Wild Kitty by L. T. Meade

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"You must be a very queer girl," said Kitty, astonished at this
remarkable specimen of young ladyhood.

"Am I? I don't know. I am frank, and I am generally hard-up. I know, if
any one does, where the shoe pinches. Bless you! it would do you good to
open your eyes. You don't know what poverty means--a little house, a
disgusting little house, shabby paper, dirty ceilings, badly-carpeted
floors, the drains wrong, the water-supply as likely to poison us as
not, an invalid mother--"

"Oh, have you a mother? Then, I am sure you are not to be pitied,"
interrupted Kitty.

"Little you know! What good is a mother who is in bed most of the day, a
father who--Well, I need not mention him; he is not in the country at
any rate. No education to speak of; no dress worth considering; toil,
toil from morning till night; and life a mere scramble, a scramble for
bread without butter. That's what our life is!"

Kitty had ceased to fidget; she even sank down on the corner of the
nearest chair. Her pretty figure, her beautifully-appointed dress, her
whole appearance, from the crown of her head to the sole of her foot,
betokened what the other girl could never aspire to, never hope to
have--abundance of money. And yet at the present moment Kitty was
breaking her heart for want of money. No wonder Carrie was puzzled.
Kitty's own eyes were opened to an extent they had never been opened
before.

"Yes, our life is a rough one," continued Carrie; "very rough indeed;
but I don't grumble. I was brought up to it, and use is half the
battle, as perhaps you don't know, but you ought. You'll get accustomed
to doing without your eight pounds after a bit, and never give it
another thought."

"Oh, no, that I won't," said Kitty, now jumping to her feet in her
indignation; "and it is not for myself, it is for----"

"Oh, never mind who it is for. You want it, and you think the world is
going to stand still because you cannot get it. Well, the world won't
stand still. I, who am quite used to doing without money, can assure you
as to the truth of that fact. Would you like to know, now, how I spend
my days? I teach some horrid children in a small private school from ten
to one each morning, and then in the afternoon I go to a family and
teach some more little brats; and I am scarcely paid anything for all
this toil--starvation wages I call it--and I hate it, hate it. But I
have my consolations. I am not overparticular; very small pleasures
content me; and there's a fellow whom I love."

"A fellow whom you love?" echoed Kitty; "is it a brother?"

"Bless you, I'm not likely to put myself out about a brother; not that I
have one, and so much the better, thank goodness. There's a man whom I
love, and a right jolly fellow he is--his name is Sam Raynes. He is not
one of your fine, bread-and-butter gentlemen--not he. He is rough and
ready, and he has his joke, and he isn't too handsome, although some
people admire red hair; but, anyhow, I'm fond of him and he's fond of
me, and some day--I don't know when--when we can scrape enough
together, we are going to set up housekeeping."

"You are going to marry; is that it?" said Kitty.

"Yes; some day we'll marry. Now, you see, that's a bit of fun for me;
and I can go out with Sam on bank holidays and on Sunday afternoons just
like any other girl with her young man. Bless you, I don't mind."

"I wonder what all this is leading up to," said Kitty, with a slight
yawn. "Of course, it is very interesting to you; but I don't care about
your young man."

"No more you do, you haughty little minx; and I wouldn't bother you
about him, for, with all his faults, he's too good to have words wasted
about him to a little independent chit of a thing like you. But, as I
was saying, I'm not talking for nothing, I'm leading up to something.
Now, I am content enough with our lot; but Elma isn't. Elma is quite
different from me--she has got a great deal of refinement about her."

"Has she indeed?" said Kitty in a voice of scorn.

"Yes, she has, and you needn't contradict me. She's a very clever girl,
is Elma. I don't say that she's always as straight as a die--I don't
pretend that she is; but she is a clever girl, and she is fond of her
books, and she's likely to get on--that is, if you don't spike her
guns."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, well, it's only an expression of mine. I heard Sam use it last
week. I often copy his phrases, they're so fine and full of flourish.
Well, now, if you don't spoil sport, Elma will get into an altogether
different circle from your humble servant. Mother and I will go one way,
and Elma another. Elma, with her grand notions and her set-you-up sort
of airs, will rise in life. She's heartily welcome to go her own way,
and I wish her Godspeed, for she is the only sister I have got."

"I don't understand," interrupted Kitty.

"If you'll let me speak I'll soon explain. You don't suppose that girls
such as I am are often to be seen at Middleton School?"

"Well, I have not seen any like you," said Kitty, gazing from head to
foot at her very peculiar visitor.

