Wild Kitty
by L. T. Meade · English · Gutenberg #9986 · 479,892 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Wild Kitty
Author: L. T. Meade
Release date: February 1, 2006 [eBook #9986]
Most recently updated: December 27, 2020
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9986
Credits: Produced by Kevin Handy, Dave Maddock, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WILD KITTY ***
Produced by Kevin Handy, Dave Maddock, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
WILD KITTY.
BY L. T. MEADE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. Bessie, Alice, Gwin, and Elma
CHAPTER II. The Blarney Stone
CHAPTER III. Is that the Girl?
CHAPTER IV. Tiffs all Round
CHAPTER V. Incorrigible Kitty
CHAPTER VI. The Tug-of-War
CHAPTER VII. Elma
CHAPTER VIII. The Little House in Constantine Road
CHAPTER IX. The Head Mistress and the Cabbage-Rose
CHAPTER X. Paddy Wheel-About
CHAPTER XI. In Carrie's Bedroom
CHAPTER XII. The "Spotted Leopard"
CHAPTER XIII. Coventry
CHAPTER XIV. The Lost Packet
CHAPTER XV. Gwin Harley's Scheme
CHAPTER XVI. Paddy Wheel-About's Old Coat
CHAPTER XVII. "We Are Both in the Same Boat"
CHAPTER XVIII. "I Cannot Help You"
CHAPTER XIX. Kitty Tells the Truth
CHAPTER XX. An Eye-Opener
CHAPTER XXI. The Lady from Buckinghamshire
CHAPTER XXII. Stunned and Cold
CHAPTER XXIII. Stars and Moon, and God Behind
CHAPTER XXIV. Sunshine Again
CHAPTER XXV. Kitty "Go-Bragh" (Forever)
CHAPTER I.
BESSIE, ALICE, GWIN, ELMA.
Bessie! Bessie!
"Yes, mother," replied Bessie Challoner. "You'll be late for school,
child, if you are not quick."
"Bessie!" shouted her father at the top of his voice from below stairs.
"Bessie; late as usual."
"I am really going, father; I am just ready," was the eager reply.
Bessie caught up her sailor hat, shoved it carelessly over her mass of
thick hair, and searched frantically round her untidy bedroom for the
string bag which contained her schoolbooks.
"Oh, Bessie, you'll get into a scrape," said Judy, one of her younger
sisters, dancing into the room. "Why, you are late. I hear the
schoolbell ringing; it will stop in a moment."
"Don't worry me, Judy," cried Bessie. "Do you know where my bag is?"
Judy ran into the middle of the room, turned round, and began to laugh
ecstatically. "Do you know where it is, you little good-for-nothing?
Have you put it hiding?"
"Yes, yes, yes," screamed the child, jumping up and down in her joy.
"Then, if you don't give it to me at once, I'll--"
But Judy had dodged her and was out of the room. Up to the attic flew
the child, and after her dashed Bessie. The bag was found in the corner
of the linen-cupboard. Bessie aimed a frenzied blow at Judy, who once
again dodged her, then the schoolgirl ran downstairs and was out of the
house.
"Bessie, for shame!" said her brother, who was standing smoking his
cigarette in a very lazy manner in the garden. "Why, you'll never get
full marks."
"Don't," said Bessie. "I feel quite hunted between you all."
She had got on the highroad now, and could walk away in peace. She was a
tall girl, somewhat bony-looking at present, with a face which showed
abundance of intellect, large dreamy eyes, a wide mouth, a flat nose, a
long chin. Bessie was certainly not at all a pretty girl; but,
notwithstanding this fact, there were few of all the pupils at Middleton
School who approached her in popularity. She was clever without being a
scrap conceited, and was extremely good-natured, doing her work for the
pleasure of doing it and not because she wanted to outstrip a
schoolfellow. She was conscientious too, and would have scorned to do a
mean or shabby thing; but she was hopelessly untidy, careless to a
fault, late for school half her days, getting into countless scrapes and
getting out of them as best she could--the butt of her class as well as
the favorite, always true to herself and indifferent to the censures or
the praise of her fellow-creatures.
"Well, Bess, is that you? Do wait for me," called out a panting voice
in the distance.
Late as she was, Bessie stopped. It was never her way to leave a
fellow-creature in the lurch.
A girl with dancing eyes and rosy cheeks came panting and puffing round
the corner.
"I just caught a sight of the red ribbon with which you tie your hair,"
she said. "I am so glad you are late; I am too, and I am quite ashamed
of myself."
"Why in the world should you be ashamed of yourself, Alice?" asked
Bessie. "I don't suppose you meant to be late."
"Of course not; but I shall lose my mark for punctuality; and you know,
Bessie, I am feverishly anxious to get a move, and to--to win the
scholarship at the midsummer break-up."
Bessie yawned slightly.
"Come on, Alice," she said; "I am disgracefully late as usual, and we
need not make matters worse. I suppose we must wait in the hall now
until prayers are over."
"It's too bad," said Alice. "I'll tell you afterward how it happened,
Bessie. I am glad you waited for me. They always scold you so much for
being late that they will not take so much notice of me. May I slip into
my place in form behind you?"
"If you like," said, Bessie.
They entered the great schoolhouse, turned down a long corridor,
deposited their hats and jackets on the pegs provided for the purpose,
and went into the schoolroom just when the pupils were filing into their
different classes.
Both girls had marks against their names for unpunctuality. Alice
frowned and fidgeted, turned scarlet, glanced nervously at her
fellow-pupils, but Bessie took the matter with her wonted calm. Soon she
forgot all about it. She became absorbed in her different studies, each
one of which she had prepared with extreme attention. As she answered
question after question her great, full, dreamy eyes seemed to lighten
with hidden fire, her face lost its plainness, the intellect in it
transformed it. One or two other girls in the class watched her with a
slight degree of envy.
Bessie was very high up in the school. As usual she quickly rose to the
head of the form; this position she kept without the slightest
difficulty during lesson after lesson.
Alice, muddled already by that mark for unpunctuality, got through her
work badly; as Bessie rose in the class Alice went down. At the end of
the morning's work the two girls were far as the poles asunder.
"I can't think how you do it," said Alice, coming up to Bessie during
recess, and linking her hand through her arm. "You never seem to mind
disgrace at all."
"Of course I mind disgrace," answered Bessie. "Come out into the
playground, won't you Alice? We can't talk in here."
They went out and began pacing up and down the wide quadrangle devoted
to the purpose. Other girls passed them two and two, each girl talking
to her special companion.
"How very handsome Gwin Harley looks this morning," said Alice, pausing
in her grumbling to gaze at a slender and lovely girl who passed them,
walking with another dark-eyed, somewhat plain girl of the name of Elma
Lewis.
"I wish she was not such friends with Elma," said Bessie. "I like Gwin
very much indeed; I suppose every one in the school does."
"Catch Elma not making up to her," said Alice. "Why, you know Gwin is as
rich as ever she can be; she has a pony-carriage of her own. I cannot
make out why she comes to Middleton School."
"Because it is the best school in the neighborhood," said Bessie
somewhat proudly. "It is not a question of money, nor of anything but
simply of learning; we learn better at Middleton School than anywhere
else; there are better teachers and--"
"But such a rum lot of girls," said Alice. "Of course we all go in sets,
and our set is quite the nicest in the school; but all the same, I
wonder a rich man like Mr. Harley allows Gwin to come here."
Gwin and Elma drew up at that moment in front of the other two.
"Bessie," said Gwin, "I saw you carrying everything before you this
morning. But," she added hastily, "that is neither here nor there. I
shall never be a great learned genius like you, but I shall admire
geniuses all the same. Now, I want to say that Elma is coming to tea
with me this afternoon, and will you both come as well? We have a good
deal to talk over."
Bessie's face lightened.
"I should like it very much indeed," she said; "but you know I must get
through my studies first."
"Oh, you won't take long over them."
"Yes, but I shall," answered Bessie; "there is a very stiff piece of
German to translate this afternoon. I can manage French and mathematics
of course, and--"
"Oh, don't begin to rehearse your different studies," said Gwin, holding
up her hand in a warning attitude. "I don't care in the least what you
learn, Bessie; I want you to come. Because," she added, "you are such an
honest creature."
"Why should not I be honest?" said Bessie, opening her eyes wide. "I
have never had any temptation to be anything else."
"My dear Bessie, you are too painfully matter-of-fact," said Elma. "Gwin
meant that your nature is transparent--it is a beautiful trait in any
character."
"Well, Bessie, will you come or will you not?" interrupted Gwin.
"Yes, I'll come. I'll manage it somehow," said Bessie. I can't resist
the temptation."
"And you too, Alice?" said Gwin, turning to Alice Denvers, who was
watching Bessie with envious eyes.
"I don't suppose mother will let me. I am ever so vexed," said Alice.
"But why not, dear; you have nothing special to do to-day?"
"Well, I had a bad mark for unpunctuality, and--"
"What does that signify?"
"But listen; I have gone down several places in class. Father and mother
are so particular; they seem to think my whole future life depends upon
my position in school. Of course I know we are not very rich, like
you--" Here she flushed and hesitated.
Gwin Harley flushed also.
"When you talk like that," she said, "I feel quite ashamed of being well
off. I often long to be poor like--like dear little Elma here." As she
spoke she patted her somewhat squat little companion on her arm. "But
never mind, girls; I am not one of those who intend to throw away all my
money; that is one reason why I want to have a good talk this afternoon.
You must come, Alice; you simply must."
"But there is another reason," said Alice. "Kitty Malone is coming
to-day."
"Kitty Malone! Who in the name of fortune is she?"
"Oh, a wild Irish girl."
"Truly wild, I should think, with that name. 'Kitty Malone, ohone!' I
seem to hear the refrain somewhere now. Isn't there a song called 'Kitty
Malone'?"
"There is a song called 'The Widow Malone,'" said Bessie; "don't you
know it? You read all about it in 'Harry Lorrequer.'"
"But who is Kitty Malone, Alice?"
"I say a wild Irish girl."
"And what has she got to do with you?"
"She is coming to board with us. She is going to join the school, and
mother is to have the charge of her. A precious bore I shall find it."
"When did you say she was coming?" asked Gwin eagerly.
"I expect she is at home by now; she was to arrive this morning."
"Delightful!" said Gwin, clapping her hands, "she shall come too. I want
beyond anything to become acquainted with a real aborigine, and of
course any girl called Kitty Malone hailing from the sister-isle must
belong to that species. Bring the wild Irish girl with you by all means,
Alice; and now, as you have no manner of excuse, I'll say ta-ta for the
present." She kissed her pretty hand lightly to the two girls, and went
on her way, once more accompanied by her faithful satellite, Elma.
"Isn't she fascinating?" said Alice; "aren't you quite in love with her,
Bessie?"
"Dear me, no," answered Bessie Challoner. "I never fall in love in that
sort of headlong fashion; but all the same," she added, "I admire Gwin
very much, only I do wish she would not take up with Elma."
"So do I," said Alice.
"It was very kind of her to ask us," continued Bessie, "and I for one
shall be delighted to go. I have not the least doubt that in a big house
of that sort they have 'Household Encyclopædia,' and I want to look up
the article on magnetic iron ore."
"Oh, what in the world for?" cried Alice.
"I am interested in magnets, and--but there, Alice why should I worry
you with the sort of things that delight me. I am going, and that is all
right. You will be sure to come too; won't you Alice?"
"Yes, I must manage it somehow; and as Gwin has asked Kitty Malone it
won't make it quite so difficult. I know mother would not let me leave
Kitty this afternoon, for it is, from the money point of view, a great
thing for us her coming. Her people are quite well off, although they
are Irish. They live in an old castle on the coast of Donegal, and Kitty
has never been out of the country in which she was born. They are paying
mother very well to receive her, and mother is ever so pleased. Of
course it's horrid for me for she will be my companion morning, noon,
and night; we are even to sleep in the same room. It was that that made
me late for school this morning, and got me that horrid, horrid mark for
unpunctuality."
"But why? I don't understand," said Bessie.
"Well, you see, I put it off until the last minute. I know it was all my
fault; but I would not empty the cupboard in the corner of the room,
although mother told me to do so at intervals for the past week. Well,
mother came in this morning and found it choke full--you know the sort
of thing, full to bursting, so that the door wouldn't shut--and she said
that I should empty it before I went to school. I told her I should be
late, and mother said it was a just punishment for me. Didn't I bless
Kitty Malone! But of course I set to work, and I scrambled out the
things somehow. Of course I am in hot water, and father is so terribly
particular; but I will try and come. Yes, I'll try and come, and I'll
bring Kitty."
"Very well; if you are going we may as well go together," said Bessie.
"Gwin never mentioned the hour she had tea; but I suppose if we are at
Harley Grove by five o'clock it will do."
"Yes, I should think so," said Alice in a dubious voice. "It is a pity
she did not mention the hour. There she is still hobnobbing with Elma.
