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Wild Kitty by L. T. Meade

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




Maggie had never seen anything so captivating nor so ravishing. A wild
desire to make a toque like it to put on her own towzled locks on the
following Sunday caused her to stare so hard at Kitty with her mouth
wide open that she did not hear a word that young lady was saying.

"Are you in a dream?" asked Kitty Malone. "I want to see Miss Elma
Lewis. Is she at home?"

"Miss Helma? No, miss, that she ain't," replied Maggie. "Oh, I beg your
pardon, miss; but it's it's the bonnet at the top of your head."

"My bonnet?" said Kitty.

"Yes, miss. Oh, I do beg your pardon, miss--I was took all of a heap.
Yes, miss, I'm attending now. But oh, if you would just turn your head a
little."

"You must be mad," said Kitty. But her eyes began to sparkle.

"Do listen to me," she continued; "it's most important. Is Miss Elma not
at home?"

"No, miss; she's out for the day, and so is the missus and Miss Carrie.
They're all out a-pleasuring in their different ways, and they has left
me at home to drudge. I'm the household drudge, miss, and no wonder I'm
took with anything so pretty. Do you mind telling me, miss, if them
wiolets is real?"

"Oh, the violets in my toque--are those what you are staring at?" said
Kitty. "Well, now, I'll tell you what I'll do--I'll give you the whole
bunch if you'll let me come into the house and write a letter to Elma,
and if you'll further faithfully promise that you will give it to her
the instant she comes home."

"To be sure I will, miss. Come right along in. Oh, what a beautiful
young lady you is!"

"Every one tells me I am beautiful," thought Kitty. "It really is very
pleasant. I am more flattered here than I was in Ireland. People told me
there I had a face like cream and roses, or cream and strawberries, and
father used to say that I had washed it in the fairies' dew, and Laurie
would tell me that I was a bouncing girl and no mistake; but then Aunt
Honora was always saying: 'Kitty dear, beauty is only skin deep, and
don't be set up by it, child. Handsome is that handsome does, Kitty.'
Oh, how she would deave me with that old proverb. But here they seem to
think beauty is a talent, and I ought to be desperately proud of it. Oh,
faith, but why do I think of these things when my precious duck of a
Laurie is in the mess he has got into. He go to England to break his
heart, the darling! Not a bit of it; not while his Kitty has her wits
about her."

Meanwhile Maggie conducted this ravishing and welcome visitor into the
tiny sitting-room, furnished her with pen, ink, and paper, and then
began to hover about near the door in order to get another view of the
lovely cap.

Kitty bent her head over the sheet of paper and indited a letter in hot
and furious haste:

"DEAR ELMA: I am so sorry, but I must ask you to return that eight
pounds to me immediately. I want it for Laurie. He has got into trouble
and requires it; so don't keep me waiting a single minute if you can
help it. I am so sorry you are out; but will you bring it to me the
instant you return home? It is of the most vital importance. I am in
dreadful trouble, and nothing else will save Laurie. Yours in great
haste, KITTY MALONE."

Having written the letter, Kitty looked round for an envelope; Maggie
also searched to right and left, but could not find one.

"But it will be all right, miss," she said. "I'll lay it just as it is
flat out on the table, and Miss Helma will see it the moment she comes
in."

"Thank you," answered Kitty. "And now I must go. Be sure you give it to
her her the instant she returns, and tell her to come straight to me
with the money, for I must send it off to-night whatever happens. It is
a money transaction; and you understand, don't you? What is your name?"

"Maggie, miss."

"Well, you understand, Maggie, that any transaction connected with money
is very important."

"Like the Bank of England, miss?"

"Yes, to be sure, and--"

"Oh, miss, forgive me; but you promised me them wiolets."

"To be sure I did."

Kitty snatched them from her toque, flung them to Maggie, who caught
them in an ecstacy, and a moment later was running home as fast as she
could.




CHAPTER XI.

IN CARRIE'S BEDROOM.


Of the Lewis family the first who came home that special evening was
Carrie. She walked straight into the little sitting-room, where Kitty
Malone's letter lying on top of the blotter immediately attracted her
attention. It need not be said that she instantly read it, and not only
once but twice.

"Ha! ha! Elma, I have got you into my power at last," she said to
herself. "So that accounts for the money. Now, what did you borrow it
from that queer Irish girl for? But now that I know a thing or two. I
may be able to draw on you to a considerable extent. Return it! not
you--you are not likely to; but I think I'll be able to frighten you. I
shall certainly do my utmost."

