, I am ashamed of you."

"As you know so much you may as well know all," said Kitty, desperation
in her tone. "I did far worse than you think. Last night I went out
again after dark by myself to see Elma Lewis. I had an interview with
her. I talked to her, and she talked to me. That was not exactly her
fault; for I forced her to speak. Now, you know how very bad I am. Expel
me if you wish. I know you will after this. I am in dreadful disgrace. I
only wish I were dead."

"Leave us, Miss Worrick," said Miss Sherrard.

The door was closed behind the governess; and the head-mistress, taking
one of Kitty's cold hands, led her to a seat near herself on the sofa.

"There is more behind," she said. "Kitty, you must tell me the truth."

"I long to tell you," answered Kitty. "A short time back I had made up
my mind to conceal it because the telling would make another girl
miserable--miserable for life. Now my feelings are changed."

"I am glad that you are at last willing to confide in me," said Miss
Sherrard in a kinder tone. "Tell me everything, Kitty, and as quickly as
you can."

Thus counseled, Kitty's reserve absolutely gave way. The whole miserable
story was quickly revealed: Elma Lewis' request for money; Kitty's
generous response; Laurie's passionate and anguished letter; Kitty's
desire to help him; her reasons, which had almost driven her mad, for
seeking Elma; her desperate resolve at last to go to her late at night;
then Elma's passionate beseeching of her to keep the secret; Kitty's
promise that she would do so until after morning school that day; then
her further resolve, when she saw the look of misery on Elma's face, to
keep it altogether even at the cost of breaking Laurie's heart; then
Elma's conduct when the note was discovered.

"I scorn her now," said Kitty. "I don't regard any promise I ever made
to her. I am glad to tell. She is false, cowardly, and I scorn her. Miss
Sherrard, you know everything; expel me if you must."

"Yes, I know everything," replied Miss Sherrard. She sat still for a few
moments, lost in anxious thought. She blamed Kitty still, but she also
deeply pitied her. Her feelings toward Elma were so strong that she
could scarcely trust herself to speak of them at the present moment.

"My honor is gone, and my heart is broken," continued Kitty. "Of course
you will expel me after this; and, indeed, I want to go home. Please,
Miss Sherrard, let me go home; I cannot stay any longer at school."

"My dear Kitty," said Miss Sherrard, "I am very sorry for you. I am
certainly glad at last to know the truth. You, poor child, have been
more sinned against than sinning. I cannot tell you what I think about
Elma. Such a girl does more mischief in a school than twenty like you.
Stay, my dear; stop crying. Kitty, Kitty, what is it?"

"I feel nearly mad--Laurie is in such trouble. May I not at least answer
his telegram?"

"Yes, here is a telegraph form. Fill in what you like; I will send it at
once to the post office."

"Miss Sherrard, would it be possible for you to lend me the money?"

Miss Sherrard shook her head.

"I could not do it, Kitty; nor would it be right. Your brother has done
distinctly wrong; and if you telegraph to him now I hope you will
counsel him to go straight to your father and confess everything. There
is never the least use in concealment where wrong-doing is concerned, my
dear."

But Kitty's eyes had now blazed again with renewed passion.

"You are not a Malone nor an Irishwoman," she cried. "You do not know
Ireland, or you would not speak in that tone. I counsel Laurie to tell
father what he did to poor Paddy Wheel-about! I counsel him to say that
he took the old man's coat--stole it from him! Miss Sherrard, you don't
know father. Laurie did it, it is true, in a fit of bravado; but father
would never understand. He would be furious, wild; Le would punish him
severely. Oh, I must get that money somehow, in some fashion!"

"Kitty, you are speaking disrespectfully," said Miss Sherrard, "and I
cannot allow it. I am sorry for you, my dear; you are dreadfully
overcome at present. Go home now; I will see you again in the
afternoon."

Poor Kitty left the room without even bidding her teacher good-by.

CHAPTER XX.

AN EYE-OPENER.

In her own room the miserable child fell on her knees, and gave way to a
burst of passionate weeping. She cried as she had never cried in the
whole course of her life before; her tears seemed as though they could
not cease. She was so exhausted at last that, kneeling by her little
bed, she fell into a sound sleep. In her sleep she dreamed that she was
home again; but all was confusion, worry, distress. Laurie was going to
a school in England; Laurie's heart was broken. Old Paddy Wheel-about
was dead; the squire was so upset and so angry that he would not even
allow Kitty herself to comfort him. Aunt Honora was grumbling and going
from room to room in the old Castle. Aunt Bridget was talking about
dress, and scolding Kitty with regard to the state of her wardrobe.
Kitty's head ached, and she felt a sense of irritation.