I'll just run across the quadrangle and ask her."
Alice left her companion, obtained the necessary information from Gwin,
and came back again. "She says if we are with her sharp at five it will
do quite well, and we are to stay until nine o'clock, then we can all go
home together."
"Delicious!" said Bessie. "I love being out late. I hope there will be a
moon, and that there won't be many clouds in the sky, for I want to
examine the position of some of the planets. Did I tell you, Alice, that
Uncle John has a telescope through which I can see the asteroids?"
"What on earth are they?" cried Alice, yawning as she spoke.
"Oh, the very small planets."
"Then, my dear, I hope you will see them. But really, Bessie, I can't
run round nature as you do--your intellect is quite overpowering; one
moment you want to get up information with regard to magnetic iron ore,
and the next you confound me with some awful observation about
asteroids. Good-by, Bessie; good-by. I shall be late for dinner, and
then no chance of going to the fair Gwin's this afternoon."
"Well, if you do go, call for me," shouted Bessie after her; "I'll wait
for you until half-past four, then I'll start off by myself."
"Yes, yes, I'll come if I can, and bring Kitty also if I can."
"Be sure you don't fail. I'll look out for you."
Alice put wings to her feet and set off running down the dusty road, and
Bessie more soberly returned home.
CHAPTER II.
THE BLARNEY STONE.
Alice's home was nearly half a mile from the school. It was a big,
commonplace suburban house standing at a corner. It had a small garden
in front and a larger one at the back; but neither at front nor back
were the gardens tidily kept. They were downtrodden by the constant
pressure of many feet, and were further ornamented at intervals by sheds
and kennels, for Fred and Philip Denvers were devoted to all sorts of
pets; there was also a rabbit-run at one end, and a little railed-off
place where Mrs. Denvers tried to keep fowls.
Alice at intervals had sighed for a tennis lawn; but whenever she dared
to mention the idea she was hooted by her big brothers, who did not want
the garden to be made in the least bit, as they expressed it,
ornamental.
"But tennis isn't ornamental!" said Alice.
"Beastly game," remarked Fred. "Only meant for girls; just to give them
an opportunity of hobnobbing together, and talking gossip, and making up
mischief."
"You talk in the most ridiculous, unfair way," said Alice in
indignation; but she did not dare to mention the subject of the tennis
court again, and the boys still continued to build fresh sheds and
introduce new animals.
On this occasion, as Alice walked up to the house, she was met by Fred,
who ran out to meet her in some excitement.
"I say, Alice," he cried, "she's come, and she is a rum 'un!"
"Who has come?" asked Alice; "not--not Kitty Malone?"
"No one else, at your service, Kitty Malone, ohone!" cried Fred. "And
oh! isn't she Irish! You come along and see her. I never saw anything
like her before."
"Why, Fred, I didn't think you cared for girls."
"Nor do I as a rule, but this one--oh! I say she is a jolly sort. Why
she's been down in the kitchen and up in the attics--she knows every one
in the house already; and do you know what she is doing now--sitting in
the drawing-room with the window wide open, grinning down at you, and
she has got Pointer in her arms. You know Pointer, dirty old
fellow!--well, she caught him up the moment she came in, and insisted on
bringing him upstairs, and he has taken to her as if he had known her
ever since he was a puppy. Mean of him, isn't it; but I declare I don't
blame him. Oh! there you are, Kitty Malone." Fred raised his laughing
face to encounter another as laughing, a face at that moment grinning
from ear to ear.
"Are you Alice?" called a voice. "Are you the one I am to sleep with?
Just say, call out loud; don't mind if you shout, because I'm accustomed
to that sort of thing."
"Is this Kitty Malone?" thought Alice. She liked frank, jolly girls;
but she was not quite prepared for Kitty.
She entered the house, flung down her bag of books, and ran upstairs to
the drawing-room. The next moment she found herself in the firm embrace
of a girl a little taller than herself, a slim, very pretty, very
untidy, very overdressed girl.
"Here I am and welcome to yourself," said Kitty. "I was so vexed you
were not here to greet me; but bless you, my dear, I'm quite
comfortable. No, I'm not a bit tired--you haven't asked me, by the way,
but I suppose you mean to. I had a spiffin' journey. Sick! not I. I'm
never seasick, and I enjoyed the train. I made friends with such a dear
old gentleman and with two boys. I nearly kissed the boys when I was
leaving them, but I didn't quite. Is that you, Fred? Come along in now
and let us be jolly together. Why, Alice, how stiff you are; you have
not opened your lips yet."
"I have not had an opportunity," answered Alice. "You do talk such a
lot, Kitty."
"Do I? I expect we all do in Old Ireland. Bless her! she's a dear old
country, and I'm as sorry as anybody to say good-by to her. But, all the
same, I am glad to see England (poky, stiff sort of place it seems). Say
now, Alice, do you like my dress? It was made in Dublin; it's the height
of the fashion I am told."
"It's very showy," said Alice.
"Do you think so? Well, you are plainly dressed; nothing but that brown
merino. And--my dear, I thought they were always dressed up to the nines
near London. This place is near London, isn't it?"
"Yes, a few miles off. Oh, of course your dress is very nice; but now I
must get ready for dinner."
"Oh! and ain't I peckish?" said Kitty, clapping her hands and winking
broadly at Fred.
Alice turned to leave the room.
"We may as well go together," said Kitty, following her and slipping her
hand through her arm. "Do you know," she said, "when I first came to the
house I could scarcely breathe. Why, it's nothing but a nutshell. I
never saw such a deeny dawn of a place in the whole course of my life.
How many of you live here?"
"Father and mother, and the two boys and I," answered Alice.
"And you are the only girl?"
"Yes."
"Now come to the window and let me have a good squint at you." As Kitty
spoke she dragged Alice forward, put her facing the light, and stood
herself with her back to it. She began to make a careful scrutiny,
calling out her remarks aloud: "Eyes passable, forehead so-so, mouth
pretty well, complexion not bad for England, hair--"
"Oh, I say, Kitty, I can't quite stand this," said Alice. "Are those
your manners in Ireland? What a wild country it must be!"
"Dear, darling, jolly old place!" said Kitty, dancing up and down.
"And you really give me to understand that people make remarks on one
another in that sort of fashion?" said Alice, darting away from her
companion and pouring some water into a basin to wash her hands.
"Well, yes, love, they do when they like, and they don't when they
don't like. We are free and easy folk, I can tell you, and we have a gay
time. I'll tell you all about father and the old castle, and the dogs,
and the cows, and the cats, and the rabbits, and the mice when we have a
spare moment. That brother of yours, Fred, is not half a bad old chap;
and I saw a nice, curly-headed little gossoon coming in just now with
his books under his arm. What's his name?"
"Oh, you mean Philip. Yes, he's the youngest; he's well enough if you
don't spoil him, Kitty."
"I won't spoil him, bless his heart," said Kitty; "but of course I'll
make friends with him. I couldn't live without boys. There are two at
home, Pat and Laurence; and, oh! I shall miss Laurie, dear old chap! I
must not think of him." Kitty's face underwent a swift change, the
brightness went out of it just as if a heavy cloud had swept away the
sun; the big, very handsome dark-blue eyes, so dark as to be almost
black, grew full of sudden tears; the exquisitely curved lips trembled;
she turned her head aside and looked out of the window.
At that moment it seemed to Alice that she saw beneath Kitty's wild,
eccentric manners a heart of gold. She only caught a glimpse of it, for
the next moment the girl was chatting away in the most light, frivolous,
extraordinary style. The dinner-bell sounded through the house, and the
pair went down to dinner.
"I'd like to sit near you, please, Mr. Denvers," said Kitty.
Philip's place was always near his father; this had been a custom ever
since he had been a baby. Kitty now ensconced herself in the little
boy's chair.
"Am I taking anybody's seat?" she asked, looking up.
"Only mine," said Phil.
"Never mind, little gossoon; you shall have it to-morrow. I want to sit
near Mr. Denvers because I expect he can tell me a good many things I
don't understand."
"You must allow me to eat my dinner, Miss Malone. You see I have a good
deal of carving to do, and besides I am a busy man," said Mr. Denvers in
a good-humored voice, for it was difficult to resist the roguish glances
of Kitty's eyes, and the sort of affectionate way in which she cuddled
up to her host's side.
"Oh, I won't talk _over_ much," she said, glancing with her flashing
eyes round at the entire party. "But you see I am quite a stranger; and,
oh my! the place does seem lonely. You are all so stiff, I cannot quite
understand it. Is it the English fashion, please, Mr. Denvers?"
"Well, you see," answered Mrs. Denvers from the other end of the table,
"we don't know you yet."
"But I am sure all the same we shall be very good friends," said Mr.
Denvers. "May I give you a glass of wine?"
"Wine! Bless you, I'm a teetotaller," said Kitty. "Why, it isn't habits
of intoxication you'll be putting into me. I never take anything but
water, or milk when I can get it; and it isn't Miss Malone you're going
to call me is it, for if it is I tell you frankly that I'll die
entirely. I must be Kitty from this moment, or Kitty Malone, or anything
of that sort, but Kitty something it must be. Now, is it settled fair
and square, Kitty shall I be? Here's my hand on my heart; I'll die if
I'm called Miss Malone!"
Fred burst into roars of laughter.
"I say," he cried, "what an extraordinary girl you are!"
"Well, and so are you an extraordinary boy," said Kitty. "Oh, dear me, I
am hungry! Do you mind handing me over the potatoes? Why, you don't mean
to say you peel 'em. I never heard of such a thing! Why don't you have
them in their jackets?"
"Potatoes are generally mashed or peeled or something of that sort in
England," said Mr. Denvers. "I see, Kitty--" he added.
"Ah! bless you now for calling me that! What is it you want to say, dear
Mr. Denvers?"
"I see we shall have a good deal to teach you," he said, and then he too
burst into a fit of laughter, and so the merry, somewhat rollicking meal
proceeded.
Alice alone would not succumb to the fascinations of the Irish maiden.
She sat holding herself somewhat stiff, feeling a good deal disgusted,
wondering what Bessie Challoner would say, what Gwin Harley would think,
anticipating in advance Elma's sneers.
Kitty, however, subjugated Mr. and Mrs. Denvers and the two boys
completely. As to Pointer, he would not leave her side; as her long,
white, taper fingers touched the top of his grizzled head, he looked at
her with eyes of unutterable love.
"What have you done to the dog?" said Fred at last. He felt almost
afraid, in his great admiration of the bewitching stranger.
"Only given him a taste of blarney," was the reply. "Tell me now, Fred,
were you ever in Ireland?"
"No," answered Fred.
"Ah! I thought as much. If you had been, and if you had kissed the
Blarney Stone, why then, it's nothing could withstand you."
"What is the Blarney Stone?" asked Fred.
"Don't you know that much? Why you are an ignoramus out and out. Well,
I'll tell you. It's a stone on Blarney Castle, set low down in the wall,
five or six feet from the top; and to kiss it, why that is no easy
matter, for you have to be held by your heels and let hang over the
wall; and if you can get some one to hold you tight--very tight,
mind--you slide down and you reach the stone and you kiss it, and from
that moment--oh glory! but you carry everything before you. There's not
a man, a woman, nor a child, no, nor a beastie either, that can resist
you. You bewitch 'em."
"I have no doubt, Kitty, you kissed the stone," said Mr. Denvers.
"Why then, it's yes, sir," she answered raising her big eyes and then
dropping them again with an inimitable expression.
"What a queer little girl you are!" he said. "You are very amusing; but
I think we must tame you a bit."
"You won't do that, sir. They call me the wild Irish girl at home, and
the wild Irish girl I'll be to the end of the chapter. If it's schooling
I want, why, I'll have it, but taming, no thank you."
Kitty jumped from her seat and began to dance a sort of improvised Irish
jig about the room.
"Do you know the jig?" she said, dancing up to Fred as she spoke.
"No," he answered; "are you trying it on now?"
"Yes; jump up, my hearty, and I'll teach you in a twinkling. Here, watch
me; point your toes so, turn round--pirouette as we call it. Now, then,
put your hand on your hip, courtesy to me, and come back again. That's
how it's done. Oh, Fred, I'll soon have you as beautiful a broth of a
boy as if you were born in Old Ireland."
"Fred, my son, it is time for you to go back to college," said his
father. "Kitty, we are very pleased to have you here, and you are a very
amusing girl; but you know life is not all play."
Kitty pulled a long face. Fred darted a laughing glance at her, and ran
off. Kitty and Alice at last found themselves alone.
"You're disapproving of me a good bit, aren't you, Alice?" said Kitty,
going up to the other girl and taking both her hands in hers.
"Well, I think you are very odd," said Alice.
"And do you want me to be quite sober and tame, and to have all the
spirit knocked out me, alanna?"
"No; but we don't do exactly as you do in this country."
