Wild Kitty by L. T. Meade

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"She took me the money?" cried Kitty, turning pale. "No; that she did
not. I never had any money. What do you mean, Carrie?"

"What I say," answered Carrie. "Oh, do sit down, Kitty; you look quite
ghastly. I gave Elma ten pounds seven shillings and twopence to give you
I got eleven guineas for your things, including the watch and chain.
After I deducted my ten per cent., the balance for you was ten pounds
seven and twopence. I thought you would be delighted. Did she not take
you the money early yesterday evening?"

"No. I have never seen her."

"But she left here quite early on purpose. She said she was going
straight to your house. I sent you plenty of money, did I not?"

"How much did you say?" asked Kitty, putting her hand up to her forehead
in a distracted way.

"Ten pounds seven and twopence. You only really wanted eight pounds, did
you not?"

"I had a little money of my own, and eight pounds would have done," said
Kitty in a low voice; "but----"

Here she sprang forward and gripped Carrie by the arm. "What does it
mean, Carrie--what does it mean? Elma never came near me; I never, never
saw her last night."

"You never saw her? Elma never went to you?"

"No, never. Do you think I would tell an untruth? I never saw her, not
since early school yesterday. Oh, Carrie, tell me what it means?"

"I cannot. I must say it looks very queer," said Carrie. She frowned,
turned her back partly upon Kitty, and supporting her fat chin on one of
her dimpled hands, began to think deeply. The more she thought the less
she liked the aspect of affairs.

"Carrie, what does it mean?" cried Kitty, reiterating her words in a
kind of frenzy of agitation.

"Oh, stop talking to me for a minute, Kitty! I must think this out."

Carrie walked to the window, pulled up the blinds, threw the sash up,
and allowed the fresh morning air to blow upon her hot face. After a
time she turned round and faced Kitty.

"You may well look pale," she said. "I confess I am as bewildered as you
are yourself. Of course Elma may have been taken ill--she had a
dreadful shock yesterday."

"How?"

"You are silly to talk like that. Don't you know?"

"You mean because I told about her?"

"Well, it turned out very badly, as badly as possible. You did tell, and
when you did so you ruined her. If you had only kept that precious story
to yourself, even for twenty-four hours, little Elma would have been
made--made for life; but you ruined her."

"Oh do please tell me what you mean! My head is going round in a whirl;
I can scarcely follow you."

"You can pull yourself together if you like. This is what happened. I
told you, did I not, yesterday, that Aunt Charlotte pays Elma's fees at
Middleton School?"

"I think so, but I don't quite remember."

"That is so like you. I always said you were selfish."

"Think what you like, Carrie; but please tell me everything."

"Oh, I'm quite willing. This is the story. Aunt Charlotte came here
yesterday. She had heard of a splendid school in Germany, where Elma was
to be sent as pupil-teacher. She wanted Elma to leave Middleton School
at once, as she had found an escort to take her to Germany; but before
Elma could be admitted into this new school it was necessary for her to
have a certificate from Miss Sherrard. Now you see daylight, don't you?
My aunt, Mrs. Steward, went to see Miss Sherrard, taking Elma with her.
Elma did not know that you had put a match to the mine, and of course
Aunt Charlotte knew nothing about it. When Miss Sherrard was asked to
give Elma a certificate for conduct, she refused point-blank. Of course
the mine exploded. Elma was called in, and all your nice, miserable
story told to Aunt Charlotte. Elma is to be publicly exposed at
Middleton School to-day; and Aunt Charlotte has washed her hands of her
forever. There! that's what you have done. We have much to thank you
for, have we not?"

Kitty's face had grown whiter and whiter.

"You blame me very much for what I am not to be blamed for," she said
after a pause.

"That's what you think. You're an Irish girl, and you think nothing of a
promise. You promised Elma you would not tell. You lent her the money,
and you promised you would not tell about it. You broke your promise,
and you have ruined her for life. There! that's what has happened. I
wish you joy of the nice state your conscience must be in."

"You are very bitter to me, Carrie; but you cannot quite see my side of
the question. I would not have told about Elma if Elma had been in the
least true to me, but she was not, not a bit. All the same, I am
terribly, terribly sorry for her. I would not have got her into this
scrape if I had known."

"Ay, you had no thought, you see. You just blurted out everything."

"I am very miserable," said poor Kitty. She clasped her trembling hands
together, and tears slowly welled into her beautiful dark-blue eyes.
Carrie watched her with anxiety.