"No more you have, bless you; and I'm not the least offended by your
very frank stare. Sam admires me, and that's enough for me. Now, Elma
looks a lady, doesn't she?"

"I suppose so," said Kitty in a dubious tone.

"You suppose so indeed! Let me tell you that Elma is a born little lady,
a real lady, and she looks it, every inch of her. That is why she goes
to Middleton School; but now, who do you think pay for her?"

"How can I tell?"

"Do you think mother, or father, or I? Now, who do you think does? I
should be interested to know your thoughts."

"I cannot really tell you, Miss Lewis."

"Oh, it does sound fine to hear you Miss Lewising me. My name is
Carrie."

"I prefer to call you Miss Lewis."

"Highty! tighty! we are haughty. Well, the person who pays for Elma is
our Aunt Charlotte--a certain Mrs. Steward, wife of the Reverend John
Steward, rector of St. Bartholomew's, Buckinghamshire. There's a grand
enough name for you; and I suppose, being a clergyman, you'll consider
that he is a gentleman and that his wife is a lady. Aunt Charlotte
happens to be own sister to mother; and when Elma made her little
complaint to her she took pity on her; and now she pays all her expenses
at Middleton School. And if Elma does well and nothing disagreeable
comes to Aunt Charlotte's ears, she will send her presently to Newnham
or Girton. Think of that I Elma will be a college girl; she will be an
undergraduate of one of the universities--and some day a graduate; and
then she will get a first-class post as high-school mistress, or
mistress of something or other. But if you tell on her and make things
bad, and the truth gets out--You look pale; are you ill?"

"I am all right," said Kitty. She staggered across the room and poured
some water into a glass.

"I did not eat much lunch," she continued; "and I am--Never mind; go
on."

"Well," continued Carrie, "if nothing comes to Aunt Charlotte's ears to
turn her mind the other way, Elma will be all right; she will move in
your sphere--yes, she will, whether you like it or not. She is just so
clever she is able to do anything. So I have come to say that I hope to
goodness you won't split on her, for it would be mighty cruel of you.
You would ruin her for life, and that would be a nice consolation for
you when you came to die. She did not steal your money, remember; you
gave it to her."

"I lent it to her."

"Oh, how you will harp upon that! But you didn't tell her to a day when
she was to pay it back again."

"No, I certainly did not; but, of course, I expected that she would
return it to me when I asked for it; and then she spent it on dress."

"Spent it on dress? What do you mean?"

"She told me so."

"Oh, naughty, naughty little Elma!" said Carrie, shaking her forefinger
in a very knowing manner "She didn't like to tell about Sam, and so she
made up that story, did she? Well, it was an untruth. She didn't spend
that money on dress; she--well, I will tell you--I stole it from her."

"You!" gasped Kitty, backing away in horror.

"Yes. Good gracious! how scared you are! You don't understand the larks
of girls like me. I didn't mean any harm. I took it and gave it to Sam
to keep for her."

"Then," said Kitty, coming close up to Carrie, her lips parted, the
color flooding her cheeks, her eyes full of light, "then, of course,
you, Carrie----"

"Oh, I'm Carrie now, am I?"

"Yes, you are; but never mind. Then, you, Carrie, can get it back for
me?"

"So I will, all in good time, my pretty little dear. You shall have the
money if you are willing to wait, say a month."

"There's no use at all in that," said Kitty, her voice sounding faint
and far away.

"I am afraid there must be, as far as that eight pounds is concerned.
The fact is, Sam is speculating with the money, and when we get it back
it will be doubled. Elma and I will divide the profits between us, and
you shall have your eight pounds back. Now, I think I have told you
everything except--"

"And, having told me, I wish you would go away," said Kitty. "I don't
know that you have bettered matters in any way. Of course I am sorry for
Elma; but it is only right that you should know something. It would be
well also for Elma to know the truth. I told her yesterday when I went
to your house that I would keep her secret until after morning school."

"Good gracious! You have not blurted out the truth?"

"Wait till you hear. When I was at school this morning I was--oh so
miserable! I could not help thinking of--But never mind; you would not
understand."

"No, no, of course not; pray proceed."

"I was thinking how soon I might tell."

"Nice sort of creature you are!"

"Why will you interrupt me?" said Kitty. "But then I looked at Elma, and
I saw that she seemed very anxious and miserable; and wretched as I was,
I made up my mind to be kind to her. I said to myself I will keep her
secret; and--and I wrote her a note to tell her so. You would not
understand if I said any more; but--but immediately after morning school
she--she was false to me; utterly false. You ask her when you see her
how she received that letter I wrote to her at the risk of getting into
terrible trouble myself. I have been angry, furious, beside myself; and
now Miss Sherrard knows everything."