"And you think you'll tame me into your cut-and-dry pattern?"
"I don't know about that. I don't understand you, Kitty."
"You will after a bit, Alice. It's here I am for sure, and a gray sort
of land it is! Why, the sun doesn't even shine!"
"Oh, doesn't it," said Alice angrily. "It's ridiculous to talk in that
strain about this country. We have much finer weather than you have in
Ireland."
"Don't be cross, darling; I mean it metaphorically. You see we live a
gay life over there, we have a joke about everything, and the wit that
runs out of our mouths--why, it's like flashes of lightning. Oh, we have
a good time in the old country, and when you come and stay with me at
Castle Malone you'll say so for yourself. Now, then, what do you want to
do this afternoon?"
"I must look over my lessons first."
"Lessons--how many?"
"A good few. You see of course I want to get on."
"By the way, Alice," said Mrs. Denvers, who came into the room at that
moment, "I am afraid you had a bad mark for unpunctuality this morning."
"Yes, mother, that is so."
"And what is your place in form?"
"I went down two or three places, mother."
"I am sorry to hear it; your father will be very much annoyed."
"I'll try and make up for it to-morrow, mother. And, mother, Gwin Harley
has asked me to go to tea with her this afternoon--may I?"
"I don't see how you can. There is Kitty Malone."
"But she has asked Kitty too."
"What's that?" asked Kitty, bounding forward. "A tea party, bless you?"
"You have been asked to tea at Harley Grove. Mother, may we go? I think
Kitty would enjoy it."
"If you are sure you are not too tired, Kitty; you have had a long
journey," said Mrs. Denvers.
"I'm not a scrap tired," said Kitty. "I'm as gay as a lark and as fresh
as a daisy. I hope it's rather a big swell party, for I have got some
awfully pretty dresses. I want to make myself look smart. You can tell
me how they manage these sort of things in England. I'm all agog to go."
"Yes, Alice, you may go," said Mrs. Denvers. "But Kitty, my dear, if I
were you I would let them down lightly."
"What do you mean, dear Mrs. Denvers?"
"Don't startle them too much. They are not accustomed to such--such
frankness as you are disposed to give."
"I'll bewitch 'em," said Kitty, beginning again to dance with light
fantastic measure up and down the room. "I'll bewitch 'em one and all. I
have made up my mind. I didn't kiss the Blarney Stone for nothing!"
CHAPTER III.
IS THAT THE GIRL?
Kitty and Alice went up to their bedroom, where Kitty began to unpack
her trunks and toss her dresses about--they were all new and most of
them were gay. She had scarcely a quiet-looking dress in the entire
collection.
"What will you do with those?" said Alice, who saw nothing to admire in
the fantastic clothes, and much to condemn. Alice had not the smallest
love for dress, and at this period of her life she considered any pains
taken over clothes a sheer waste of time.
"But don't you like them?" said Kitty. "I thought girls loved pretty
dress. Aunt Honora says so, and so did Aunt Bridget when she came to see
us at Castle Malone a month ago. When she heard I was going to England
she said: 'Why, then, my dear Kitty, you must titivate up. It will never
do for them to see you not looking as bright as a sunbeam and as gay as
a cricket. It's colors you'll want, Kitty, and rich materials, and
spangles, and jewels, and beads, and all the other fal-lals.' And father
said to Aunt Bridget:
"'Why then, now, Biddy,' said he, 'you just get what's right for the
child, for she hasn't a notion, and no more have I, what's worn in that
foreign place England.'
"So Aunt Bridget said: 'A wink's as good as a word,' and I'll dress her
up in dashing style!' So she took the measure of my chest, and the round
of my waist, and the length of my skirt, and she saw how many inches I
wanted in the sleeve, and she said: 'You leave the rest to me, Kitty.'
And of course I did, and in three weeks' time down came a trunk that
would make your eyes shine even to look within it. Oh! wasn't it just
the darling entirely! Here's one of the dresses. Now, what do you think
of that?"
As Kitty spoke she pulled out a pink nun's-veiling, made up with
innumerable ruffles and frills and laces and embroidery, a really very
pretty dress for quite a gay party, but totally unsuitable for a
schoolgirl of Kitty Malone's age.
"Why, it's a long dress?" said Alice. "How old are you, Kitty?"
"It's fifteen I'll be my next birthday, darling. Well, and is there
anything wrong about fifteen? I always thought it was a jewel of an
age."
"Yes, but this dress is long; why, there's a train to it!"
"Oh, mercy me! so there is," said Kitty. "To tell you the truth, I never
even tried on the skirt, I was so bamboozled and overexcited with the
others. A train to be sure! Oh, won't I bewitch 'em entirely. Let me try
it on, darling. Have you got a long looking-glass anywhere?"
"Not in this room," answered Alice; "it is not necessary."
"Not necessary? Well, now, I should say it's the one thing you ought to
have in every room, a long looking-glass that you can see yourself in
from top to toe. Why, half your elegance is lost if you cannot see how
you look your own self. Is there one in any other room?"
"In mother's dressing-room, I think."
"And where's that room situated, my jewel?" asked Kitty.
"Oh, at the other end of the passage; but really, Kitty--"
Kitty, however, was off. Alice stayed in her room, too disgusted to
follow her.
"Something must be done to put a stop to this," she thought. "Of course,
mother won't keep a girl of that sort. Why, she's a regular wild Indian;
I shall be ashamed to take her out this afternoon."
But at that moment a high voice, accompanied by peals of laughter, was
heard shouting for Alice.
"Alice, mavourneen, come along this minute! Alice, come quick! quick!
Why, it's enthralling I am! You never saw anything like me before, did
you? Oh, the Blarney Stone, what it has done for me. Come, Alice, come,
come quick!"
"What can be the matter?" called Mrs. Denvers from downstairs. "Has
anything happened?"
"Oh, it's only me, dear Mrs. Denvers. Do come up this minute, my dear
ducky woman, and see me. I found a dress with a train to it in my trunk,
a new dress from Dublin, and I'm in it, and beautiful I look. Come up
and see me. I'm gazing at myself in your glass. I never saw anything so
lovely in the whole course of my life."
Mrs. Denvers and Alice now both appeared upon the scene. Kitty in her
new dress, with a train nearly a foot on the ground, was stepping
backward and forward before the long glass in Mrs. Denvers' wardrobe.
Her eyes were flashing with merriment and delight. Her small arched feet
were dancing a _pas de seul_ in and out of the many flounces which
befrilled the end of the pink dress.
"Well, do you like it?" called Kitty. "How do you think I look? Did you
ever see anybody more elegant in all your born days? Oh, if only the
dear old dad could see me! I feel as if I must kiss myself." Here she
commenced blowing kisses vigorously at the gay figure reflected in the
glass.
"Come, Kitty," said Mrs. Denvers, "you are not going out in that dress."
"And why not, my dear Mrs. Denvers? Why shouldn't I go out and captivate
the natives? That's what a pretty girl is made for."
"Not in this country," said Mrs. Denvers in a somewhat severe voice. "It
cannot be done; Kitty, you are much too young to wear a dress of that
sort. While you are with me you must expect to be guided by my taste and
wishes."
"But, dear Mrs. Denvers, Aunt Bridget ordered it."
"Well, of course, dear, you can wear it at Castle Malone, but not
here--at least, not out of doors. Yes, my child, it is a very pretty
dress; but I do understand what is right for girls to appear in. You
must have something quieter, Kitty."
"Then come along and choose for me," said Kitty, who was as good-natured
as she was high-spirited and volatile. "Come straight and choose, for
Alice, poor child, is troubled with the sulks."
"What do you mean?" said Alice indignantly.
"But isn't it true, darling; you have such a frown between your brows,
and it doesn't improve you. There, cheer up, Alice, honey! Why, it's the
best of friends I want to be with you; but you don't like me, not a bit.
I'll win you yet, Alice, aroon! But at the present moment you're saying
in your heart: 'What a nasty, forward, ill-bred girl that is, and I am
ashamed, that I am, that my schoolfellows should see me with the likes
of her.'"
"Come, come, Kitty, no more of this," said Mrs. Denvers. "If you are
going out you have no time to lose. Yes, let me see your wardrobe. I
think this dark-blue dress is the best."
"But you are not expecting me to go out in the open air without a body!"
said Kitty, "and there's nothing but a skirt to this. I suppose I may
wear one of my pretty blouses?"
"Yes; that skirt and a nice blouse will do. Now then, get ready, both of
you, as quickly as you can. Kitty, remember I expect your things to be
put away tidily."
"To be sure, ma'am. Why, then, it would be a shame to spoil all these
pretty garments. I'll put them away in a jiffy, and come down looking as
neat as a new pin."
Alice, who had brushed out her hair, put on a clean collar and a pair of
cuffs, was now standing waiting for her friend.
"Look here," she said suddenly, "will you be long putting away your
things and dressing?"
"Not very long, darling; but I must curl my fringe over again."
"I wish you wouldn't wear a fringe, Kitty; none of the nice girls do at
the school."
"Is it give up my fringe I would?" answered Kitty.
"What a show I'd be! Why, look at my forehead, it's too high for the
lines of pure beauty. Now, when the fringe comes down just to here, why,
it's perfect. Aunt Bridget said it was, and she's a rare judge, I can
tell you. She was a beauty in her youth, one of the Dublin beauties; and
you can't go to any city for fairer women than are to be found in
Dublin. I tell you what it is, Alice, I see you are in a flurry to be
off. Can I overtake you?"
"You can," said Alice suddenly. "You can come to me at Bessie
Challoner's house."
"Bessie Challoner!--what a pretty name!--Challoner! I like that!"
answered Kitty, looking thoughtful. "And where's her house, aroon? What
part of the neighborhood is it situated in?"
"Come here to the window and I'll show you. When you leave this house
you turn to the right and walk straight on until you come to Cherry
Lodge--that's the name of the house. Bessie and I will be waiting for
you."
"Well, then, off you go, and I won't keep you many minutes."
Alice ran out of the room. She found her mother waiting for her
downstairs.
"Oh, mother," said Alice, "she's too dreadful."
"Come now, no whispering about me behind my back," called a gay voice
over the stairs. "I thought it would be something of that sort. That's
not fair--out with your remarks in front of me, and nothing behind."
"Kitty, Kitty, go back and dress, you incorrigible child!" called Mrs.
Denvers.
"Mother!" said Alice.
"My dear Alice," said her mother, "you will soon learn to like that poor
child. She has a great deal that is good in her, and then she is so
pretty."
"Pretty?" muttered Alice. "Oh, I see you're bewitched like the rest of
them."
She left the house, feeling more uncomfortable, depressed, and angry
than she had done for several years.
Mr. Denvers was a lawyer, and made a fairly good income; but his large
family and the education of his boys had strained his resources to such
an extent that he was very glad to accept the liberal sum which Kitty's
father was paying for her. Alice knew all about this, and at first was
more than willing to help her family in every way in her power. She did
not murmur at all when she was asked to give up half of her room to the
Irish girl. She was quite willing to take her under her patronage, to
show her round, to try to get friends for her among her own
schoolfellows--in short, to make her happy. But then Alice had never
pictured any one in the least like Kitty Malone. She had imagined a
somewhat plain, shy, awkward girl, who would lean upon her, who would
give her unbounded affection, and follow her lead in everything. Now,
this sparkling, racy, daring Kitty was by no means to her mind. There
was not the least doubt that Kitty would not be guided by anybody, that
she would never play second fiddle, and there was also a dreadful fear
down deep in poor Alice's heart that she would fascinate her school
fellows instead of disgusting them, and that Alice's own dearest friends
would leave her in favor of the stranger.
She walked very slowly, therefore, a frown between her brows, discontent
and jealousy in her heart.
Bessie was waiting for her at the gate.
"Why, Alice," called out Bessie, "how late you are. We shan't get to
Harley Grove by five o'clock."
"I can't help being late; it is a blessing you see me now," answered
Alice. "I wonder you waited for me, Bessie."
"Well, my dear," answered Bessie, "I would much rather walk with you
than take a solitary ramble by myself. I thought," she added, "you were
going to bring that new Irish girl with you. Has she come?"
"Has she not come?" answered Alice. "Oh, Bessie, Bessie, it is because
of her I am late. Oh, Bessie, she is quite too dreadful."
"How so?" asked Bessie.
"She is the most extraordinary, wild, reckless, absolutely unladylike,
vulgar person I ever came across in the whole course of my life."
"What a lot of adjectives!" laughed Bessie. "I shall be quite curious to
see her; from your description she must be a monster."
"She is a monster, a human monster," answered Alice; "and the worst of
it is, Bessie, that in some extraordinary way she has fascinated both
father and mother, and even Fred--Fred, who hates girls as a rule; they
are all so taken up with this blessed Kitty Malone that they don't mind
her perfectly savage manners. I can tell you I am quite miserable about
it."