"And it's so pretty," said Aunt Honora. "Those ruffles round the skirt
are done in such a dainty manner, and--oh, I won't disturb you if you'll
allow me just to take the pattern. I can in a moment--don't move, don't
move!"

Kitty opened her eyes in some bewilderment, and gazed full into the fat
and somewhat red face of Carrie Lewis. It was Carrie's voice she had
heard, piercing through her dreams. It was Carrie who was bending by
her side and holding up a length of her skirt in her hand.

"Oh, don't move, pray; I have just got the set of it; it's very curious
and very fashionable. I know Sam would like it awfully."

"Who are you, and what do you want?" said Kitty, jumping to her feet and
confronting her unwelcome visitor with flushed cheeks and sparkling
eyes.

"I knocked at your door several times, and you didn't answer," said
Carrie; "so then I opened it softly and came in, and you were
half-sitting, half-kneeling by your bed, sound asleep; and your skirt
did look so very fashionable that I was tempted!--oh yes, I have taken
the pattern in my mind's eye. I'll alter my blue nun's-veiling. I can
easily get a bit more of the stuff to match, and it will make it quite
_comme il fait_,"

"But who are you?" said Kitty, who had never laid eyes on Carrie before.

"I'm Elma's sister. Now you know."

"Elma's sister?" said Kitty. "But what have you come to my room for?
What do you want here?"

"To speak to you. I want to help you if you'll let me."

"To help me?" said Kitty languidly. "I would much rather you went away.
You cannot help me; you know nothing whatever about me. I am in great
great trouble, and I would much rather be alone."

"You would not rather be alone if you could be helped," said Carrie. "I
know all about it. You have got a brother in Ireland who has got into a
scrape. Bless you, I know all about the scrapes of young men. Now, poor
Sam Raynes, he----. Yes, what is it, Miss Malone?"

"I wish you would leave me," said Kitty in a haughty tone. "I am not
friends with Elma just now, and I would rather not see any of her
family."

"Yes, but I think you'll see me when I tell you my errand," said Carrie,
in no way abashed by Kitty's manner. She crossed the room as she spoke,
and deliberately placing herself in the one easy-chair the room
possessed, crossed her legs, and leaning back, looked fixedly at Kitty.

"Very well, if you won't go, then I must," said Kitty. "I don't
understand English people. They talk a great deal about manners; but no
Irishwoman, none that I ever heard of, would dream----"

"Oh, bosh! Stop all that," said Carrie in her rudest voice. "I have come
here to help you, and I see that I must explain myself. You want some
money, don't you?"

"Yes; but I cannot get it," answered Kitty.

"Oh, my dear, do just stay still a moment. What a sweet little shoe!
Did you get it at any shop here?"

"No," answered Kitty, interested for the moment in spite of herself.
"Aunt Honora bought these in Grafton Street, Dublin. They have the
nicest shoes in that special shop of any place I know. Do you like it?"

"Oh, it is quite sweet; it is the way the heel is arranged, and that
little buckle."

"Well, never mind about my shoes now," said Kitty, pushing the
attractive little foot well in under her skirt. "What is it you have
come to say? Please say it, and then--go."

"I will, if you wish me to. Look here, I know all about your story. You
are in dreadful trouble, and so is Elma; but I do declare I think poor
Elma's trouble much worse than yours."

"You know nothing about it," cried Kitty, with passion. "Elma in worse
trouble! Oh, if you only could guess!"

"I guess well enough," said Carrie, "and so does Elma. You want money,
which, evidently, as a rule, is as plentiful to you as blackberries on
the hedges in September; and you think, because you cannot lay your hand
on that money immediately, the whole world is going to change. But let
me tell you that Elma and I want money far, far more badly than you have
any idea of. Until you gave Elma that eight pounds, we neither of us
ever in our lives had so much in our possession."

"I didn't give it--you make a mistake--I lent it."

"Oh, it is all the same. Elma had it, and, for practical purposes, it
was just as valuable as if it were really her own."

"Well, I want her to give it back to me now. I surely have a right to
ask for my own money back again?"

"No, you have not--not without reasonable notice. She asked you to lend
her some money--she never asked for eight pounds--you let her take it.
You said she might have as much as she liked. When she explained the
position of things to me, I said: 'Elma, you were a rare fool not to
take the whole fifteen.'"

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