"There, now I like you," she said, after a pause "You look awfully
pretty with those tears in your eyes, and----"

"Pretty, do I?" said Kitty. For a moment a pleased smile flitted across
her face, but then it faded; the present anxiety was too intense for her
to give much thought to her personal appearance.

"Where can Elma be?" she said.

"Ah, that's the dreadful part. I don't know. She went out of the house
with your money. She evidently never took it to you. I am sure I cannot
think what has happened to her."

"And my money is gone?" said Kitty.

"So it seems--that is, unless we can find Elma. It is all very dreadful,
very horrible. I suppose the plain English of the matter is this"--here
Carrie gulped something down in her throat--"that she--she stole your
money and has run away with it."

"Carrie, you cannot think so!"

"It is what I have to think," answered Carrie. "It is a mighty
unpalatable truth, I can tell you. I suppose, now, your next step will
be to prosecute her to send the police after her, and have her locked
up. Then you will ruin me too, for Sam Raynes--not that he is
overparticular, nor that he cares twopence about refinement, or anything
of that sort--would not care to marry a girl whose--whose sister was put
in prison. That's your next step isn't it, Kitty Malone?"

"I won't stop to listen to you," said Kitty; "you are too terrible."

She ran to the door, opened it, and the next moment found herself in
the street. She walked fast, ugly words repeating themselves in her
ears. Carrie had been very blunt, and had given the petted, half-spoiled
girl some home truths to think about. Had she really been unkind in
telling about Elma? Oh, what was right and what was wrong? What was the
matter? Could she ever, ever, in the whole course of her existence, have
a light heart again? She walked up the street, little caring what she
was doing or where she was going. At the next corner she came plump upon
Elma herself, who was coming slowly, very slowly in the direction of
Constantine Road. When she saw her, poor Kitty gave a sudden shout.

"Oh, Elma!" she said, "how glad I am--how glad I am!"

"What do you mean?" said Elma. Her voice was faint.

"I thought I might never see you again. I thought--I don't know what I
thought--but you have come back."

"I ran away, and I have come back again," said Elma. "You can punish me
if you like, Kitty; things can never be much worse than they are." Here
she staggered, and would have fallen had not Kitty held her up.

"How dreadfully bad you look! But oh, the relief of seeing you again!"
said Kitty. "Where have you been? What have you done?"

"I scarcely know what I have done, or where I have been. I have a noise
in my head, a queer noise. My head aches so badly it seems as if it
would never leave off again. I am going to school, and they are going
to expose me. It was all because you told, Kitty. And here is nearly
all your money." Elm a put her hand into her pocket. "I must tell you
everything, Kitty; for nothing really matters now. I meant to take that
money. I meant to steal it all, but when it came to the point I found I
could not. Here is most of it back. I spent three shillings on my fare
to Saltbury and back, and sixpence on tea last night. That leaves ten
pounds three and eightpence. Here, count it, won't you, Kitty? Take it
in your hand. Here are the ten sovereigns, and the three shillings, and
the sixpence and twopence. Have you got them all right? I must owe you
the balance, but I'll pay you soon--soon."

Elma's voice sounded weaker and weaker. Kitty clasped the money; her
small fingers closed over it, her eyes grew bright, a flaming color rose
into each of her cheeks, and it was as if new life was put into her.

"How bad you look!" she cried; "but oh, how happy I am to have this
money! Never mind for a moment what you meant to do; I have it now, and
I forgive you with my whole heart. Let us go straight to the nearest
post office. I must get a postal order lor eight pounds immediately.
Come, Elma, come."

"But what do you mean? Why should I go with you?"

"Because you must--because I am not going to part with you--not yet.
Come, come at once. Oh, how dead tired you look! You are not to go back
to that dreadful little house of yours--not yet. Here is a nice-looking
restaurant. You just go straight in, and I'll go on to the post office
and send off the postal order to the dear old boy. He is saved now, and
I am saved; nothing--nothing else matters. Dear Elma, of course I
forgive you; pray don't look so miserable. I felt fit to die five
minutes ago, but now I am as well and jolly as possible. Here, Elma,
come into the restaurant and wait."

Kitty had clutched hold of Elma's arm, and now she dragged her into a
large, bright-looking restaurant, which they were just passing. The next
moment Elma found herself seated by a small marble table. Kitty was
ordering tea or something, Elma could not quite make out what, nor did
she care. Everything was dreamy and unreal to her.

"I'll be back in a minute, Elma," cried Kitty. Her flashing eyes smiled
as they glanced at Elma. Elma tried to smile back, but could not. The
next moment Kitty was out of the place. She was back again in less than
a quarter of an hour.