"Poor Alice," answered Bessie in a sympathetic tone. "I suppose then,
dear, she is not coming with us?"
"Oh, yes, she is; she is following us. She could not find anything quiet
enough to put on."
"Quiet enough to put on! What do you mean?"
"Oh, my dear, her wardrobe is beyond description. She absolutely wanted
to come to poor Gwin's quiet little tea party in a dress fit for a ball,
flounced and frilled and laced and ribboned, and with a train to it,
absolutely a train, although she is not fifteen yet."
Bessie could not help laughing. "I am sorry she is fond of dress," she
answered; "I can't bear that sort of girl."
"Oh, you'll positively loathe her, Bessie. I quite pity you at the
thought of having to walk with her this afternoon."
"My dear Alice, we must make the best of it," answered Bessie, "and I
don't suppose she will quite kill me; she will be amusing at any rate."
"Amusing enough to those who have not got to live with her day and
night," answered Alice in a very discontented voice. "Oh, and here she
comes," she added; "and, look, she is running and racing down the road
and waving her hands to us. Oh, Bessie, it is intolerable! Don't you
pity me?"
"What! is that the girl?" cried Bessie. "How very--"
"How very what?" asked Alice.
"How very pretty she is!"
"Pretty," said Alice in a tone of such withering scorn that Bessie could
not help gazing at her friend in astonishment.
CHAPTER IV.
TIFFS ALL AROUND.
Kitty's dark-blue skirt was all that was correct and proper; it reached
just to her ankles, and her remarkably small and beautifully-shaped feet
were encased in the neatest possible tan boots. But the blouse of light
pink silk, all bedizened with bunches of ribbons and lappets of lace,
was in Alice's eyes almost as painfully unsuitable as the trained skirt.
Kitty wore a little close-fitting cap of dark-blue velvet on her head.
Her hair, of the softest, cloudiest black, true Irish hair, was piled up
in a thick mass behind; in front it waved and curled round her white
forehead. Kitty was very tall, and, child as she still was in years, had
a more formed figure than most girls of her age. She was drawing on her
tan gloves now, and unfurling a parasol of tussore silk with a heavy
lace fall.
"I do hope I'm smart enough," she said, panting slightly as she spoke.
"Is this one of your schoolfellows?"
"Yes; my friend, Miss Challoner."
"Haven't you got a Christian name?" asked Kitty, staring frankly with
her wide-open eyes at Alice's friend.
"Bessie is my name," answered Bessie Challoner.
"Do you mind my calling it to you? I like Challoner awfully, and if I
were to say Challoner without the Miss it might do, but Miss is so
stiff. I hope I may be Kitty to you, and then you won't object to being
Bessie to me."
"Not a bit," answered Bessie heartily; "but we are a little late, and
had better walk on as fast as we can."
Gwin Harley lived in a beautiful house about two miles away, and the
girls turned down a path which led across some fields in the direction
of Harley Grove. The time of year was toward the end of May, and the
weather was perfect.
Kitty, who had been silent for a time, now stood in the middle of the
field, threw both her hands to her sides, let her parasol drop on the
ground, and opened her mouth wide.
"Have you gone quite mad?" asked Alice in a severe tone.
"Mad is it?" said Kitty; "not I. I am taking in some of the air." Here
she began to breathe very deeply and with considerable noise. "Why, my
ducky girls, the pair of you, I was fairly suffocated in that bandbox of
a house; now the breeze here is fine and fresh, and I want to fill my
lungs. Is there any objection?"
"Oh, none I am sure," answered Bessie; "but you really did look most
extraordinary."
"I am glad no one was passing at the moment," said Alice. "What would
they have thought?"
"Does it matter what they think?" asked Kitty. "We never mind what
anyone thinks of us in Ireland. Ah, the dear old place; how I pine for
it! There now, my lungs are full, and we can go on again."
She picked up her parasol and began to stride forward.
"Isn't she a horror?" whispered Alice to Bessie.
"Hush!" answered Bessie; "she only does it to amuse us. The thing is to
take very little notice; we'll soon tame her down."
"Is it taming me you're after?" called back Kitty. "Well, then, you'll
never do that, for I come of a wild lot, and I have always been called
Wild Kitty from the moment I could speak. But there's no harm in me, not
a bit. Now, then, I'll walk as sober as you please. What shall we talk
about?"
"Is there anything you would like to ask us?" said Bessie.
"I am sure then, darling, I don't think there is. Wouldn't you like to
ask me some questions? I'm as open as day. I'll lay bare all the
thoughts of my secret soul to the pair of you, if you care to hear
them."
"I don't know that we do," said Bessie. "You see we have got to make
your acquaintance yet, Kitty."
"Ah, now it's nice of you to call me Kitty, and that's a very pretty
little voice you have; soft and winning. How is it you say some of those
words? I can't get my tongue round them; but I dare say I will after a
bit."
"Would you like to know what kind of place we are going to?" asked
Bessie.
"Oh, I'll wait until I get there," answered Kitty. "I suppose it's like
all other places; there's a house and some girls; and if we are asked to
tea, why we'll get tea, and they'll think me no end of an oddity, and
I'll think them a lot of muffs; but that don't matter. Oh, my dears, if
you only saw Old Ireland, and if you only knew the free life we have
there, and the beautiful air that comes blowing in from the broad
Atlantic. Why, it's smothered I'll be in this queer place. I doubt if
I'll stay long. I'll write to father, and ask him to take me back
again."
"I would if I were you," said Alice stoutly.
"Now, what do you mean by that, 'Alice, aroon?'"
"I mean," said Alice, who had now almost lost control over her temper,
"that if you go on as you have done since you came here, we shall none
of us like you, and I for one shall be delighted when you return to
Ireland."
As Alice spoke Kitty's charming face suddenly lost its brilliant color;
it became white, and her dark eyes flashed with an angry fire. She stood
perfectly still for a moment, then began to walk on a little faster than
before.
"You have hurt her, Alice," said Bessie; "you should not have said
that."
"I don't care; she made me do it; she is intolerable."
"Still, you had no right to speak as you did; remember she is a
stranger."
Here Bessie ran after Kitty, and tried to slip her hand through her arm;
but the Irish girl made an impatient movement, and, shrugging her
shoulders, walked on quicker than before.
"Oh, leave her alone," whispered Alice; "let us talk about things that
interest us. Why should all lives be upset by her? There, she is going
on in front; let us fall back and talk about interesting things. Have
you finished your work yet?"
"Oh, yes; I had a great deal to do this afternoon. I do hope, Alice,
that Gwin won't mind if I ask her to let me go into the library. I must
take a peep into 'Household Encyclopædia;' it is such a chance."
"Oh, I am sure she won't mind," replied Alice. "Gwin is the soul of good
nature. I only dread what she will think."
"Oh, you need not dread anything," said Kitty, suddenly turning round
and coming back to the girls. "I shan't be here long; don't be afraid."
"Please, Kitty," said Bessie; "don't mind what Alice said just now, she
was vexed, because we are not quite accustomed to manners like yours.
You will soon get into our ways, you know."
"Never, never!" cried Kitty.
"Well, at any rate, don't mind about it now. Do you think you will like
your school life?"
"No; I shall just hate it."
"What a pity that will be; but I'm sure you don't know what you are
saying. You are vexed with Alice, and I don't wonder--Alice, you were
very hard on her."
"Oh, never mind," answered Kitty; "don't ask her to apologize. I can go
home again. I don't want to be with people who have made up their minds
to dislike me. All the folks at home love me, and--" Here tears dropped
from her eyes, splashing down her cheeks in bright round pearls.
"I didn't mean to vex you," said Alice, who was disconcerted at this
evident grief. "I dare say I shall get accustomed to you after a bit. I
mean I do not really want you to go home."
Kitty's face underwent a change, rapid as a flash of lightning.
"If you want to make friends, Alice, it's as right as rain," she cried.
"I know I was vexed, but it is over now; yes it is over. I am willing to
be friends if you are willing."
"Of course," said Alice; "and I know I ought not to have spoken as I
did; but you do manage to fret me dreadfully. I never saw a girl exactly
like you before."
"It is all right now you really want to be friends," answered Kitty;
"and I will try to be as dull as you please." Here she paused and seemed
to consider. "There's no use," she continued after a moment; "I mean I
must be myself whatever happens. I must be genuine. Please, Alice, let
me be genuine for a week; if at the end of that time you find me
intolerable, why I'll be off."
"Don't say anything about that," said Bessie; "everything is quite new
to you, and Alice did speak unkindly; but please, Kitty, don't be angry
if I say something."
"Oh, no, I won't be angry with you; you're a real duck," cried Kitty.
"Well, we English girls are not quite accustomed to your sort of way; we
are quieter here and more reserved. Perhaps you had better--"
"Oh, I know exactly what the end of that pretty little speech is going
to be," said Kitty; "but I cannot. I must be Kitty Malone or nothing. I
was born that way. Why, bless you, it is in our race. Aunt Bridget was
just the same when she was young, and so was Aunt Honora, and even
father; oh, and--and Laurie. If you only saw Laurie and Pat! Oh, I wish
you knew Laurie; if you saw him you would say, 'If there is a broth of a
boy in the world he is one.'"
The girls had now reached the avenue gates at Harley Lodge, and the
lodge-keeper ran out to open them. A few moments later they found
themselves in sight of the pretty, modern mansion which Mr. Harley had
lately purchased. The door was opened by a butler in very correct
livery, and the young folk were shown into a handsome drawing-room at
the other side of a broad hall. There was no one in the room when they
entered, and Kitty walked straight up to a glass let into the wall, and
began to survey herself with intense satisfaction. She had by this time
forgotten the rebuff which Alice had given her, tears had only added to
the brightness of her eyes, and her momentary fit of vexation and temper
had deepened the color in her blooming cheeks. She nodded to herself
with smiles of intense satisfaction, pushed her velvet cap in a slightly
more coquettish way over her mass of black curls, and began once again
to dance a very graceful _pas de seul_ in front of the glass.
"I do think I have nice feet," she said; and just at that moment the
door was opened, and Gwin Harley and Elma Lewis entered the room.
Gwin, statuesque, graceful, dressed in the most suitable manner, made a
perfect contrast to poor, excitable Kitty. Kitty's words had been
plainly audible, and Alice flushed deeply with vexation.
"Why, then, I had better introduce myself," said Kitty, who was by no
means abashed. "Are you Miss Harley? You have got a very nice looking
glass, let me tell you; it shows off the figure to perfection."
Gwin could not help coloring in surprise and astonishment.
"I am Kitty Malone, at your service," continued Kitty. "Shall I drop you
a courtesy in the true Irish way? Some of us bob like this--so, and some
of us step back like this," here Kitty performed a very elaborate and
very graceful courtesy, then stood upright, and laughing heartily,
showed rows of pearly teeth. Gwin held out her hand.
"May I introduce my friend, Elma Lewis? Elma, this is Miss Malone."
"Kitty Malone. I won't be called Miss Malone," said the incorrigible
Kitty.
"Won't you all come upstairs now, girls?" said Gwin, who perceived that
both Alice and Bessie were annoyed by Kitty's manners.
"If we take off our things we can go into the library and have a good
game before tea, or would you prefer a walk?"
"Well, I for one am tired," said Kitty. "The fact is," she continued,
these boots are somewhat tight. They're awfully becoming, you know,
aren't they? but they do squeeze a little just across the toes; how
ever, as Aunt Honora says, 'Pride feels no pain,' and I am desperate
proud of my feet. Shall we all look at our feet, and see which has got
the prettiest pair?"
"I don't think we will just at present," said Gwin. "If you are tired
you must take your boots off. Have you not just come from Ireland?"
"Bless you, yes," answered Kitty; "I only arrived to-day. The place is
as new to me as it can be. Up to the present I don't think much of it,
although you have got a lovely house, Miss Harley--fine and airy with
plenty of big rooms. I suppose you have got money _galore_; have you?"
"I believe we have," said Gwin in some astonishment, and a haughty note
coming into her voice.
"Ah, now, don't begin to be proud and stiff!" exclaimed Kitty. "It is
quite wonderful; every one I speak to here seems to take me the wrong
way. What in the world do you all mean? I thought when I came to England
that people would say, 'Well, now, that's a remarkably pretty girl. I am
sure she's Irish by the twinkle in her eye and the roll of the brogue in
her voice; but we'll like her all the better for that.' But, bless my
heart! that's not the way you're taking me. Every time I open my lips
somebody seems to think I have said something wrong. Upon my word it's a
nice state of things, and I, the darling of my old father. If Aunt
Honora and Aunt Bridget were here they would soon put matters straight;
and Laurie, dear, darling, old Laurie, if he saw his Kitty put upon,
wouldn't he give it to you all?"
"We none of us want to put upon you, Miss Malone," said Gwin Harley.
"_Miss_ Malone!"
