Wild Kitty by L. T. Meade

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Elma still did not speak. That cold, stunned feeling was pressing round
her heart. She did not much care whether she was in the house or not.
Just at that moment, however, a loud slam of the front door caused both
the girls to run to the window. Mrs. Steward had sailed down the steps.
Mrs. Steward with her long train streaming behind her, was walking up
Constantine Road. The next instant Mrs. Lewis burst into the room.

"Well, Elma," she cried, "this is a pretty state of things. Your aunt
has told me everything. What a miserable woman I am!"

"Please, don't scold me," said Elma. "I have had enough scolding during
the last hour to last me my life. Say what you like to me to-morrow."

"But your aunt says she washes her hands of you. How are you to be
educated? How are you to live? How are you to support yourself?"

"I don't know. I don't think it much matters."

"Don't talk in that silly way, Elma; of course it matters. She says too
that you are to be publicly exposed at Middleton School to-morrow, and
your conduct--I must say I could not make out what she was talking
about; I don't see that you did anything very wrong--but your conduct is
to be proclaimed to the school, and that you are to be, if not expelled,
something like it. Elma, this is enough to take all my senses away!"

"Never mind, now, mother; we can talk it all over presently," said Elma.
"Give me the money, Carrie, and let me go."

Carrie handed her sister the little parcel without a word. Elma walked
slowly out of the room.

A moment later she found herself on the dusty road. She reached the top
of the ugly street, and then paused to look around her. To her right lay
the peaceful valley in which Middleton School was situated. A little
further away was the open country, beautiful, verdant, full of summer
splendor. Gwin Harley's house could be seen in the distance.

"If only Gwin had been my friend this morning, all these terrible things
need not have happened," thought Elma. "I have nothing to thank Gwin
for; I have nothing to thank Kitty for. I am a miserable, forlorn,
forsaken girl. There is nothing before me but the most wretched life.
Shall I go to see Kitty? Does Kitty deserve anything at my hands? I have
got ten pounds seven shillings and twopence in my pocket. Why should I
not go right away with the money? I don't think Kitty would prosecute
me; and if she did would it matter? I am so hopeless that I don't think
anything much worse could happen to me. I know I could not stand being
publicly exposed to-morrow at the school. I cannot have those hundreds
of eyes fixed on me; I, who have always been looked up to, respected,
who belonged to the Tug-of-war Society. I cannot, cannot bear it. Why
should Kitty have this money? She has treated me badly. She promised
not to tell. She had no right to break her word. I cannot see her at
present; no, I cannot."

Elma walked down the road. She longed beyond words to get into a fresh
place, to be where there was no chance of meeting a Middleton girl. She
walked faster and faster. Presently she found herself at the little
station; she had not an idea where to go nor what to do. She had no
luggage with her. It would look queer her going away without even a
handbag. It would look very much as if she were running away. All the
girls belonging to Middleton School had to wear a badge on their hats,
and Elma would therefore be known. She would be recognized as one of the
pupils. Nevertheless she thought she would risk it, for the longing to
go away got stronger and stronger.

The railway station happened to be rather empty at this time. She looked
around her hastily, saw no one that she knew about, and went into the
booking-office. She hastily made up her mind to take a ticket for a
large seaport town a few miles distant. She asked for a third-class
single ticket to Saltbury, inquired when the next train came up, and a
few moments later found herself on the right platform waiting for it. It
came in within a quarter of an hour, and Elma took her seat in a
third-class compartment. She was relieved to find that she was in the
company of a good-natured-looking, middle-aged woman who was just
returning to her own home from doing some marketing at Middleton. She
did not take any notice of Elma, who crouched up in the opposite corner,
and sat looking out at the country. The woman left the carriage at the
next station, and Elma continued her journey for the rest of the way
alone. She got to Saltbury within an hour, and stepped out on to the
platform. She had been at Saltbury before with her mother and Carrie.
They had once spent a never-to-be-forgotten week there when Mrs. Lewis
had a ten-pound note in her pocket which she resolved to devote to a
treat at the seaside. Elma wondered if she might venture to go to the
little cottage in the suburbs of Saltbury where she had spent this week.
After reflection, however, she thought that it would not be wise to
venture, for if she were missed it would be very easy to trace her to
Saltbury, and then this cottage would be the first to seek for her in.
Accordingly she went into the more thronged and populous part of the
town. The expensive season had not yet begun, and she presently went
into a neat little house with "Apartments" written on a card in the
window. She asked for a bed for the night. The landlady, a ruddy-faced
young woman, immediately said she could accommodate her, and took Elma
upstairs to the top of the house to show her a neat little bedroom.