"You don't mean it?" said Carrie. Her florid face had turned perfectly
white. She bit her lip and looked out of the window. After a time she
looked back again at Kitty, and said slowly:

"You are very cruel, and you have ruined Elma; but after all it is
partly my fault. I ought not to have taken that money. Now, look here,
shall I tell you what I really came for to-day?"

"If you would do so quickly and then go."

"You won't be in such a hurry to part from me when you know the truth.
Now, then, listen. You want some money; I think I see a way to getting
it for you."

"Do you really?"

"Yes, I do; that is, if you on your part will do what I want."

"I will do anything to get the money. I want to send it to Laurie if I
can this evening. There's nothing I would not give you."

"I will remember that small promise presently," said Carrie in a frank
voice. "But now let me tell you what my plan is. You have a great many
clothes, have you not?"

"Yes; but please don't bother me about them now. I was always fond of
pretty dress; but I should not care if I had to wear rags at the present
moment if only I might get that eight pounds."

"If them's your sentiments," said Carrie, "you very soon can have your
wish."

"What in the world do you mean?"

"Why, this. If you'll just allow me to take the pick of your wardrobe I
can take away the things and sell them. I'll soon bring back the eight
pounds--yes, and for that matter ten too."

"Sell my clothes?" said Kitty. She stared at the other girl as if she
did not believe the evidence of her own senses.

"Yes. Did you never hear of a pawnshop, you dear little wiseacre?"

"A pawnshop! Do you think I would allow my clothes to go to a pawnshop?"

"I know nothing whatever about it; but I make you the proposal. I will
transact the business for you if you'll allow me ten per cent, upon it.
I can get you the money."

"Oh, Carrie, it seems such a bitter shame," said Kitty. Her face was
crimson; she went to the other side of the room, opened the window and
put out her head. She wanted the cool air to soothe her scorched cheeks;
her heart was thumping in her breast. Had matters indeed come to this,
that she, Kitty Malone, was to pawn her pretty dresses, her trinkets,
her whatnots! Alas! she could not do it.

"I have often had to do it," said Carrie. "I know just how to manage. If
you'll allow me to select the most suitable of your things, I'll bring
you back the money in no time."

"You are sure?" said Kitty, beginning to yield.

"Certain--sure--positive. But you must allow me ten per cent."

"I know nothing about percentage; but you may take every scrap that is
over after you have got me the eight pounds."

"Very well, that's a liberal offer," said Carrie. "Now, then, I may as
well take a look at your clothes."

"Oh, it seems such an awful thing to do," said Kitty. "Are you sure,
quite sure, that no one will find it out?"

"Not a bit of it; that is, if you'll be quick and not allow that other
girl--Alice, you call her--to come into the room."

"I'll lock the door," said Kitty. She rushed across the room with new
hope, turned the key, and came back again to Carrie.

"I never heard of anything quite so extraordinary in my life," she said.
"And you--you call yourself a lady?"

"No, I don't; I call myself a good-natured lump of a girl."

"Well, perhaps you are; but to pawn one's things! Do you mean that I
will never see them again?"

"Oh, yes; whenever you like to return the money. They'll be kept safe
enough for you. If you don't return the money, of course, they belong to
the pawnbroker; but you have lots of time to think of that. Look here,
I'll pawn them for a month; that will give you heaps of time to look
round."

"So it will," said Kitty. "And are you quite, quite certain that I shall
have the money to-night?"

"Oh, yes, if you won't talk so much, only act. Now, then, open your
wardrobe."

Kitty unlocked the door of the mahogany wardrobe which she shared with
Alice, and Carrie began to pull her choice little garments about.

Kitty went and stood by the window.

"Don't you want to know what I am taking?" said Carrie. "Don't you want
to make a selection?"

"No; I'll leave it all to you. I can't bear to see them. Take--take what
you want."

"Goodness, what a girl!" thought Carrie to herself. "Here's an
opportunity for me."

She made a hasty and very wise selection, choosing the richest dresses,
the most stylish jackets, skirts, shoes, ribbons, gloves--clipping the
feathers out of the hats and the flowers from the toques--throwing in
some of the finest cambric handkerchiefs; and then, taking a sheet of
brown paper which she had put into a basket on her arm when she left
home, she folded the things into it and fastened her parcel with stout
string.

"Here I am," she said; "and this is my parcel. I have looked through
your wardrobe; your clothes are neat, fine, some of them gaudy, but all
good. I can get from three to four pounds for this lot."