It will be seen from these remarks that Carrie was by no means an
amiable girl. She ran up to her room, took off her hat, and surveyed
herself in the pale blue dress which had been purchased with some of
poor Kitty's money. She then returned to the sitting-room, and folding
up the letter, deliberately put it into her pocket. As she was doing so
Maggie came in to lay the tea.

"Oh lor! Miss Carrie," cried the maid-of-all-work as she spread the
not-too-clean cloth upon the table, "whatever 'as become of that bit of
writin' that was lyin' atop of the blotter here?"

"What bit of writing?" asked Carrie, turning calmly round and surveying
her.

"Oh, a letter miss; I don't know what was in it, but it was a money
transaction, as important as the Bank of England, and it was to be give
to Miss Helma the very instant she come 'ome. Didn't you see it, miss,
when you come in?"

"No, I didn't," said Carrie promptly. "I saw no letter of any kind.
Here's the blotter, there is nothing on it. It may have got between the
folds, however." She took up the thick pad of blotting-paper and shook
it, but no letter dropped out.

"There," she said. "I have not the least doubt that Fido jumped on the
table and took it up and ate it."

"Oh lor! miss, you don't think so?"

"I should not be surprised. Fido can never resist paper; he is always
pulling it about and chewing it."

Maggie looked frantically under the table for even stray pieces of the
letter, but she could not find any.

"If he had ate it," she said at last, fixing Carrie with a very
determined stare--"if he had ate it he would have left some bits about.
I don't believe it; I believe you 'as took it Miss Carrie. Oh, miss, for
shame; and it was as important as the Bank of England--a money
transaction, miss, what ought not to be trifled with. I can't read
writin', though I can read books fair enough; but the young lady was
awful put about."

"What young lady?" asked Carrie. "You had better tell me everything."

"Oh, it was that Irish young lady, Miss Malone. She come here with the
most beautiful 'at on (no, it was wot they calls a talk), and the
wiolets in it they might 'av growed, I could a'most smell 'em; and she
come in distracted like, and writ the letter, and told me I was to give
it to Miss Helma the very moment she returned, and that Miss Helma was
to take her the money to-night--what money is more than I can tell, for
I didn't think Miss Helma ever had any. And she said it was an important
transaction. And I said, 'Is it like the Bank of England, miss?' and she
said, 'Yes, to be sure.' Why, Miss Carrie, you have not gone and hid the
letter, 'ave you? That would be real mean of you."

"Look here," said Carrie; "what did you say about those violets?"

"Why, she gave 'em to me, miss; she took 'em out of her cap, and she
give 'em to me, and I was to give the letter to Miss Helma. It was a
fair and honest bargain, and I must keep my part of it miss."

"Would you like some roses to put with the violets?" said Carrie, making
a careful calculation.

"Roses, miss? That would be prime, and very seasonable, wouldn't they
miss?"

"Yes, violets and roses look very pretty together, and I'll pin them
into your hat and furbish it up. And, look here, Maggie, you can go out
with your young man on Sunday. I'll manage it--I can. I will stay at
home."

"Oh, Miss Carrie, you don't mean it?"

"Yes, I do. I'll manage it; but I'll do it only on a condition."

"What is that miss?"

"That you don't every ask me another question with regard to that
letter, and that you never, never on any account breathe a word of it to
Elma. If you do, why----"

"Oh, Miss, it don't seem fair."

Poor honest Maggie walked to the window and struggled for a few minutes
with her temptation. The thought, however, of roses to add to the
violets, the thought also of Joe, whom she dearly loved, to walk with
her on the following Sunday, proved far too seductive. She struggled
with her enemy for a few minutes, and then she fell once and for all.

"I'll have the roses, Miss Carrie. I can't resist them and the thought
of Joe on Sunday. Joe is so passionate loving, miss, I can't resist
'im." And then Maggie rushed out of the room.

She flew to her attic, threw herself by the side of her bed and burst
into sobs.

"But I oughtn't to 'ave done it," she said several times--"I oughtn't to
'ave done it. If it worn't for the roses and for Joe I'd 'ave stood up
to her; but as it is I was too tempted. But all the same I oughtn't to
have done it--no, I oughtn't to 'ave done it!"

Meanwhile Carrie up in her bedroom was thinking hard. Here indeed was a
revelation! So Elma possessed eight pounds, or nearly eight--for Carrie
knew that her blue dress, and the lobster, and the lettuces, and the
stout had not cost a great deal of that valuable sum of money.