"I have done it," she cried, "and my heart is as light as a feather. I
have sent off the postal order to Laurie; he will be saved now. Oh, it
is so comforting; and we have a little over two pounds for ourselves."

"For ourselves--what do you mean?" said Elma.

"Why, of course, we'll divide it and have a jolly time. Aren't you going
to have your breakfast? I'm as hungry as a hawk."

As Kitty spoke she poured out a cup of tea, added milk to it, and pushed
it toward Elma. Elma drank it off, and when she had done so the confused
feeling in her head got a little better. Kitty then began to speak in a
low, excited whisper.

"Let us do something," she said. "Let us do something quite mad and
wild and jolly. We have got out of our scrape."

"You have; but I am in it up to my neck," said poor Elma. "Oh Kitty, I
am a miserable, wretched girl!"

"Never mind, you are going to be a jolly girl now, the jolliest girl in
the world. Do you think because I am happy again that I am going to
leave you to all this misery, particularly after that nice blunt,
determined Carrie of yours telling me that it was my fault, and that I
would repent it to my dying day? Look here, Elma, did you say that you
wanted to go back to Middleton School this morning?"

"I have to. I am to be exposed, you know."

"Not a bit of it. Neither you nor I will go to that hateful school; let
us run away."

"Run away? But I have run away and come back again."

"Let us do it over again."

"Kitty, what do you mean?"

"What I say. I have heaps of money; let us get back to Saltbury and enjoy
ourselves, Elma. Why can't we take the next train? No one will prevent
us; no one will guess where we are. We will have a nice time, a really
nice time. Say 'Yes,' Elma, won't you?"

"But would you really go with me?"

"Why not? I am the wild Irish girl, and you are the naughty English
girl; let us go off together."

"Well, it does sound tempting," said Elma, her eyes sparkling. "Kitty,
it is wonderful of you not to give me up."

"Oh, I am not the sort of girl to give up a friend when she is in
trouble. You have made it right for me, and the sun is shining again,
and I am as happy as the day is long. Elma, you must come."

"It does sound tempting--I wish my head did not ache so badly."

"It will be better when you get to the seaside."

"Perhaps so, and then I need not go to Middleton School."

"You need never go there again. Oh, don't waste any more time over
breakfast. We can eat when we get to Saltbury. I want to get off before
Alice and Carrie or any of them begin to miss us. Let us go to the
railway station; it is not far off."

Kitty's eager and impetuous words earned the day, and in a quarter of an
hour's time the girls found themselves speeding away to Saltbury.

"We have indeed burned our boats now," said Kitty, with a laugh; "we
have both run away. Now they have something really to scold us about;
but never mind. I never felt, more jolly in my life."

CHAPTER XXV.

KITTY "GO-BRAGH" (FOREVER).

But Kitty's happiness was very short-lived, for long before they got to
Saltbury Elma was really so ill that she could not hold up her head.
Kitty had never seen such severe illness before. She was not easily
frightened; she had plenty of pluck when a real emergency arose, and she
now determined to do her best for her companion.

"It is all the worry and the misery she has undergone," thought Kitty to
herself; "but now that my mind is at rest she will see what a good
friend I can be to her." When they got to Saltbury she immediately
ordered a cab, and desired the man to drive her to the nearest hotel.

"Oh, Kitty!" gasped poor Elma, "they won't take us in, because we have
no luggage, you know."

"I'll manage it," said Kitty; "no luggage--what does that matter?"

She followed Elma into the cab, and a few moments later the girls found
themselves at the door of a neat little inn facing the sea. Kitty jumped
out and went straight to the bar.

"I want a nice, quiet bedroom," she said, "with two beds in it."

"Certainly, miss," said the woman, glancing into Kitty's bright face.

"It must be a very quiet room," continued Kitty, "for my companion is
ill; she has a bad headache, and we must send for a doctor immediately."

"Yes, miss. I'll send the porter out to bring in your luggage."

"That's the annoying part," said Kitty; "we have no luggage."

The woman looked dubious, and turned to glance at a man who approached.

"Two young ladies want a room," she said in a low voice. "One of them is
ill, and--they have no luggage."

"Then in that case, miss, I am very sorry----" began the man.

But Kitty interrupted him.

"Don't say those words," she began. "I know exactly what you are going
to say, but please don't. We have no luggage, for we--we have run away
from school. There now, I have confided in you. Here's father's card. He
will be responsible for us. Please show us to your very best room
immediately."