"But why don't you take enough to get the eight pounds?" said Kitty, who
had quite made up her mind by this time.

"I could not carry any more. Now, then, open your jewel-case, quick."

"My jewel-case. Oh! I cannot part with my jewels."

"You must, if you want your eight pounds by to-night. I know my
pawnbroker. He won't give five pounds for this little parcel. Now then,
be quick. Oh, there I see Alice Denvers coming up the road with that
other fine young lady, Bessie Challoner. Where's your jewel-case?"

Kitty's face was like a sheet.

"I have not any jewels," she said; "or scarcely any worth mentioning. I
didn't bring any jewels with me. But here's my watch; will that do?"

"Do--rather! Why, it's a beauty. Don't say a word to the others; keep
your own counsel. Now, then, I'll be off to the pawnshop, and you shall
have the money to-night. _Au revoir! an revoir!_"

CHAPTER XXI.

THE LADY FROM BUCKINGHAMSHIRE.

Mrs. Steward was a great contrast to Mrs. Lewis. Mrs. Steward was a
tall, thin, rather refined-looking woman. Mrs. Lewis was fat and dumpy,
decidedly untidy in appearance, with a melancholy air and a habit of
constantly indulging in low weeping. Mrs. Steward looked as if she had
never wept in her life; she sat upright as a dart, her movements were
quick, her manners independent; she had a vivacious eye, a somewhat
short nose, thin lips, and a very decided manner.

Mrs. Steward and Mrs. Lewis had a long conversation in the untidy, ugly
little parlor, while they waited for Elma to return from school. Maggie
had been going in and out, glancing with some apprehension at the lady,
and then whisking back to her kitchen to sigh profoundly and mourn for
the violets which were no longer in her possession.

"I should like something to eat," said Mrs. Steward to her sister. "I
thought I would come to you for lunch, Caroline. Have you got anything
in the house--a lamb chop or even cold lamb and salad will do quite
nicely."

"My dear Charlotte," said Mrs. Lewis, laying her fat, tremulous hand
upon her sister's firm but thin arm, "do you think it likely that we
often have lamb chops or even cold lamb and salad for lunch? It is true
that since the Australian meat came in we can now and then indulge in a
very small joint of lamb for Sundays, but certainly on no other day. Ah,
Charlotte, you little know the poverty to which your poor sister is
subjected."

"I know all about it," said Mrs. Stewart, shaking herself angrily, "and
my plain answer to you is this--as you sow you must reap. What else did
you expect when you married that fool of a man, James Lewis?"

Mrs. Lewis made a great endeavor to rise from the sofa, she made a
further effort to look dignified; but all she could really accomplish
was to burst into a fresh wail of low weeping and to murmur under her
breath, "Charlotte, you are cruel to me, you are cruel."

"I don't mean to be, my dear; but really, Caroline, you do annoy me.
Have you no spunk at all in your composition? Are you still fretting
your heart out for that good-for-nothing man?"

"Well, you see, I love him," said the poor wife. "The parting from my
dear husband was a terrible trial. I think of him at all hours both day
and night. I often have an uncontrollable desire to join him in
Australia."

"Pray yield to it," said Mrs. Steward in the calmest of voices, "and
when you go, take that great lout of a Caroline with you. She is as like
you in appearance as one pea is like another. I am ashamed of you. Now,
let us turn to a more congenial topic. Little Elma, I am glad to say,
is made of very different stuff."

"Oh, Elma is a good girl," said Mrs. Lewis. At that moment Maggie came
into the room.

"Have you ordered your servant to prepare any lunch for me?" said Mrs.
Steward.

"Well, really--" Mrs. Lewis looked imploringly and with a vacant eye at
Maggie.

"There's the remains of the salt beef, mum," said that small worthy,
dropping a bob of a courtesy as she spoke.

"I couldn't touch it," said Mrs. Steward with a shudder. "Have you got a
fresh egg in the house?"

"Oh, my dear, nothing of the kind--a fresh egg! Fresh eggs are worth
their weight in gold. We have a stale egg, if you don't mind that."

Mrs. Steward indulged in another shudder even more violent than the
last.

"My good girl," she said then, "pray get me a cup of tea and some thin
toast, and be quick about it. See that the tea is really strong and the
cream fresh."

"Cream!" murmured Mrs. Lewis; but Maggie had withdrawn.

"Well, now, that is comfortably settled," said Mrs. Steward, "and I can
tell you what really brought me to town--I have come about Elma."

"Indeed, and what about her?"

"I mean to take her from you."

"To take Elma away from me, my own dear child?"