"At the present moment," she concluded, making a careful computation in
her mind, for she was a smart enough girl in certain ways--"at the
present moment Elma must possess the sum of seven pounds or thereabouts."
What in the world did that Irish girl lend it to her for? What an utter
fool she must have been! But as to Elma's paying it back! as to Elma
getting rid of those riches--Carrie thought she saw her way of
preventing that. In order to do so, however, it was all-important that
Elma should not see poor Kitty's passionate little appeal to her; for
although Elma was anything but an amiable girl, Carrie was certain that
mere fright would make her return the money.

Carrie stayed some time in her room; she was thinking out a plan. How
could she prevent Elma returning the money to Kitty Malone? She
considered rapidly. Never before had she felt so full of energy and of
resource; it suddenly occurred to her as extremely unlikely that Elma
would carry about so much money on her person. Suppose she, Carrie, had
a thorough good hunt for it now on the spot. Suppose she found it, then
would it not be her duty, by taking possession of it, to guard Elma from
giving it away? Carrie made up her mind quickly; she determined to have
a search for the money at once. In the somewhat meagerly-furnished
bedroom there were not a great many hiding-places, and Carrie began her
search systematically. Elma and she had a little set of drawers each;
there were no locks to these drawers. With all her faults, Elma
absolutely trusted her own family. It never occurred to her even in her
worst moments that Carrie would examine her drawers; she also believed
that Maggie was perfectly honest.

Carrie now began to search. She opened Elma's drawers and looked
through them. Soon she found what she sought for. In the small
right-hand drawer at the top corner was a little parcel. It felt heavy.
Carrie opened it and there lay seven shining sovereigns. There were also
a couple of shillings and a few pence; but Carrie's eyes were
principally fixed upon the sovereigns. Bright and new they looked,
almost as if they had just come from the mint. Carrie danced a pirouette
there and then.

"I have found the treasure," she gasped. "Now I must take it where it
will be safe. I know what I'll do. I'll give it to Sam Raynes to keep
for Elma. It will be a nice excuse for seeing him again, and I'll tell
him it is money of my own, and ask him to bank it for me. He'll be ever
so pleased; he will think all the more of me if he supposes I am
wealthy. Yes, I'll take it to Sam; he shall keep it for me."

Flushed, excited, her heart beating high, Carrie once more pinned on her
hat. She ran downstairs. As she passed through the hall her mother was
letting herself in with a latchkey.

"My dear Carrie," she said, "you are not going out again at this hour of
night?"

"I shan't be long, mother. I am just going into Summer Terrace to see
the Raynes."

"I wish you would not go out so late, Carrie; it really isn't----"

But Carrie had slammed the door without even waiting for her parent's
last words. She soon reached the Terrace, which was within three
minutes' walk of her own house. Florrie Raynes let her in.

"My dear Carrie," she said, "what do you want? Oh, you naughty girl;
you knew Sam would be in."

"Well, I want to speak to him. Can I see him just for a moment?" gasped
Carrie, panting and breathless, pushing the hair from her forehead as
she spoke.

"Yes, come right in," said Florrie; "you need not apologize. He is only
having a cigar, and he'll be right pleased to see you."

As she spoke she opened the door of a small sitting-room and pushed
Carrie in, slamming it behind her. The echo of her rude laughter as she
performed this unladylike feat was heard down the passage.

Sam was seated in front of an open window smoking a cigar. When he saw
Carrie he removed it from his mouth and came forward in a somewhat
nonchalant way to meet her.

"Now, Car," he said, "what's up? Any news? Can we have a jolly time next
Sunday?"

"Yes," answered Carrie panting slightly, "and for as many other Sundays
as you like. See here, Sam, I cannot wait a minute now. You know you
once told me that I was a frivolous little thing, that I was
extravagant, and all that. Now, what will you say if I ask you to put
seven pounds in the bank for me?"

"Seven pounds!" cried Sam; "'pon my word! Where in the world did you get
it, Car?"

"It's out of my savings," replied Carrie.

"Well, I must say--" Sam gave her a look of the broadest admiration he
had ever yet bestowed upon her. "You can bank it for me, can you not?"

"Yes, that I can. But I say, Car, would you like me to speculate with
it? I might double it, you know."

"Oh, do what you like with it, only keep it safe," answered Carrie. "I
shall want to draw a little of it from time to time. Now, good-by, Sam.
I can't wait another moment."

She laid the money on the table. Sam's large and somewhat fat hand
closed greedily over it, and the next moment it was conveyed to his
waistcoat pocket.

"This will come in very handy for myself," he muttered; but Carrie did
not hear the words--she ran home breathless and excited. She thought she
had managed splendidly.




CHAPTER XII.

THE "SPOTTED LEOPARD."