"You can have this for half a crown a night, miss," she said. "Are you
likely to make a long stay?"

"I don't know," answered Elma; "I can't be sure. I want the room for one
night, and then I'll let you know."

"Very well, miss, that's quite satisfactory, and I can get in anything
you like in the way of food. If you happened to wish for a sitting-room,
miss--"

"Oh, no, a bedroom will be enough," answered Elma. "I do not care to go
to the expense of a sitting-room."

"You left your luggage I suppose, miss, at the railway station?"

Elma colored and then turned pale.

"No," she said; "I have not brought any luggage with me."

The woman stared, opening her eyes very wide, now giving Elma a full and
particular attention which she had not hitherto vouchsafed to her. She
said nothing further, and Elma went downstairs.

"I'll go down to the beach for a little," she said. "You might have some
tea ready for me when I come back. I am very tired, and should like some
tea and toast."

"And a hegg, miss, or anything of that sort?"

"No, thank you; just tea and toast, please. Nothing more."

The woman stared after her as she went down the street. Elma got as far
as the beach; she then sat down on a bench and gazed out at the waves.
The tide was coming in. The beach at Saltbury was celebrated, and
children were playing about, amusing themselves gathering shells, making
sand-castles, and otherwise disporting themselves after the manner of
their kind. A little boy was wading far out. Elma watched him with
lack-luster eyes. She wondered vaguely how long he would be allowed to
wade, and how deep he might go. He got as far as his knees, and then
turned back. As he was going back he fell, wetting himself and crying
out lustily.

Elma continued to gaze at him with eyes which scarcely saw.

"He thinks he is hurt," she said to herself, "that he has had a
terrible misfortune. How little he knows what real pain means, and what
real misfortune is! Here am I with money in my pocket which does not
belong to me, having run away from home, disgraced for life, miserable
for life. Oh! what shall I do?"

It had been a very hot day, but the evening was chilly, and Elma
shivered as she went back to her lodgings in South Street. She had
brought away no wraps with her, and her thin cotton dress was not
sufficient to keep out the chill of the sea breezes. She thought she
would be glad to get under shelter, to go to bed, to wrap herself up and
cover her face and court sleep. When she got to the door, however, the
young landlady, who was evidently waiting for her, came out on to the
steps.

"If you please, miss," she said, "I am really very sorry, but my husband
thinks----"

"What?" said Elma.

"That as you have no luggage, miss (you know it ain't customary for us
to take in ladies without luggage)----"

"Then you mean--" said Elma, turning very white and pale.

"Yes, miss, I'm ever so sorry."

"You can't give me the room even for one night?"

"We can't really, miss."

"But I can pay in advance," said Elma eagerly.

"I'm ever so sorry, miss; but another lady came just as you left, and
she had a box and a handbag, and everything proper, and as she wanted
the room very badly and as we had her before, we have let it to her,
miss. I am sure I am very sorry not to oblige; but I dare say--There
are a great many other apartments down this road, miss."

"Thank you," said Elma; "it does not matter at all."

She spoke with a voice of ice; pride, a remnant of pride, came to her
aid. She would not let the woman see how distressed she was.

"Good-evening, miss," said the young landlady. "I'm real sorry not to
oblige."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," said Elma; "I dare say I can manage."

She walked down South Street, knowing that the landlady was watching her
as she disappeared. She soon came to a corner where four roads met.
Where should she go? What could she do? Where was she to have shelter
for the night?

It occurred to her that after all there was nothing now left to her but
to return to Middleton. She hurried up to the railway station, and asked
when the next train would start. A porter, who was standing just inside
the station informed her that the last train for Middleton had left five
minutes ago.

"The next will be at seven to-morrow morning," he said.

"Thank you," answered Elma. She would not allow any of the dismay on her
face to appear.

"After all, it is too absurd that I can't have shelter," she said to
herself, "when I have over ten pounds in my pocket. What can the
landlady have meant? Surely, if I pay my way that is all that is
necessary."