"Yes," said Gwin firmly, "it is the custom here to call girls by their
surnames for a little until we get to know them; but I am sure," she
added kindly, "you will soon be Kitty with us all, for I see you are
very nice, although you have not quite our ways."
"Ah, there, that is all I want you to say," answered Kitty with a
profound sigh, "and now I'll go upstairs and slip off my bits of boots,
for they are a trifle tight. Can you lend me a pair of your shoes, Miss
Harley?"
"Yes, with pleasure," replied Gwin, and turning, she led the way out of
the room. The rest of the evening passed off better. Kitty became a
little subdued, and satisfied herself with talking less, and casting
ravishing glances of delight and roguish entreaty first at one girl and
then at the other. It was extremely difficult to withstand her, for her
voice was low and singularly sweet, her eyes were beautiful, she could
not do an ungraceful thing, she was altogether like a bright, flashing
meteor, and soon she began to exercise an extraordinary fascination both
over Bessie Challoner and Gwin Harley. Having got over her first
astonishment, Gwin began to take a sincere interest in the pretty
stranger. The lovely expression of her coral lips made her long to kiss
them, and to assure the Irish girl that she for one would be her friend;
but the next instant Kitty said something so very much against the grain
that Gwin felt as much repulsed as a moment before she was delighted.
Immediately after tea Bessie went off to the library to hunt up her
darling "Encyclopædia."
"Now that she has gone," exclaimed Gwin, "we are not likely to get her
back for some time. What a remarkably earnest student she is!"
"The Earnest Student?" interrupted Kitty. "I thought that was the name
of a religious book. I think father has got it at home."
"Perhaps so," replied Gwin, "but we always call it to Bessie. She is
wonderfully clever. She gets on splendidly at school, taking everything
before her. I am certain she is the kind of girl who will make her mark
by and by."
"I hate studies!" said Kitty in her low, humorous voice.
"I am sorry for that," answered Gwin, "for if you come to school you
won't be at all popular if you do not care for your books."
"Popular? How do you mean? Is it with the teachers or with the girls?"
"Well, with both I fancy."
"Then, I tell you what," exclaimed Kitty, "I'd like to bet with you that
you are wrong--that I'll be the most popular girl in the whole of the
school with the teachers--yes, with the teachers--and the scholars as
well."
"You must be very conceited," exclaimed Elma, who had sat silent during
the greater part of the evening, taking Kitty in, however, all the same.
"Conceited? No more than you are," cried Kitty, "but I know my powers,
and I have not kissed the Blarney Stone for nothing."
"Oh, you need not tell us that ridiculous story over again," said Alice.
"But I should like to hear it," cried Gwin.
"You really would not Gwin; it is too absurd. We must show Kitty, now
she has come to live among us, what is real wit and what is not. Her
way of talking is only silly."
Gwin knit her brows, and looked pained.
"I would rather not correct her now," she said in a gentle voice. Then
she added, her eyes sparkling with sudden eagerness, "Would it not be a
good opportunity for talking over the rules of our society, girls?"
"Oh yes," cried Elma, "yes; but is it well to----"
Here she bent forward, and began to whisper vigorously in Gwin's ear.
"Yes, I think so," answered Gwin.
"I wouldn't, I really wouldn't," said Elma. "I am certain Alice agrees
with me."
"I can guess what you are saying," cried Alice, "and I do agree most
heartily."
"And I can guess what you are saying," exclaimed Kitty, starting to her
feet with flashing eyes. "You don't want to talk about your society or
whatever it is because I am present. Well, discuss it without me. I'll
find my way to the library. Poor dear Bessie is the only decent one
among you, and I shall go and sit with her. How do you know I won't take
up with literature just to spite you all? I can do anything I have a
mind to, and that you will soon find to your cost."
She ran out of the room as she spoke, slamming the door behind her.
"There, that's a comfort," cried Alice, breathing freely for the first
time. "Did you ever, girls, in all your lives, see a more terrible
creature? What is to be done? Why, she will disgrace us all at school.
You know what a very nice set we are in at present."
"Oh, an excellent set," said Elma, in a sarcastic voice.
"You know, Elma, that we do belong to the nicest set in the school, and
I am sure, Gwin, your father--"
"You need not drag father in," cried Gwin. Father likes all the people I
like."
"But, surely--" began Alice.
Gwin looked at her gravely, then she nodded.
"I am not quite certain yet," she said; "but I think it highly probable
that I shall take up that poor, wild, little Kitty. At least she is
fresh; she speaks out her mind plainly, and there is a great deal to
admire about her."
"Then, listen, Gwin," cried Alice; "if she is taken into our special
society I will resign."
"Will you really, Alice? What, if I ask you to stay?"
"It is hard to refuse you, dear; but you scarcely know what all this
means to me. I am rubbed the wrong way; I don't understand myself. But
frankly, Gwin, you are not going to ask Kitty Malone to join our
society?"
"What if it does her good?"
"But ought we not to think of the others? She is a perfect stranger to
us all at present."
"But she won't be long. Bless the child, she has no reserve in her, and
I do want to help her, poor little girl! Well, we need not decide that
point at present."
"Do let us vote to leave her out," cried Alice.
"No, Alice, we will leave the point undecided. Now let us set to work,
and begin to form our rules, for really we have no time to lose."
"But what are we to do without Bessie?" exclaimed Alice. "Whatever
happens, we cannot do without Bessie Challoner; she will be the life and
soul of the whole society. Shall we send for her, Gwin?"
"No, Kitty is with her, and they had better not be disturbed."
"What a difference Kitty makes," cried Alice. "I did think we should
have had a delightful and heavenly evening, and it has been all ruction
from first to last."
"Because you dislike her so much, Alice," said Gwin.
"Well, I do," said Alice; "I can't abide her. But do I show my dislike
so plainly?" she added.
"Rather! Any one can see it in the curl of your lip and the expression
in your eyes; and then you say such terribly withering things to the
poor girl. You try to crush her."
"Well, if I may say what I think," cried Elma, "Kitty Malone seems to me
to be a very unpleasant, vulgar girl, and I cannot imagine why she has
been sent here."
"Oh, as to her vulgarity," said Alice, who suddenly felt forced to
defend herself against Elma's spiteful speeches, "Kitty comes of a very
old family, and her father is as rich as ever he can be. They live in a
wonderful castle in County Donegal, just overhanging the sea; and from
what I learn are considered county people. Father was very pleased to
have her, and whatever she is, she is a lady by birth."
"So she is rich?" remarked Elma in a low voice. "Well, at any rate,"
she continued after a pause, "she is very pretty."
"Pretty!" cried Gwin; "I should just think she is. She has the most
lovely face I ever saw. Girls, it is quite true what she says; she will
fascinate any number of people. That dashing, daring way of hers will go
down with numbers. Yes, she will make a revolution in Middleton School,
I am certain."
CHAPTER V
INCORRIGIBLE KITTY
Mr. Harley's library was a beautiful room. It was lined with books from
floor to ceiling, and these books had been selected with the greatest
care. Standard works of all sorts and in three languages were to be
found on certain bookshelves, also modern works, both poetry and prose,
with some of the best novels of the day.
Bessie Challoner never envied rich people. She cared nothing whatever
for fine dresses, nor for carriages and horses, nor for the luxurious
life of the wealthy, but she did envy Gwin Harley the use of her
father's library; and when she entered the room now, with that delicious
faint smell of leather which all libraries possess, she sniffed first
with ecstasy, and then climbing on the ladder secured the volume of the
"Encyclopædia" which she required, and seating herself at one of the
center tables, was soon lost in the fascinations of her subject. After a
time a little cough, very gentle, however, caused her to raise her head,
and there standing before her was Kitty Malone.
Kitty's long arms had dropped to her sides, and she had pushed back her
masses of dark hair. There was a pathetic expression about her rosy
lips, and tears trembled on her long eyelashes.
"Why, what is it, Kitty; what do you want?" asked Bessie.
"Ah, then it's good to hear you say that word, aroon," said Kitty. "I
want to sit near you. I won't speak, no, not a syllable. Hush will be
the only word with me, hush! hush! hush! You can go on with your beloved
reading and I'll stay near you; that's all I require. Why, then, it's
just a shelter I need, and nothing more. Read away, Bessie, my honey,
and I'll do nothing to interrupt you."
"But why have you left the others?" asked Bessie.
"Never mind, dear, now. I'll just sit quietly here, and contemplate you
while you are studying."
Bessie sighed impatiently. She then bent again over her book, and began
to devour the pages. Kitty watched her with marked interest.
"I wonder if it will be my fate to have to take up with literature in
sober earnest," she said to herself, "I, who can never abide a book. Oh,
to be back again in the dear old place! I should not be a bit surprised
if Laurie is out fishing now, and Pat with him. And oh, suppose they are
bringing in the trout, and the creatures are leaping and struggling as
they come to shore, and father is going round to feed the dogs--why, the
thought is enough to madden me. Oh, then, why did I ever leave home? I
don't care _that_ for books, nor for being clever nor for--How she works
to be sure! How earnest she looks. She has got a very fine forehead,
although it is miles too high. She ought to wear a fringe; it would
improve her wonderfully. I will cut her hair some day if she will let
me. I will cut it and curl it. I have got the dearest little jewel of a
pair of curling tongs that ever was seen! Aunt Honora sent it to me in a
box with a spirit lamp all complete when I got the rest of my things.
I'll just exercise those little tongs on dear, nice Bessie. I do wish
she would not be so devoted to that book, she might talk. Oh, I am
lonely. I think I'll fidget a bit."
Kitty moved her chair, creaking it ominously; but Bessie had got to a
most thrilling part of her subject, and Kitty might have creaked the
library down before she would have roused her companion's attention.
"Now, if I sigh, perhaps that will do it," thought Kitty. She opened her
mouth and let some profound sighs come up from the depths of her heart;
but they only depressed her still more, and had no effect whatever on
Bessie.
"I think I hate intellectual people," muttered the Irish girl. She
jumped to her feet.
"I must do something to rouse her or I shall go mad. She is the nicest
of them all, much. I wish she would speak to me. Why should I break my
heart, and why should she simply go on devouring that stupid book? Here,
I know what I'll do. I'll just toss down one of the big volumes; it will
make a clatter and she will have to look up. Perhaps I'll let it drop
just the tiniest bit in the world on the corner of her toe; that will
finish her." Here Kitty laughed excitedly, pushed out her arm and
knocked over a huge volume which certainly fell a good deal more than a
tiny bit on poor Bessie's foot.
"Oh, Kitty, what have you done?" cried Bessie. "You have quite hurt me.
I wish you would not drop the books about."
"There, darling, I had to do it. Pray forgive me," said Kitty.
"You had to do it!" answered Bessie. "Do you mean that you did it on
purpose?"
"Why, then, yes, love--that's what I do mean exactly. I did it because
I wanted you to talk to me, and you _would_ think of nothing but that
book."
"It is such a chance," answered Bessie, "and I wanted to find out for
myself all about that wonderful magnetic iron ore. You know it never
loses its power, it is potent for hundreds and hundreds of years, and--"
"Oh, don't tell me any more, or I'll lose my senses. Dear Bessie, what
does magnetic iron ore matter. Bessie, I'm awfully unhappy. Every one is
so unkind to me. Promise you'll be my friend, won't you?"
Bessie looked up, and then she saw something so touching in Kitty's face
that she closed her book with a reluctant sigh, to devote herself the
next moment with all the sympathy she possessed to her companion.
"I am sure you are suffering, Kitty, and I am sorry for you," she said.
"I'll fetch my hat and we'll go out for a little."
"Oh, what a darling you are!" answered Kitty.
A moment or two later the girls were walking across the beautifully-kept
garden; they soon reached a shady path at the further end.
"And now, Kitty," said Bessie, "I mean to lecture you a little."
"Anything in the world you like, darling. I'm quite agreeable. Aunt
Honora and Aunt Bridget lecture me, and so does the dear old dad
sometimes; but I always say when they have finished that it is like
water on a duck's back--it rolls off without making the least bit of
impression, and then they laugh and say that I am the queerest mixture
they ever came across, and that they had best leave me to nature. But
perhaps I'll listen to you, Bessie."
"I wish you would," said Bessie. "I am sure," she added, speaking with
great earnestness, "that you are a very nice girl, Kitty; but at the
same time you are wild."
"Oh, I pride myself on that," said Kitty in her frankest of voices.
"But I wish you would not, Kitty, for it really isn't nice."
"Not nice! Now what may you be meaning by that, aroon?"
"Well, there is a sort of dignity which I think a really well brought-up
girl ought to possess."
"Oh, my! dignity is it?" said Kitty. She stepped away from her
companion, drew down her face to a ridiculous length, nearly closed her
eyes, and folded her hands demurely across her breast.
"Is that pleasing you, mavourneen?" she said. "Is it dignified and sober
enough poor Kitty Malone looks now?"
"Oh, Kitty, you will joke about everything."