Kitty was miserable that night. An Irish girl has always her ups and
downs. She is either up in the seventh heaven of bliss, or she is down
almost below the ordinary earth in misery. Kitty was suffering from an
intense revulsion of spirits. Laurie was in trouble. He was the best
brother in all the world; he was Kitty's idol. There never was anybody
more reckless, more passionate, more dare-devil than Laurie Malone; and
Kitty had always been with him heart and soul, always from the time that
they had been little tots together. And now Laurie was in danger. The
best broth of a boy might be condemned to go to a school in England; he
might be condemned to the misery, the want of freedom, which she was now
enduring. Oh, she must save him at any risk. She could do so. She could
send him ten pounds; she would have exactly that sum in her possession
if only Elma returned the eight which she had lent her. It did not occur
to Kitty as at all difficult for Elma to return the money. She had never
yet know money difficulties herself; and when Elma had asked for the
loan of it she imagined that she could have it back at any time. If this
was not the case it would not greatly matter; but now, of course,
Laurie's letter altered the complexion of everything.

Kitty was too unsettled and anxious to stay quiet for a single moment.
She fidgeted Alice, who was busily engaged preparing her lessons for the
following day.

"Kitty," she said, when that erratic young person had jumped up to lean
her body half out of the window for the twentieth time, "if you cannot
sit still yourself, you ought to have some thought for me. What am I to
do if you keep rushing to the window and back again to your seat every
couple of minutes?"

"I am looking for Elma," said Kitty.

"For Elma Lewis? Do you expect her to-night?"

"Yes, and on a matter of vital importance. Oh, don't talk to me please,
Alice. If she doesn't come soon, I believe my heart will burst."

"That is exactly like one of your exaggerated statements," said Alice.
"People's hearts don't burst. Oh, if you only would stay quiet."

"I believe that's herself turning round the corner," cried Kitty,
bending out so far now that it was a wonder she was not overbalanced.

"Really, Kitty, you make my heart stand still," said Alice. "You will
fall out if you are not careful. Oh, for goodness' sake, don't stoop out
any further."

"It's not her," said Kitty, popping in her head. "I was only stooping
far enough to catch a glimpse of her boots. Elma always wears such
horrid shabby boots; and her feet are too large. By the way, Alice, what
do you think of these shoes; do you like them with straps across, and
little rosettes?"

"I don't like anything in the way of dress at the present moment," said
Alice. "I want quiet and peace. It is impossible for me to do anything
while you fidget as you do."

Kitty jumped with a bang into the nearest chair; opened a novel, and
tried to read it upside down.

"If she isn't in time I won't be able to send the letter to-night and
then--Alice, do you mind my interrupting you for a moment? What time
does the last post go?"

"The pillar outside the gate is cleared at twelve," said Alice.

"It is only nine now. You don't happen to be able to tell me when a
letter, cleared at twelve, would reach Castle Malone?"

"I cannot tell you. Forgive me, Kitty, I cannot stay in the room any
longer. I am going to our bedroom."

Alice gathered up her books, and swept out of tho room. When she reached
the bedroom she shut and locked the door.

Kitty was now left alone in the drawing-room, for Mr. and Mrs. Denvers
were spending the evening out. She was glad of this, as she could lean
as far out of the window as she dared, and there was no one to shout at
her. She could also pace up and down the room, which she presently did
with the rapidity and eagerness of a young tigress.

Oh, to be back again at Castle Malone! What was Laurie doing now?
Suppose Paddy Wheel-about really told her father about Laurie!

Squire Malone was extremely kind to Kitty; there was no saying what he
would not do for Kitty were she in trouble; but Laurie and Pat were
different matters. He had fits of severity-with them--only fits, mind
you; for he was too Irish in his character, too generous-hearted, ever
to keep his anger long; but in these fits he often made strange
resolves, and when these resolves were made, as a rule, he carried them
out. He was too proud to change his mind. If once he decided that the
boys were to go to school to England, to school they must go--to
"prison," Kitty termed it. Tears rose in her bright eyes, they rolled
down her cheeks. Oh, why was not Elma in time? How dreadful, how
dreadful if she (Kitty) missed the twelve-o'clock post! She was in this
state of fret and worry, when Fred entered the room. Fred hated all
girls, with the exception of Kitty Malone. He could not be said by this
time to hate her, for he admired her very much indeed. The moment she
saw him she called out to him to come in.

"Ah, then, Fred, it is you. Come along in," she cried; "you'll be a
drain of a comfort--not much, but still a drain. Oh, Fred, it's I who am
in the trouble entirely. You wouldn't think it to look at me, but I am."