But, all the same, she did not like to go and inquire at any other
lodging. She could not stand meeting once again the stony stare of a
landlady when she explained that she had no luggage, none at all. It
occurred to her that she might go into a shop and buy some night-gear
and a small handbag, but she rejected the idea almost as quickly as it
came to her.

"It would only waste the money," she said to herself, "and where is the
use? I suppose I can manage to spend the night somewhere. Thank
goodness, it is a fine summer's night; I might do worse than spend it in
the open air."

She wandered away, and presently passing a small restaurant, went in and
ordered a cup of tea for herself, and some bread and butter. She drank
the tea, but found that to eat choked her. The outlook before her was
more miserable moment by moment. She was driven to such despair that it
seemed of very little consequence to her whether she succeeded in
getting away from Middleton School, from the censorious eyes of the
whole of her world, or not. Everything was up with her. She kept
repeating that moodily, drearily under her breath. Everything was up;
she had not a friend in the wide, wide world.

Having finished her meager meal, she went out again into South Street.
She was horrified when she saw the name at one end of the street. She
did not want to pass by that neat little house which contained that snug
little bedroom where she had hoped to cover her eyes from the light, and
court sleep, in order to get rid of her misery for a few hours.

She had now reached the neighborhood of the shore. The tide was nearly
full in; the great, broad expanse of beach was covered. The children
had all gone home to supper and to bed. The stars were coming out in the
sky; a full moon was riding in majesty across the heavens. It seemed to
Elma, fine as the night was, that the sea moaned in an unreasonable and
very dreadful manner. She had to press her hands to her ears to shut
away the sound of that moaning sea. She determined to go inland. There
was plenty of time, plenty. She could get back to the station by seven
in the morning, wait for the first train which returned to Middleton,
and reach the school after all in time for her exposure.

She turned her steps now countrywise, and after walking for a mile or
two found that she was too weary to go any further. She crept inside a
narrow opening in a hedge, and got into a field. Here she was absolutely
alone; not a human being was in sight. As far as she could tell there
was not a living creature near. She felt the grass; it was heavy with
dew. She had always heard that it was very dangerous to sit down on
grass soaked with dew, but danger now was of no moment to her.

"It would be rather nice to be ill; it would be rather nice to die." She
had nothing left to live for. Her whole life had been a mistake. She had
tried hard to get away from her own set, the set in which she was born.
She had made a mess of it; she had failed. Her own set--the
narrow-minded, the vulgar, the low--were the only ones who could claim
her, who could touch her, who could have anything in common with her.
How terribly shocked Miss Sherrard had been at what she had done. How
disgusted, how coldly, terribly cruel Aunt Charlotte had been; but her
mother had thought very little about it, and Carrie would love her just
as much after her disgraceful conduct as she had done before.

"I belong to them, and they belong to me," thought poor Elma. "My
ambitions were wrong; I shall sink now, and become a second Carrie. No,
I shall never marry a Sam Raynes, but I shall become a sour old maid.
Perhaps I shall do charring some day, there is no saying. I did wrong to
try to raise myself. I----"

She never saw where her fault lay. She was not really repentant for her
wrong-doing. The consequences were terrible, but the sin did not trouble
her.

After a time, terribly exhausted and weary, she lay down just as she was
on the soaking wet grass and fell asleep. She had been chilled and tired
before she slept; but when in the very middle of the night she awoke she
had never known anything like the bitter cold which she experienced. She
could not at first remember where she was; but all too soon memory with
a flash returned to her. She remembered all the events of yesterday. She
knew that she was a runaway, that she had stolen money in her pocket.
She might be arrested and put in prison; there was no saying what awful
fate lay before her. In the dead of night lying there she became really
frightened; she almost felt as if she could scream aloud in her terror.
How empty the world seemed, how hollow! She wished the stars overhead
would not blink at her; she wished the moon would go behind a cloud; she
felt as if God Himself was looking at her through the face of the moon,
and she did not like it. She covered her face with her cold and
trembling hands, and tried to shut away what she felt might be the face
of God Himself.

"I have been a very wicked girl," she moaned, and now, for the first
time, she thought not so much of the consequences as of the sin. Tears
rained from her eyes; she sat up and covered her face.

"God help me! Please, God, don't be too angry, with me; I am the most
miserable girl in the world," she faltered.