Kitty immediately changed her mood.
"No, I won't," she said. "I am really awfully obliged to you. You don't
know what all this has been to me. Father said I was growing too
wild--yes, the darling dad did; he agrees with you down to the core of
his heart, and he said I must go to England and be taught manners. But,
bless you, they'll have a job. I told him so when I was going. I said,
'Dad, it's the hearts of the teachers I'll be breaking;' and dad said,
'Oh, no, you won't, Kitty, aroon. You'll be a good girl, and you'll try
to please your old dad and you'll come back a beautiful, perfect lady!'
He said it with tears in his eyes, he did, the darling; and I promised,
and down on my knees I went and asked God to help me. But, dear, it's
like the froth of the sea-foam inside me, the fun and the mischief and
the nonsense and the ways that you think queer; but, all the same, those
ways delight the good folk at home. Must I really give them up,
Bessie--must I?"
"To a certain extent," said Bessie, "or you will have a lot of enemies
here, Kitty, and you won't be at all happy."
"How I wish I lived with you, Bessie Challoner. You're a broth of a
girl, that you are. You have not taken a dislike to me just because of
the fun bubbling up in my heart?"
"No, dear; on the contrary, I like you extremely."
"Ah, you precious duck of a darling! It is a good squeeze you would
like, if I gave it to you?"
"Well, I am not very fond of being kissed; but if you must, Kitty."
"I must, dear, I must, for the heart in me is full to the brim. Now
then, stand still, and I'll catch you up close to my heart. There! isn't
that better?"
Poor Bessie gave some long-drawn breaths, for the firmness, in fact the
ferocity, of Kitty's embrace quite hurt her for a moment.
"There," said Kitty, "that's the way we hug in Old Ireland. Now I'm a
sight better, and I'll let go. So you do like me, Bessie?"
"Yes, very much indeed, Kitty, only--please don't do it again."
"I won't to-night, I won't really, but it's wonderful that you don't
like it. I wish you could see Aunt Honora and Aunt Bridget hug one
another. Why, it's the noise they make when they get together, and the
way they kiss! Oh, dear, I hope some day you'll come to Ireland."
"You don't tempt me by these descriptions," replied Bessie. "But now,
Kitty, will you promise just to be a little quieter, to keep in all
those irrepressible and--really I must say it, dear, at the risk of
hurting you--those silly words."
"But then I'm silly myself," said Kitty. "Can you expect wisdom out of
nonsense? I am pure and simple nonsense from first to last."
"But you do want to be something better? You do want to lead a good
life?"
"A good life! I never thought there was anything bad in me."
"You want to learn for instance?"
"No; that I don't, darling."
"You don't want to learn, Kitty? Then what is the good of coming to
Middleton School?"
"Listen," said Kitty. "I'll do anything for father. Father said I was to
learn, and that I was to get manners. Now I think your manners are
perfect. I'll model myself on you, dear; that I will. Will you teach me
your manners, Bessie Challoner?"
"I'll do all I can to help you, Kitty."
"And you'll be my real faithful friend?"
"Yes, only please not--"
"I won't, dear, I won't to-night; but when I meet you to-morrow you'll
allow me just once?"
"Well, if it will break you in."
"It will, it will. It will enable me to bear Alice. I am not the sort to
hate people; but I'll soon get to hate her. It's an awful affliction
that I have got to live with the Denvers; not that Mrs. Denvers is bad,
nor Mr. Denvers, poor dear, nor Fred, but Alice! I'd like to get Alice
over to Ireland, to Castle Malone. I could punish her a bit if I put her
into Laurie's hands. But there!"
"Well, Kitty, time is going," said Bessie. "It is a bargain that I help
you to learn some of our English ways, and that you, in order to pay me,
try to be gentle yourself, and to restrain some of your wild words."
"I'll try. I'll do my very, very best. You'll see when I get to
Middleton School what a proper, respectable sort of girl I'll become."
"And you'll work hard too, won't you, Kitty? For I know it will do you a
great deal of good, and I am sure you are very intelligent."
"Well, I can take in most things; only it's no end of a bother."
"I am certain you will succeed if you try," said Bessie. "Then it's a
bargain, isn't it? You'll try to learn a great deal, and you will do
your best to get better mannered?"
"Why, of course I will. I hate learning, and I don't want to be bothered
with lessons: but there's nothing under the sun I wouldn't do for those
I love; and I love father and I love you too, Bessie Challoner."
"They are calling us. We must go into the house," said Bessie.
"Do yield to me on one point," cried Kitty.
"What is that?"
"Let us go back to the house with our arms round each other's waists. It
will show Alice that we have come to an understanding. I don't care
twopence about Miss Harley nor about that other girl--I don't remember
her name; but I want Alice to see us. Why, it's mad with jealousy she'll
be. Come along, aroon. Here's my arm firm round your waist; now let us
dance up to the house."
"Oh Kitty, Kitty, you are incorrigible!" cried poor Bessie, and a
feeling of despair certainly visited her at that moment.
CHAPTER VI.
THE TUG-OF-WAR.
A few days after the events related in the last chapter Alice Denvers,
Bessie Challoner, Elma Lewis, and Gwin Harley met once more at Gwin's
pretty home, to discuss the rules of a little society which they were
drawing up among themselves. The nicest girls in their set were to be
invited to join; but the important subject of the rules was first to be
discussed. Gwin £ad drawn up a plan which she now submitted to her eager
companions.
"The most important thing of all is the name," she said. "I thought of
calling it 'The Early Rising, Devoted to Study Society.'"
"Oh, twice too long," said Bessie. "Who could be bothered saying all
these words? You know when we are in the rush of school-life we cannot
be bothered talking of the 'Early Rising, Devoted to Study;' it would
never, never do. We must express what we mean in a single word if
necessary."
"Then let us get one," said Gwin. "You have not the least idea what a
headache I had last night searching in the dictionary and cudgelling my
brains; but a sensible word which would express all our meaning I could
not get."
"Let us think what our meaning clearly is," said Elma.
"Don't you know that yet?" exclaimed Bessie. "The society is to be
formed as an incentive to make us work extra hard. You know," she added
"I always think the motives of school-life are quite wrong."
"Oh, do listen to the words of Miss Wisdom," said Elma, in a very
mocking tone.
Bessie's big gray eyes flashed for a moment with indignation; but she
soon recovered her usual calm.
"I think the motives of school are wrong," she repeated; "there are
prizes offered, and there is a lot of emulation--"
"And how could we live without emulation?" cried Alice. "Why, it is the
very breath of life."
"But the desire of each to excel the other is not surely why we are sent
to school," continued Bessie. "We are sent to school because our parents
want us to learn something. They don't want us specially to get prizes,
although they are glad when we do, because they suppose that we have
accomplished some of the objects of our school life; but their real wish
is that we should know English history, and history generally, that we
should be well acquainted with geography, that we should speak French
fluently, and understand German so as to be able to converse in that
tongue, and to read the literature."
"Oh, do listen to the bookworm," cried Elma.
"In short," continued Bessie; "that we should become accomplished
women--that is undoubtedly the real object of school."
"Well, we are not gainsaying it," said Gwin. "We all know, dear Bessie,
what you feel about learning; it is the breath of life to you."
"It is, I rejoice in it," said Bessie. "A good vigorous tussle with a
tough subject is the keenest pleasure which I can possibly have."
"But the rest of us are not made the same way," continued Gwin. "Now I
like my studies very much--that is, in moderation. When I am learning
and mastering French, and getting through my music creditably, and, in
short, going through the usual curriculum of work, I feel interested;
but I also have a delightful sense that if I work for so many hours I am
entitled to play for so many hours."
"Oh, bother the play," interrupted Bessie.
"You see, Bessie Challoner, that is the difference between us. I like
work just to form part of my life, but not the whole; you want work to
form the whole of your life."
"Yes; that I do," said Bessie.
"But now to return to the society," interrupted Elma. "We all know that
it won't be the slightest effort to Bessie to join; but she will be a
good incentive to the rest of us. She will always be at the top of the
tree, at the head of her class, and all that sort of thing. She won't
require to be told to get up early, because she always does."
"I tell you what," interrupted Bessie; "let us put things into our rules
which will be a tug-of-war for me too. For instance, now, I am untidy."
"Well, yes; just a little bit," said Gwin, her eyes dancing.
"It's more than a little bit," said Bessie. "Oh, Gwin, you don't know
what a nuisance it is to keep my room in order, and sometimes I forget
the things dear mother tells me, and I am impatient with poor little
Judy, who takes, I must say, a fiendish delight in putting my things in
hiding. Now, our rules might include tidiness of person and order
generally. It's no trouble to me to keep my books in order, nor my mind
in order; but I do hate washing my hands before every meal, and brushing
my hair and doing it up in a fashionable roll at the back of my head."
"Oh, my dear child," said Elma, "do you imagine for a moment that that
excrescence at the back of your head is fashionable? I never saw
anything more dowdy."
"Dowdy? Is it?" said Bessie. "I spent five minutes over it this morning,
and twisted it up three times in order to give it that horrid little
handle of a jug look which you all aspire to. Well, well, I don't
suppose we need add to our rules that the girls who belong to the
society are to be fashionable."
"It would be a really good idea if we did," said Elma. "I cannot see why
schoolgirls should be a lot of frumps. Our society is to effect a
certain object which can never be acquired unaided in a great school
like Middleton. We want to be as ladylike, as refined, as nice as if we
belonged to a very small and select school. We get the best teaching at
Middleton, but I don't suppose we get the best manners."
"Well, let us add all these things to the rules," said Gwin, "and let us
begin to put them down at once. First, as to the name. Until we can
think of a better we must call it the 'Mutual Improvement Society.'"
"A hateful word," said Bessie. "The M.I.S.!"
"Yes, it does sound priggish," said Elma.
"Well, I dare say some one will have genius enough to think of a more
flashy and brilliant name," said Gwin, "but for the present we will call
it the 'Mutual Improvement,' for that is exactly what it means. Now then
for the rules."
As Gwin spoke she drew in front of her a sheet of foolscap paper; and,
dipping her pen in ink, looked eagerly at her three young companions.
"Rule I.," she said.
"For goodness' sake," cried Bessie, "let Rule I. apply to study. Do let
down lightly with regard to tidiness and fashionable hair, and all that
sort of thing."
"Yes, we will begin about the most important matters first," said Gwin.
Here she began to write rapidly in pencil. "I must copy this out in my
best and most copperplate hand presently," she continued; "but while we
are correcting matters and getting down our rules somehow pencil will
do. Well, Rule I. Shall it be something like this, girls? 'The members
of this society are expected to aim for the top of the class in each
branch of their study at Middleton School. They are expected to gain at
least one prize at the midsummer examination.'"
"That sounds rather like emulation coming in," interrupted Bessie.
"It must come in, Bessie--it must," said Elma. "We must have something
to work for."
"I thought the love of the thing--" began poor Bessie.
"Oh, Bessie Challoner, do shut up. Yes, Gwin, that first rule goes very
well," said Elma. "We are to aim for the top of the class, and we are to
secure at least one prize each. Hurrah! for the Mutual Improvement
Society! Now, then let us get to Rule II."
"That applies to deportment," said Gwin. "'The members of the Mutual
Improvement Society are to aim at ladylike manners, they are to refrain
from slang in conversation, and they are to refuse to make friends with
girls who indulge too largely in that special form of vulgarity.' Poor
Kitty Malone!"
"But she does not talk slang," said Bessie. "She talks Ireland, and
Ireland and England are as far apart as the poles."
"Rule III.," continued Gwin, "relates to tidiness; and now, Bessie,
comes your tug of war. 'The members of the society must engage to keep
their home things in perfect order, as well as their school desks. They
must be neat in their persons, exquisitely clean with regard to hands
and teeth, and tidy with regard to hair.'"
"I don't think I'll join," said Bessie.
"Nonsense, Bessie; it was you who told us to put all this in. I, as a
matter of course, always do these things," said Gwin, looking very sweet
and the essence of young ladyhood as she spoke.
"Oh, yes, you dear old thing, you are perfect; but you don't live in the
sort of ramshackle house we do," said Bessie. "However, never mind. I am
quite agreeable to go in for the tug-of-war. And, now, is there anything
else?"
"Oh yes, there is," said Elma, "and I think it is a most important
thing. 'The members of the Society, as far as they possibly can, are to
adhere to fashionable dress, to hair done in a stylish manner, and in
short to that distinction of appearance which ought to characterize the
lady of the present day.'"
"Well done, Elma," said Gwin, "that is a capital rule."
"It is a hateful rule," said Bessie. "I really don't think I can join. I
don't know what fashionable clothes are. I never study the fashions. I
have not the slightest idea whether sleeves are worn stuck out to the
size of a balloon or skin-tight to the arm. All I ask for in a sleeve is
that it should be comfortable; all I ask for in a dress is that I should
not know I have it on. I like to be warm in winter and cool in summer.