"Dear me, Kitty I am sorry," said Fred. "What's up? Has Alice been
teasing you as usual?"

"Oh, bother Alice! as if I minded her little pinpricks. It's that
darling Laurie in Ireland. He has got into trouble, the broth of a boy
that he is."

She then related what had occurred in connection with Paddy
Wheel-about's coat.

"And the poor old coat is in the bottom of the lake," she added, "and
the lake is feet deep in mud just at the bottom, and anything that falls
with a weight into it would sink and sink. Oh, they will never find the
coat till the day of judgment, and it full of beautiful money! And Paddy
Wheel-about has lost the little grain of sense he ever possessed, and
Laurie will be sent to one of those prisons."

"To prison?" cried Fred; "but surely your father--"

"Oh, I mean a school--it's all the same. Don't interrupt me, Fred. When
my mind is full I must rattle off the speech somehow."

"And he wants you to send him ten pounds?"

"Yes."

"And have you got ten pounds to send him?"

"To be sure I have--I have ten pounds ten. I am an awful girl for
spending money. I bought a whole pound's worth of chocolate yesterday. I
only wish I had the money now instead; but poor little Agnes Moore and
the other girls in my class, they do love chocolate, and they quite seem
to fatten them. I bought the chocolates, and I have got ten shillings in
my pocket."

"But you showed me a whole purseful of gold the other day," said Fred.

"Well, it's gone, Fred, and it isn't gone; but I know who could help me
to find it if I could catch a sight of her."

"And who is that?" asked Fred.

"Elma Lewis."

"Elma Lewis! Do you like her?"

"I can't say that I like her--no I don't think I do; but she would help
me, if I could only get to see her."

"Then, do you want me to go to her house and tell her so?"

"Why, Fred, that's a splendid idea. You are a jewel, a darling, a duck!
Let me fetch my hat, and you and I will go together."

"But I don't know my lessons yet. It is that beastly German. I have
pages to translate. It is such rot."

"Oh, what does the German matter? Think of the misery poor Laurie is in.
Just stay where you are, Fred; I'll be back in a minute."

Kitty dashed upstairs, two or three steps at a time, and thundered a
loud tattoo on the locked door of Alice's bedroom.

"You cannot come in, whoever you are," cried Alice from within.

"Yes, but I must, Alice, aroon; let me in, jewel that you are. I want my
hat, and gloves and jacket, nothing else. Do, for goodness' sake, let me
in, Alice, asthore!"

But Alice was obdurate. Once let Kitty in, she would never be able to
get rid of her again, and her lessons must be learned. They were
specially difficult and required all her attention.

"Then if you won't," cried Kitty, whose quick temper was beginning to
rise, "at least fling the things out of the window."

"You know you must not go out at this hour."

"If you won't give them to me," said Kitty, "I'll go without them."

"You are not to have them; you are not to go out. It isn't right,"
called Alice, who felt strong in the cause of virtue.

Kitty rattled violently on the handle for a moment longer, and then
rushed downstairs again to where Fred was waiting.

"I can't get my hat," she said; "but it doesn't matter. I'll go as I
am."

Now Kitty's dress was more picturesque than suitable. She had on a
crimson blouse and a skirt bedizened with many ribbons and frills. The
blouse had only elbow sleeves and was cut rather low in the neck.
Nothing could be more becoming to the dancing eyes, the rose-bloom
cheeks, the head of dark hair.

"Lend me a cap of yours, Fred, there's a darling," called Kitty, "and
we'll be off. Alice is in one of her tantrums, and she won't let me into
our room nor give me my hat and jacket. If your mother were there it
would be all right."

Fred only thought that Kitty looked remarkably pretty. It did not occur
to him as at all queer that she should want to walk a couple of miles in
this erratic dress. He went downstairs, accommodated her with a small
cap which bore the college coat of arms in front, and the two were soon
hurrying along the roads at a rapid rate in the direction of Elma's
house.

There were two ways to Elma's home. One way was by crossing a wide
common, cutting off a certain corner, walking down a by-street, and so,
by a series of short cuts, reaching Constantine Road. By the other and
slightly longer way you had to pass an open thoroughfare in the center
of which blazed, with its shining lights and its gay exterior, a large
public-house called the "Spotted Leopard." Now the "Spotted Leopard" was
by no means a nice place to pass at night. Men considerably the worse
for drink were apt to linger about the doors. Gossiping and idle fellows
would congregate just by this special corner, ready to take up any bit
of fun or nonsense which might be coming, meaning no special mischief,
but being decidedly disagreeable to meet at night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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