After that frightened cry or prayer she felt more comfortable; and now,
staggering to her feet, she saw, standing about ten yards away, and
looking at her fixedly out of its large and luminous eyes, a brown cow.
There were several more cows in the field, and this one had come up, and
was gazing inquiringly at her. The motherly creature could not imagine
what desolate and queer young thing this was, up and awake in the middle
of the night. Such creatures as Elma, in the cow's experience, were not
to be seen at these inclement hours. It lashed its long tail slowly from
side to side, and kept gazing at her; and Elma looked at it, and her
nervous terrors grew worse. The cow had horns; suppose it came near, and
tried to horn her. She was not a country girl, and did not understand
country creatures. A bitter cry of abject terror rose from her lips. She
darted past the animal, rushed out by the way she had come into the
field, and found herself once more on the highroad.

The cow, its curiosity very faintly tickled by the appearance of Elma on
the scene, placidly resumed its feeding, and the terrified girl ran as
if she had wings to her feet up the highroad.

In after days she was never able to tell how she spent the remainder of
that night; but the longest hours only herald in the dawn, and at last
the sun arose and the worst of her fears were over. The sun warmed her,
and took away the dreadful feeling of chill which she was experiencing.
She wandered about, sitting down now and then, too feeble, too tired,
too utterly depressed to have room even for active fears, and at last
the time came when she might again present herself at the station.

CHAPTER XXIV.

SUNSHINE AGAIN.

When Carrie left her, Kitty Malone was buoyed up with a certain degree
of hope. Carrie had spoken with confidence; she had assured her that her
clothes were worth money. Never before, much as she prized pretty
things, had they seemed so valuable in poor Kitty's eyes. If Carrie
would really keep her word it would be possible for Kitty to send Laurie
the money which he wanted that evening. Could she do this her worst
anxieties would be laid to rest, and she felt that it would be even
possible for her to try to be good once more. As things were at present,
she cared nothing at all about being either good or bad. Every thought
of her mind was fixed upon Laurie; if he were saved she would be good;
if not--if he indeed, the darling of her heart, went to the
dogs--nothing mattered.

Kitty was too restless and miserable to go down to the rest of the
family. She walked up and down, up and down her bedroom, watching and
longing for Carrie. Now and then she would rush to the window, putting
out her head and shoulders and half her body, to watch if by any chance
Carrie might be coming up the street. That red-faced, fat,
uninteresting-looking young woman now represented all Kitty's hopes.

When darkness set in, however, when the hours first struck nine and
then ten, poor Kitty gradually saw the last star in her firmament
expire. "Without doubt Carrie had failed to pawn the things.

"And I thought them so good," whispered Kitty to herself. "Aunt Bridget
would be sure to choose nice and expensive things. Perhaps they were too
good for the people who come to the pawnbroker for their clothes. That
must be the reason; but I wonder Carrie did not come back to tell me."

Presently Alice bustled into the room, and, opening the door of the
large wardrobe which the girls shared between them, began to make active
search for a neat little jacket which she wanted to put on. She was
going out for the evening, and wished to wear it when she was returning
home. Search as she would, however, she could not find it, and presently
turned to ask Kitty if she had seen it.

"Dear me, no," answered Kitty, starting and blushing. "Is it not in the
wardrobe?"

"No," replied Alice. "And I remember I hung it on this peg. Where can it
possibly have disappeared to? Don't you know anything about it, Kitty?
By the way, how wonderfully empty the wardrobe looks! Have you been
putting your clothes back into your boxes?"

Kitty, who had been standing in the middle of the room looking the very
picture of despair, now burst into a hearty peal of laughter.

"What are you laughing about?" asked Alice.

"I am awfully afraid it has happened," she cried.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, that your jacket has gone to the pawn."

"Kitty!" cried Alice, looking at the Irish girl in some alarm, "have you
gone mad?"

"No, Alice; but I am dreadfully afraid all the same that it has
happened; indeed, there can be no doubt of it."

Kitty laughed again. She often cried when she laughed and now the tears
ran down her cheeks.

"Well, this is too funny!" she gasped between her paroxysms of mirth.

"I don't think it funny at all. I think you must have taken leave of
your senses. Kitty, please, explain yourself."