"Oh, now, come, Caroline, don't sicken me with your false sentiment. It
is a precious good thing for Elma that she has got an aunt ready and
willing to help her. I have just arranged to send her to a first-class
German school. Her English, I should say, was fair, and she will be
taken as pupil-teacher; she will thus have the advantage of learning
German. I heard of this through a great friend of mine, Fraeulein Van
Brunt. She is going to Germany herself next week, and will take Elma, if
you can spare her."

"If I can spare her? But it will break my heart--such a sensible girl
as she is," said poor Mrs. Lewis.

"Come, come, Carrie, no more nonsense; when I explain all the advantages
you will see for yourself how all-important it is that Elma should go.
The school is in the Harz Mountains, a splendid place; magnificent air,
and all the rest. If Elma stays there for two years, I will then have
her home, and send her to Girton as I promised. I will further arrange
that she spends her holidays with me, as I think really--" here Mrs.
Steward glanced round the shabby room--"I think that the less she
remains with her own family for the present the better."

"I see what you mean. I am beneath my own child."

"Beneath her. Well, it is a painful thing to say; but, as you put it so
frankly, I must reply in the affirmative," replied Mrs. Steward. "Ah,
who is this now?"

The door was flung open, and Carrie, very red about the face, and with
her parcel under her arm, entered the room. Her intention was to ask her
mother to accompany her to the pawnshop. It had not been the first nor
the second nor the third time that the unfortunate lady had been obliged
to pawn her things. Carrie thought that her parent could make a better
bargain than she could herself, and she hoped that she would have been
in time to transact this little business before the arrival of her aunt.
She now gave a start of dismay, and, dropping the parcel, sank down on
the nearest chair. As she did so Kitty's watch and chain tumbled out of
the front of her dress, where she had very insecurely fastened them. The
watch was a lovely one, with an enameled back studded with pearls, and
the chain was made of eighteen-carat gold. Owing to a warning glance
from Carrie, Mrs. Lewis refrained from saying a word; but Mrs. Steward
had no idea of keeping her emotions to herself.

"You, I presume, are Carrie," she said, looking at her niece. "Come
here, Carrie, and speak to your aunt."

Carrie advanced as if she were treading on buttered eggs. She held out
one dimpled hand gingerly.

"How do you do, my dear? Allow me to congratulate you on the acquisition
of that very lovely little watch and that splendid chain. Now, I am
devoured with curiosity to know who has given them to you. Surely not
your mother? Surely, Caroline, with all your faults, you have not----"

"Oh, dear me, no," said Mrs. Lewis.

Carrie indulged in a loud laugh.

"Bless us, aunt," she cried, "do you suppose mother can afford to give
me these? No, I--" She grew red and turned away.

Mrs. Lewis fidgeted on her seat, and appeared thoroughly uncomfortable.

"I do not wish to pry into your secrets, Caroline," said Mrs. Steward,
favoring the untidy and vulgar-looking girl with a glance full of
reprehension. "You are at liberty to wear handsome watches and chains
made of the best gold if your mother cares to see you with things so
unsuitable to your class and appearance. Your doings in life are no
affair of mine. But now, as you happen to be my niece, will you have the
kindness to go immediately into the kitchen and tell Maggie, or whatever
the name of your servant is, to hurry with that tea and toast."

Carrie was only too glad to dart from the room. She picked up her
parcel, and resorted to the kitchen.

"Oh, Miss Carrie, I do wish you would help me," said Maggie, who was
flying distractedly about. "There's the kitchen fire all but out, and
the lady ordered toast as crisp as you please. I don't believe we can do
it for her. Wouldn't she be content with thin bread and butter curled in
rolls?"

"Oh, of course she would, and must," said Carrie. "She is in no end of a
temper, and for my part I don't wish to humor her. Yes, of course,
Maggie. I'll cut the bread and butter and make it into rolls, and you
see to the tea."

"Thank you, miss, I'm sure I'm much obliged, and perhaps, miss, you
wouldn't mind taking it into the dining-room, for her eyes do fasten on
to you that fierce that I get all of a tremble, and as likely as not
I'll drop the tray."

Carrie laughed, and being at heart good-natured in her own way, helped
Maggie with some vigor to prepare the tea.

At last a meal, which could not be remarked for its abundance, was
forthcoming, and was brought into the dining-room.

"I ordered toast," said Mrs. Steward in an angry voice.

"I am sorry, Aunt Charlotte," said Carrie; "but the fire happened to be
out in the kitchen. You see," she added, somewhat spitefully, "we are
obliged to economize with coals, and we don't keep a fire up in the
middle of the day."

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