More I do not ask for."
"Then the rule will do you a wonderful lot of good," said Gwin. "And now
is it decided? If so we will draw up the rules in proper form, and----"
"I tell you what," said Bessie. "I have thought of a name and a good one
too. Let us call the society the 'Tug-of-war Society.'"
"Well done," said Gwin; "that will be capital. And now is there to be a
subscription or is there not?"
"Oh, certainly," said Alice. "It would make it much more distinguished,
and prevent too many girls asking to join. We want to have the
Tug-of-War Society rather select, don't we?"
"I suppose so," said Gwin; "but I don't think that really depends upon
the amount of the subscription. What do you say to half a guinea,
girls?"
Alice looked thoughtful, and Elma's face turned rather pale; but she was
the first to say she thought Gwin's suggestion an admirable one.
"Then that is all right," said Gwin, "and I will set to work to write
out the rules as neatly as I can. After they are all set out in due
form, we can see if there are any improvements to be suggested."
Gwin set to work, bending low over her foolscap paper, and Alice offered
to help her. Elma and Bessie wandered out of the room, and soon their
conversation turned to the much-discussed subject of Kitty.
Bessie stood up warmly for the harum-scarum Irish girl, as Elma called
her.
"She has a lot of good in her," said Bessie warmly. "She would be a
splendid girl if she were tamed down a little. I really don't think we
want to take much of the fire out of her; but if she would only restrain
some of her wild speeches it would be all the better; for if she remains
as frank as she is at present to the end of the chapter she cannot help
making enemies."
"I want to ask you a question, Bessie," said Elma, dropping her voice to
a low tone; "is it true that Kitty Malone is rich?"
"Rich?" echoed Bessie. "I really cannot tell you."
"I thought you might happen to know, as you have made such chums with
her. She is your greatest friend now at Middle ton School, is she not?"
"Certainly not," replied Bessie. "What do you mean by asking me such a
strange question, Elma? Alice is far and away my greatest friend, and
after Alice I like Gwin best."
"Oh, everybody likes Gwin Harley," said Elma; "who could help it? She is
so beautiful to look at, and she has such a delightful, lovely home."
"I cannot see that her having a lovely, delightful home has anything to
do with our liking her," said honest Bessie.
"Not to you perhaps," answered Elma, and a queer look, half-wistful,
half-defiant, came into her eyes.
"I thought you would be sure to be able to tell me if Kitty were rich,"
she said again after a pause.
"I cannot. You must ask Alice--she lives with Alice. She has plenty of
pretty dresses, and all that sort of thing; but I don't know anything
about her having money."
"I will run into the house this minute and ask Alice," said Elma.
"Do, of course, if you are anxious; but I cannot imagine what difference
it makes to you."
"No, it doesn't, but I am just curious on the subject. I won't keep you
long."
Elma dashed into the house. She presently came back.
"I have found out all about it," she said.
"All about what?" asked Bessie.
"What I went into the house for. How forgetful you are, Bessie!"
"I was wondering if I might steal into the library," said Bessie. "I did
not get all the information I wanted about magnetic iron ore, but--Well,
what is it, Elma?"
"Kitty Malone is rich, very rich, and----"
"I can't see that it matters," said Bessie--"I mean to us."
"Oh, but it matters a good deal. You don't understand. I shall certainly
vote that we ask her to join the Tug-of-War Society."
"You will?" cried Bessie--a look of great pleasure came into her eyes.
"Then I am really glad, for to join such a society would do Kitty more
good than anything else in the world. Only the nicest girls will belong,
and she will get at once into the best set. She is as wild as she can
be, but she has got plenty of honor; and if she once gave her word that
she would do a certain thing no one would do it better."
"Let us have her by all means. Let us put it to the vote as soon as we
go back to the house," said Elma. "Come Bessie, no slinking away in the
direction of that fascinating library. They have nearly copied the
rules, and we are to read them over and make comments."
"I think it will be a delightful society," said Bessie. "I am sure it
will do me good."
"It is meant to do us all good," said Elma. "Tug-of-war! I should rather
think it will be! How I shall hate that terrible effort to get to the
head of my class; not that I am stupid or dislike my lessons."
"That would be the nice part as far as I am concerned," said Bessie;
"but oh! the fashionable sleeves and the stylish hair. Oh dear! I often
feel inclined to have my hair cut short."
"Well, Bessie, you would be a fool if you did," said Elma. "Your
splendid hair; why, it's nearly down to your knees."
"Yes, and that's the bother," said Bessie, "for mother insists on my
brushing it out every night for at least ten minutes, and all that time
is taken from my books. I tell you, Elma, I would gladly change with
you."
Elma's locks were very thin and straggly, and she could not help
coloring at this left-handed compliment; but at that moment Alice
appeared on the balcony to tell the other two girls that the rules were
ready, and that they might return to the house. They did so, and the
rules were then read carefully over (by Elma on this occasion),
criticized by Gwin, Alice, and Bessie, and finally carried as far as the
original members of the society were concerned. The next important thing
was to put to the vote who was to be asked to join and who was to be
excluded. Several girls were named, and among them Elma suddenly
introduced the name of Kitty Malone.
"Now what do you mean by that?" said Alice, her eyes flashing angrily.
"If Kitty joins the society, I, for one, will resign."
"But you cannot, dear," said Gwin in her placid voice. "Remember you are
one of the founders; you are bound to uphold the society now for at
least one term of its natural life. At the end of that time you are
permitted to resign, but certainly not before."
"Then, as I presume I have a vote with regard to the election of
members, I certainly do not wish for Kitty Malone," said Alice.
"I think the votes must go by the wishes of the majority," replied Gwin;
"does any one else want her?"
"I do." said Elma, holding up her hand.
"And I think it would be good for her," said Bessie.
"Dear me, Bessie, how spiteful of you to say that," cried Alice.
"But I do think it, Alice; I do truly."
"Why, Bessie?" asked Gwin.
"Well, you know there are the sort of things mentioned in our rules
which would just give Kitty the sort of restraint she wants," began
Bessie.
"Yes, I think I begin to understand you, Bessie. I too will vote that
she is asked to join," said Gwin.
Alice looked very sulky, but did not say anything further, and soon
afterward the girls broke up their conference.
CHAPTER VII.
ELMA.
Kitty Malone was admitted to a low form at Middleton School, her
acquirements being the reverse of distinguished. This fact did not give
her the smallest sense of discomfort. On the contrary, she was pleased;
and although her fellow-scholars were all younger and smaller than
herself, she soon became a sort of queen among them, laughing and joking
with them, and flying round the playground with half a dozen small girls
at her heels, feasting them with unlimited chocolate and telling them
stories. She soon got through her somewhat easy lessons, and was wilder
and more incorrigible than ever. The only sober moments she seemed to
enjoy were when she was with Bessie; for Bessie Challoner took a sincere
interest in her, and was very anxious to get her into a higher form,
where she would be with girls nearer her own age, and would thus be
forced to submit to more discipline than she could enjoy with the
younger girls. Bessie also hoped great things from the Tug-of-war
Society, and soon told Kitty that she was to be asked to become a
member.
"I will certainly join when I am asked," answered Kitty. "I have not the
least idea what you are all driving at, but I'll become a member if it's
to be in the same society with you, my darling duck of a girl!"
Bessie then read her a copy of the rules.
"Why, then, you can't expect me to adhere to the first of them," was
Kitty's answer. "It's no, it's no to that, Bessie. I wouldn't tell a lie
for any earthly thing, and I could not drive myself to the head of that
class. Why, I wouldn't take the place from sweet little Agnes Moore for
all the world. Why it's tears I'd bring to the pretty eyes of the
creature. Oh, I couldn't get ahead of her. I'd just as lief be at the
tail--just as lief."
"But, Kitty, have you no ambition?"
"Well, no, dear, I don't think I have. I never could see the fun of
taking a prize from another; it's no use I'll be in the society, not the
least bit."
"Well, all the same it would do you good," said Bessie, "for you know
you love your father, and you said you would try to acquire knowledge to
please him."
"Oh, where's the good of reminding me of that," said Kitty, looking very
thoughtful and somewhat pensive. "Why did you come out with it, Bessie,
aroon; it's fretting the heart out of me you are. Dear old dad! there's
nothing I wouldn't do for him."
"I am glad I did remind you, Kitty, for you know you have come here to
learn."
"Ah, dear, I'll shut my ears if you talk any more in that sort of way,"
said Kitty. "If I must learn, I must; but don't be reminding me of it,
there's a good creature--it's play out of school if it's work in."
"Much work you do, Kitty! Why, I always see you laughing and winking
and twinkling your eyes, and pushing your feet about."
"Pushing my feet about! And is it to keep them in a corner I would,
pretty feet like mine! Why, they are meant to be seen. That's the only
reason why I object to a long dress, because it does not show so much of
the feet and ankles. Ah, sure it's dear little ankles I have, as neat
and trim as you please."
"Kitty, you are getting wilder than ever."
"Well, darling, I'll cool down if you'll just let me give you one of my
big hugs."
"I really can't; my ribs are quite sore. You must not do it to-day. I
told you, you might once a week, but no oftener."
Kitty sank down on the nearest chair and looked comically miserable.
"Go on with the next rule, Bessie," she said, after a moment. "I want to
belong to the Tug-of-war because it's close to you I'll be, darling.
What's the next rule?"
Bessie read it out to her.
"Why, now, it's the pink of a lady I am myself," said Kitty. "I was
always told I was; I don't mind that rule in the least. There won't be
much of a tug-of-war there; if Kitty Malone is to be a lady, why, a lady
she is. I wish you could hear Aunt Honora and Aunt Bridget talking about
our ancient family and our long and royal descent. Go on, Bessie; that's
not so bad as taking the prize from poor little Agnes. What's Rule
III.?"
Rule III. was read aloud to Kitty, who shook her head solemnly several
times.
"Now, to be frank with you," she said, "there's only one bond between
Alice and me, and that is we do make a froth of the things in our
drawers; and if we are both to struggle against our besetting infirmity,
it will go hard with us; but there, it will be fun to see her struggling
to be tidy and all to no purpose. I think I'll join on that account. I
shall like to see her fighting her drawers. I know if I'm put to it I
can keep mine twenty times tidier."
"I am now coming to Rule IV.," said Bessie; this she read aloud with
some qualms, for she disliked it so very much herself. Kitty's eyes
flashed with pleasure.
"Now, that is after my own heart," she cried, "fashionable dresses are
they, and hair done up in style. Mavourneen! mavourneen! you will have
to wear a fringe!"
Kitty burst into peals of laughter.
"Oh, Bessie," she said, "I have just been longing to attack that head of
yours. I'll bring my little tongs along, and I'll curl up such a lovely
fringe on your great intellectual forehead."
"You'll do nothing of the kind," said Bessie, clasping her hands over
her head to protect her thick, long hair.
"But you must, mavourneen, you must if you join the Tug-of-war Society.
Oh, it's beautiful you'll look! And I tell you what it is, Bessie, I'll
lend you the patterns of my new sleeves--those that are all crinkled
from above the elbow down to the wrist, and puffed ever so much at the
top, with little tucks, and little insertions, and little--"
"Kitty, I won't listen to you for another moment. I shall try to dress
as neatly as I can, and perhaps I must twist my hair into a more stylish
coil at the back of my head, but beyond that I absolutely refuse to go."
"Well, it's a delicious rule," said Kitty Malone, "and I hope I'll work
you round after a bit, Bessie. It seems but fair that if I yield to you
with regard to the other rules you ought to yield to me about Rule IV. I
am sure if I do take the prize from poor little Agnes Moore, and if I
never speak a word of slang, and if I keep my abominable drawers as neat
as a new pin, and all my clothes in perfect order, that you on your part
ought to wear a good thick, heavy fringe, and have your hair pointed out
ever so far at the back in the way it is worn in the present day. I'd
love to do it; and you have magnificent hair, Bessie, aroon! so you
have."
"I must ask you to leave me now, Kitty," was Bessie's answer. "You are a
very funny girl, and there is a great deal that I like in you; but I
cannot neglect my studies even for you."
"Oh, bother your studies!" answered Kitty.
Bessie, however, was quite in earnest, and Kitty had to leave her.
The next day there was another meeting at Gwin Harley's house, and the
members of the Tug-of-war Society were formally initiated into the
mysteries of what they had undertaken. About ten girls joined in all,
and it was decided to limit the number to these until the end of the
present term. In addition to the four chief rules it was also clearly
understood that the members were all to be absolutely faithful the one
to the other, that no member of the Tug-of-war Society was to speak
against another member; on the contrary, she was to uphold her through
thick and thin, to help her if possible, to aid her in moments of
difficulty, and to rejoice with her in moments of triumph. Once a week
the members were to meet at each other's houses. There they were to have
tea together, to discuss the rules if necessary, but at any rate to have
a pleasant time. As the summer advanced picnics were to be inaugurated
on Saturdays, and fun of some sort or another was to be the vogue.