As Kitty spoke she took a card out of her sealskin purse and handed it
to the woman.

"Dennis Malone, Castle Malone, County Donegal," was inscribed on the
small piece of pasteboard. It evidently had a good effect, but a still
greater effect was produced by the sparkling and lovely eyes of the
handsome girl who spoke in a tone of quiet assurance.

"Father will be so grateful to you for taking us in," she continued. "It
would be terrible, you know, if you allowed us to wander about the
streets. I am going to telegraph to him now, and he will arrive here, I
have no doubt, within the next twenty-four hours. I have not much money
with me," added Kitty frankly, "but father will bring plenty--plenty when
he arrives."

Again the man and woman whispered together, and now approving and
interesting glances turned in Kitty's direction. The woman presently
said:

"Very well, miss, we'll do our best for you. Will you follow me, miss?"

She took Kitty and Elma upstairs and showed them into the best room in
the house. In a very short time poor Elma found herself in bed, with
Kitty bending over her, kissing her now and then, and whispering kind
words in her ears.

"I have managed beautifully with the people of the hotel," whispered
Kitty. "And now, darling, you'll be made so comfortable. I am going to
make up to you for--for what Carrie said I did."

"But you did nothing; it was I who was bad, very bad," cried Elma.

"Oh, don't begin to get remorseful now, while you are ill. Wait, at
least until you are better. I have ordered some fruit and jelly and ice,
and I have asked the landlady--isn't she a dear--to send for the
doctor."

"It seems like a dream," said Elma. "Is it possible that everything has
changed so completely, and you--you, Kitty Malone--you to whom I have
acted so badly, are good to me?"

"Yes, yes, I mean to be good to you; but don't begin to fret about your
sins until you are better. Leave unpleasant things alone. Go to sleep,
Elma; go to sleep."

Kitty went out of the room and stood and reflected for a few moments on
the landing.

"Here's a state of things," Kitty said to herself; "but on the whole I
rather like it. I knew I should be good in emergencies; I felt that it
was in me. I am afraid poor Elma is going to be downright ill. I suppose
I did wrong to run away--perhaps I did; but I am so relieved about
Laurie that nothing else seems to matter now. I will telegraph
immediately to the dear old dad and ask him to come right away here at
once. When I see him and know that Laurie is really saved, I'll just
tell him everything. Oh, yes, that is the only--only thing to do."

Kitty went straight to the nearest post office, and in an incredibly
short space of time the following message was being carried across the
wires to Castle Malone:

"AT THE SIGN OF THE RED DOE, SALTBURY.--You will be surprised, father;
but I have run away from school. I will tell you everything when I see
you. I am here with a sick girl who has also run away. We have very
little money; and I, your Kitty, want you dreadfully. Come to me as
quickly as you can.

"KITTY MALONE."

"Bless him," said the girl to herself. "He may be angry for a minute,
but this message will bring him on the wings of the wind. Now that it
has gone off I wonder ought I to let them know at Middleton?"

Kitty reflected earnestly over this problem. She quickly, however, made
up her mind to keep her secret to herself.

"A little suspense will be rather good for Alice than otherwise," she
thought; "and although Mr and Mrs. Denvers may be anxious about me, they
can but telegraph to father; and as he will know my address already it
won't put him into a taking. Miss Sherrard too can bear it; and as to
Carrie, I am really sorry for poor old Carrie, and I should not much
mind having her here; but I think until father comes I will look after
Elma my lone self, as they say in Ireland."

Having made up her mind, Kitty went back to the hotel and asked the
landlady, with whom she was now great friends, to send for the best
doctor in the neighborhood.

Dr. Marchand arrived in the course of the morning, and pronounced Elma
to be ill, but not alarmingly so.

"Your young friend is suffering from considerable shock," he said, "and
has evidently also taken a severe cold; but with care and nursing she
will in all probability soon get relief--that is, if the strain from
which she is suffering is taken off her mind."

"Oh, I think I can manage that," answered Kitty, nodding to the doctor
in a very bright and frank way. Her dark-blue eyes were shining like
stars; the color in her cheeks, the set of her beautiful head on her
lovely neck, the very arrangement of her clothes fairly bewitched that
good man. He had seldom seen such sparkling eyes nor such a beautiful
dimpled mouth. Kitty's manner completely won Dr. Marchand over to her
side, as it had already done the good people at the hotel.

After getting innumerable directions from the doctor, she went
downstairs to consult with her land lady.