"I will try to, Alice. Oh, don't frown at me so horribly, or I shall go
off into fits of laughter again. This is the simple truth. I wanted
money very, very badly. I could not get it, and Carrie Lewis--"

"Carrie Lewis? Who is she?" asked Alice.

"Oh, don't be so ridiculous, Alice. Of course you know who Carrie Lewis
is. She is Elma's sister. She came here to-day."

"How very interesting! What a nice set of people you seem to be getting
to know! I wasn't aware that you were acquainted with any of the Lewises
except Elma."

"Well, I am acquainted with Carrie now, and I rather like her. She is
great fun, much more fun than you are. She is vulgar, of course; but
really that does not matter. She called to see me, and as I happened to
want money she suggested pawning some of my things for me. I conclude
she took your jacket by mistake with the rest."

Alice was so stunned absolutely by this news that no words would come
to her. She stared at Kitty, her face growing whiter and more
wooden-looking each moment. Then, without vouchsafing a syllable of
reply, she left the room, banging the door behind her.

"There, I have given her a good settler," thought Kitty; and for a
moment the feeling that Alice was as uncomfortable as she was herself
gave her a certain sense of satisfaction.

The last post brought a letter from Laurie. It was brief, and was
written in frantic hurry and despair.

"My dear Kitty," wrote the boy, "what has come to you? I am looking for
a letter by every post, but none arrives. I shall not be able to give
Wheel-about the money I promised him on Saturday, and I know he will not
keep my secret any longer. When father hears it, all is up. If I don't
receive that money by Saturday morning I shall run away to
sea.--LAURIE."

The letter fluttered from poor Kitty's fingers to the floor. She felt
stunned; there was a cold weight now at her heart, which made it almost
impossible for her to move or even think. If Laurie did not get the
money by Saturday morning he would run away to sea. This was Thursday
evening. There was still time, just time, to save him. Oh, if only
Carrie would come! How dreadful, how terrible of her to fail Kitty at
such a moment as this! Laurie was just the sort of boy to do what he
said. The longing to go to sea had been one of the innermost cravings of
his heart for many years. If he did so, the squire would never forgive
him. His career would be ruined. Bad and awful as an English school in
Kitty's opinion would be, the fate which he now had mapped out for
himself would be much worse. The cruel, cruel sea might even drown him.
Kitty might never behold her Laurie again. He was the joy of her heart
and the light of her eyes. She uttered a piercing cry, and fell down
half-fainting by her bedside. She lay so for the greater part of an
hour, then struggling to her feet got into bed without undressing, and
pulled the bedclothes well over her head.

When Alice came in very late that evening she thought that Kitty was
asleep, and did not disturb her; but all during the long hours of that
miserable night poor Kitty lay awake, her heart beating loud, terrible
visions passing before her eyes. Toward morning she fell into a troubled
sleep, to awake again quite early. Her head ached badly, her pulses beat
too quickly; she could not stand her hot bed any longer. Springing up,
she went into the bathroom, turned on the cold water, and refreshed
herself with a bath. She felt really desperate and quite impervious to
all ideas of discipline. She made up her mind to go to the Lewises,
knock up Carrie, and demand an account of the property which she had
confided to her on the previous day. Even still there was just--just
time to save Laurie, for if she could catch the early post he would
receive his money on Saturday morning.

Kitty found herself at Constantino Road between seven and eight o'clock.
The blinds of Carrie's bedroom window were still down, for the Lewises
were not early risers. Maggie however, was up, and when Kitty rang the
bell she opened the door for her.

"Miss Malone!" she cried.

"I want to see Miss Carrie at once," cried Kitty. "Is she up, Maggie?"

"Not she, miss. She's sound asleep and in bed. But I'll run up and tell
her that you are here. Please come into the dining-room, Miss Malone."

Maggie threw open the door of this by-no-means luxurious apartment, and
then ran upstairs to inform Carrie of Kitty's unexpected arrival.

"Now, what can be up?" thought Carrie. "Surely she is satisfied. I did
very well for her."

She dressed herself hastily, and in five minutes was standing by Kitty's
side.

"What is it?" she asked. "Are you not pleased? Elma took you the money,
did she not? She must have stayed with one of the Middleton School girls
for the night, for she never returned home; but she took you the money.
I thought I did very well by you. Were you not satisfied?"

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