"Now, Mrs. Stacey," she said, "I must buy lots of things, and I wonder
if you can help me. I have telegraphed to father to come here; but until
he does I have only this much;" here she opened her purse and tumbled
the contents on to the landlady's palm.

Mrs. Stacey started back in some astonishment. Really this was a very
fascinating young lady; but she had never met anybody quite so--so out
of the common.

"You can reckon it up if you like," said Kitty; "you will see that it
does not come to two pounds. Now, do you know of a shop that would trust
me--give me credit, I mean--for some things?"

"What sort of things, miss?"

"Oh, clothes, and a couple of trunks. You see, we are not respectable
without trunks, are we?"

"Oh, yes, Miss Malone, you are."

"But do you know of such a shop? Please think very hard, Mrs. Stacey."

"Williamson's round the corner will oblige you to any extent, miss, if
you mention my name."

"Then I'll go there immediately. Thank you; how very nice you are!" said
Kitty.

"Of course I ought not to be nice to you, miss, for it ain't right--no,
that it ain't--to encourage runaways."

"When you know our story you will be quite glad you encouraged us,"
laughed Kitty.

"Then perhaps you'll confide in me, miss."

Kitty colored and thought for a moment.

"I think father must know it first," she said. "And now I must rush
away to get the things that poor Elma requires."

During the course of that day it could scarcely be said that Kitty
Malone was without luggage; for two new trunks presently made their
appearance, full to the brim with all sorts of dainty clothing both for
Elma and herself.

"Elma," she cried, dancing into the sick-room, "I have got two of the
most charming hats you ever laid eyes on. Mine is sweetly becoming to
me, and I am sure yours will suit you equally well; they are both big
white leghorns, with great bunches of black feathers in front. Won't
they look sweet with our new muslin dresses? Mine is pink, but I thought
blue would suit you best. I expect dad to-morrow evening at the latest;
and I am going to meet him at the station in my new hat and dress. There
will be no doubt about his forgiving me when he sees me in them."

Just then there was a tap at the door, and Kitty, rushing to open it,
found a telegram awaiting her. She tore it open and read the following
words:

"Starting from Dublin by the night-boat, with you to-morrow.--DENNIS
MALONE."

"There, didn't I say he was a darling--the best, best darling in the
world?" cried the excited girl. "Oh, won't he have a _caed mille
afaltha;_ won't he? Elma, I am almost beside myself."

"I don't know what you are talking about," said Elma. "What do you mean
by those queer words?"

"_Caed mille afaltha_? Oh, they are the Irish for a hundred thousand
welcomes. We put them over our arches and everything when people are
coming home. Oh, they don't speak a half nor a quarter of what our
hearts are full of. Oh father, father, the joy--the joy your poor little
Kitty feels at the thought of seeing your darling face again!"

That night again Kitty lay awake, although Elma slept. Strange thoughts,
strange and new, were coursing through the young girl's brain.
Everything had been a failure, and yet she felt bright and happy and
like her old self once more.

"It is the thought of seeing father," she said to herself. "I was never
fit for England. England and its ways will never suit me, never, never;
but when I see father I shall be all right. Oh, to think that he is
really coming, and that Laurie is saved! I must, of course, tell father
everything; but he won't be angry with Laurie when I tell him the story
in my own way."

Accordingly early the next morning Kitty dressed herself in the
fascinating leghorn hat and slipped on the pink muslin dress, and, with
a bunch of roses at her belt, sallied forth to the railway station. She
soon found the right platform, and paced up and down in a fever of
impatience waiting for the train. As she was doing so, flaunting her
pretty little person in a somewhat aggressive way and causing some
prim-looking ladies to gaze at her with anything but approval, a hand
was laid on her arm, and turning she saw, to her amazement, the
extremely indignant faces of Miss Sherrard and Miss Worrick.

"Well, Kitty, after this!" said Miss Sherrard,

"Oh, please don't scold me just now!" said Kitty, with a little gasp;
"wait until he comes."

"Until who comes?"

"Father. I am expecting him by this train."

"I am relieved at that," said Miss Sherrard. "I shall have a painful
tale to tell him."

"So you may, Miss Sherrard. You may tell him everything; but please let
me tell him my story first. You must, you shall; I insist."

The girl's eyes were flashing; she was trembling all over. Just when her
happiness seemed to be at its height, for Miss Sherrard and Miss Worrick
to appear!

"Oh, and there's the train!" she cried. "He will be here in a minute;
let me see him first. Oh, the train, is stopping, and there he is; I see
him at the very end; there he is with his white hair and--let me go, let
me go!"

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