Kitty, who had dressed herself for this auspicious occasion in a dress
of the palest blue, with a silver sheen running in zigzag lines all over
it, whose black hair was curled up on her forehead and coiled
fantastically round the back of her head, whose eyes were shining and
wreathing themselves in all sorts of smiles, could scarcely restrain her
spirits while the rest of the girls were debating on the rules.
Finally Gwin laid a little box on the table, and asked the new members
to subscribe their half-guinea each. Each girl dropped her
half-sovereign and sixpence into the box with the exception of Elma,
who, coloring a little, said she would bring it to Gwin the next day. No
one made any remark, as it was well known in the school that Elma was
anything but well off, and Gwin privately resolved to subscribe for her
without saying anything about it.
Then the girls had tea in Gwin's own private sitting-room, and afterward
they wandered about the lawns, and returned home in the cool of the
evening. On this occasion Elma found herself side by side with Kitty
Malone. Kitty was walking quietly; she had exhausted some of her
emotions during the hours that she had played tennis, and laughed and
chatted with the other members of the Tug-of-war Society, and when Elma
put her hand on her arm, and looked up at her half-timidly and
half-beseechingly, Kitty stopped short, and said in her hearty, frank
voice:
"And what may you be wanting with me, Elma? Is it a favor I can do you;
because if it is I am sure you are welcome to it with all the pleasure
in life."
"You are a good-natured girl, Kitty," said Elma; "I always felt that
from the very first. Shall we drop a little behind the others? The fact
is I don't want every one to hear what I am going to say to you."
"If it is a secret, darling, don't tell it to me," said Kitty, "for I
cannot keep it. I always say so quite frankly. I say to each person who
comes to me with a private confidence, 'Confide nothing in Kitty Malone,
for Kitty Malone is a sieve.'"
"Oh, but it would never do for you to be that," said Elma, who was
somewhat alarmed and secretly greatly disgusted. "A girl is not worth
her salt if she tells what is confided to her by another girl; and of
course, now that you have become a member of the Tug-of-war Society, if
you are found blabbing any of our secrets at Middleton School I don't
know what will happen!"
"I wonder what would happen!" cried Kitty; "it would be quite nice to
find out. Do tell me, Elma."
"How can I when you don't understand," said Elma. "You would be wanting
in all honor; none of us ten girls would speak to you again."
"Wouldn't Bessie Challoner, the darling?"
"Certainly not. She could not; none of us could."
"I shouldn't like that," said Kitty thoughtfully. "I did not know, when
I joined the Tug-of-war, that I was to be burdened with secrets. And am
I not to explain to any of the other girls why I am moving heaven and
earth to get to the very head of the class? Am I not to breathe the real
reason, when I am taking poor little Agnes Moore's place, and breaking
her heart, the pretty lamb? Is that so?"
"You certainly are not," said Elma. "Dear me, Kitty, what a very
extraordinary specimen you are!"
"Well, don't scold me, for pity's sake," said Kitty. "I am so sick of
every one telling me that I am an extraordinary specimen. In Ireland
they think I am a very fine specimen; but here! oh, it's nothing but
holding up of hands and rolling up of eyes, and 'Oh, dear, let us get
out of her way!' and 'Oh, dear, how queer she looks in her grand
clothes!' and--and----"
"Do stop talking, Kitty. You are the most awful rattlepate----"
"There, now, on you go," said poor Kitty. "I'm a rattlepate, am I? It
seems that I can never speak but I get into somebody's black books."
"You don't get into mine, I am sure," said Elma. "But I think you ought
to be greatly obliged to me for telling you what is your plain duty with
regard to the Tug-of-war Society. It is just like a secret society; our
rules are our own, and not a soul who is not a member must know anything
about them."
"Well, I won't tell," said Kitty. "When I say a thing I stick to it. I
won't split--there I that's flat and I suppose I am obliged to you,
Elma."
"Yon ought to be," answered Elma. "Why, what a terrible scrape you would
have got into. And now, then, Kitty, I have something else to tell you."
"Well, and what is it?" asked Kitty.
"First, are you not pleased that you are a member of the Tug-of-war
Society?"
"To be sure I am. I think it is awfully nice of all you girls to ask me
to join."
"It is a great distinction," continued Elma; "a new girl like you, one
who is not known a bit in the school! Out of the whole school we have
only selected ten, including the founders, and you are one. You ought to
think yourself in rare luck."
"So I do."
"And you ought to be very grateful."
"So I am."
"But do you know whom you ought to be grateful to?"
"Well, I suppose to Bessie."
"Not a bit of it; it is to me you ought to be grateful. But for me you
would not be a member of the Tug-of-war Society."
"But for you, Elma?"
"No."
"Was it you who got me asked to join?"
"I was the one who insisted on your being asked to join us. I put it
plainly to Bessie and to Gwin, and they quite agreed with me. Alice was
the only one who voted against you."
"Oh, just like her, spiteful thing!" said Kitty, coloring with
annoyance. "Well, I am sure, Elma, I am obliged to you, and if there's
anything I can do--"
"I am coming to that," said Elma; "it's not much, but if you could--"
"Could what? Why, I'll do anything. Is it one of my gowns you want to
borrow?"
"No, no. What extraordinary ideas you hare!"
"Oh, there you begin again," said Kitty. "I never can speak right. Well,
what can I do for you, Elma?"
"If you could--just until next Monday--if you could lend me some--some
money," said Elma, coloring as she spoke, her voice faltering, and her
eyes seeking the ground.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE LITTLE HOUSE IN CONSTANTINE ROAD.
Kitty stared at her companion for a moment, then she put her hand into
her pocket and took out a very fat sealskin purse. She opened it and
held it out to Elma.
"Help yourself," she said.
Elma looked into the purse--golden sovereigns lay there in delicious
rows. There must have been at least fifteen sovereigns in the purse.
"Take as many as you like," said Kitty; "you are heartily welcome."
"You don't mean it; you can't," replied Elma, turning very pale.
"Why, what are you hesitating about? You said you wanted some money.
Dear heart alive! everybody wants money in Ireland, we are always
borrowing one from the other. Take as many of those yellow boys as you
fancy, and say no more about it."
"I am obliged to you, Kitty," said Elma. "I think you are quite
splendid; but can I--do you really mean it--can I take five?"
"Five, bless you! Take them all if you want them. I have only to write
to the dear old man at home, and ask him to send me a fiver or a tenner,
and he'll do it. You need have no qualms, and----"
"But when must I give them back?"
"Whenever you like."
"You don't really require them on Monday, do you?"
"I don't require them at any special date. Pay me when it is convenient.
Here, you may as well have ten."
"I could not; it is too much," said Elma. She put her hands behind her
back, her teeth were chattering, and she was trembling all over. She was
afraid that Kitty must read her through and through.
"Oh, what is the use of bothering?" cried Kitty Malone. "If you won't
take ten, take eight. Let me see, that leaves me seven over. Seven
sovereigns. I don't ever want to spend any money here. Of course I may
require a new dress when the fashions change. I must keep strictly up to
date now that I have joined the Tug-of-war; but in case I do, I'll just
send a wire to Aunt Bridget in Dublin and she'll send me over a beauty.
Ah, she's a dear old soul, Aunt Bridget is. There, Elma, do take the
money and be quick about it."
Elma--feeling sick and low, hating herself as she had never hated
herself before--dipped her greedy fingers into Kitty's sealskin purse,
and soon extracted eight of the golden sovereigns. These she slipped
into her pocket.
"I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you," she said.
"Not another word!" cried Kitty. "I have forgotten all about it already.
Now shall we have a run? I want to catch up to Bessie; I have not had a
word with her for the whole of the day."
Elma no longer required to keep Kitty Malone in the background. She had
now gained her object. Hoping against hope to extract from half a
sovereign to fifteen shillings from the generous-hearted Irish girl, she
suddenly found herself the lucky possessor of eight whole sovereigns.
Never in the whole course of her life had Elma possessed anything
approaching such a sum. Her mother was very poor. She had only one
sister, a daily governess. All Elma's people were hard up, as the
expression goes, and Elma herself only attended Middleton School because
an aunt paid her school fees. Hardly ever could the girl secure even
half a crown for her own pleasure. She hated poverty, she detested the
small privations which slender means involved. She was in no sense of
the word a high, refined character; on the contrary, there was something
small in her nature, something little about her. She had ever cringed to
the wealthy. She had made friends with Gwin Harley, who was rich,
high-spirited, and generous, but also very conscientious, and with
abundance of common sense. A glance had told Elma that she could never
ask Gwin to lend her money; but Kitty--innocent, frank, generous
Kitty--had proved an all too easy prey.
At that moment Elma despised Kitty as much as she was grateful to her.
The eight pounds, which she might return whenever she liked, lay lightly
in her pocket; she almost danced in her excitement and sense of triumph.
Of course Kitty would never tell--that went without saying; and in the
meantime she was rich beyond her wildest dreams. The girls had joined
forces when they came up to the stream which led across a wide field
called the Willow Meadow. Kitty linked her hand inside Bessie's arm, and
Elma and Alice walked side by side.
"Well," exclaimed Alice, "how did you get on with her, Elma?"
"With whom?" asked Elma.
"Oh, need you ask? That detestable Kitty Malone. I saw you sucking up to
her, and wondered why."
"I wish you would not use such horrid, vulgar words, Alice," said Elma.
"You know you are really breaking the rules of the Tug-of-war. We are
requested not to make use of slang."
"I forgot," said Alice. "But if it comes to that," she continued, "I
believe I shall have to leave the society if I can never express my
feelings with regard to Kitty Malone."
"But do you really dislike her as much as ever?" asked Elma, who, shabby
and mean as she was, in her poor little soul could scarcely bring
herself to run down generous Kitty just then.
"Dislike her!" cried Alice. "I hate her--there! I suppose that's flat
and plain enough."
"It certainly is."
"But you don't mean to say--it is impossible, Elma--that you see
anything to like in her?"
"Well, of course," answered Elma--who wished to propitiate Alice, for
her nature was to be all things to all men--"I can see at a glance that
she is not your style; she has not got your cleverness and refinement,
dear Alice."
"Oh, bother!" cried Alice. But all the same she was pleased, and when
Elma tucked her small hand inside of her arm Alice did not shake her
off.
"Any one can see that," continued Elma Lewis; "but I don't think she is
quite so bad as you paint her, Alice."
Alice's private opinion of Elma was that she was a little toad, and she
now managed to extricate herself from the smaller girl's clasp.
"I shall never like her," she said. "There is no good in your praising
her to me. If you mean to be her friend you must do so from a double
motive."
"How uncharitable of you!" cried Elma, coloring crimson as she spoke.
"Oh, I can guess it very well, my dear," pursued Alice. "But for you she
would not be a member of the Tug-of-war. What would have been a
delightful society, a pleasure to the best girls at Middleton School,
will be nothing whatever but a ridiculous farce, a scene of high comedy,
something contemptible, now that Kitty Malone has joined it. But for you
she would never have been asked to join. Why did you do it, Elma?"
"For no reason in particular," answered Elma.
"That is certainly not true, and you know it."
"I cannot think why you speak to me in that tone," said Elma. "What have
I done to you that you should think so badly of me?"
"Oh, I don't think badly of you, Elma, not specially; but I have always
seen that whatever you did, you did with a reason. In your own way you
are clever, you are extremely worldly wise. There are certain people who
would commend you; but you are not like the rest of us. You are not like
Gwin for instance, nor like Bessie, nor like me. Yes, I will frankly say
so, I am better than you, Elma. I have not got your double motives for
everything. You are only a girl now; I don't know what you will be when
you are a woman!"
The thought of the eight sovereigns so comfortably reposing in her
pocket made Elma able to bear this very direct attack. She determined to
take it good-humoredly; there was no use whatever in quarreling with
Alice. Accordingly she said cheerfully:
"You may think what you like of me, Ally, but I hope in the course of
years that you will find I am not so bad as you paint me."
Shortly afterward the girls parted, and each went on her way to her
special home. Bessie ran briskly up the short avenue which led to her
house, waving farewells to her companions as she did so. Alice and Kitty
were obliged to content themselves one with the other; and Elma, in the
highest good-humor, her heart bubbling over with bliss, departed in the
direction of her own humbler residence. She had to walk quite a mile and
a half, and at the end of that time she found herself in a much poorer
part of the large suburb where Middleton School was situated. The houses
here were of a humble description--not even semidetached, but standing
in long, dismal rows, a good many of them backing on to a
railway-cutting. These houses boasted of no small gardens, but ran flush
with the road. They were built of the universal yellow brick, and were
about as ugly as they could well be.
Elma paused at No. 124 Constantine Road. As she did so, a high, rasping,
and fretful voice screamed to her from an upper window:
"You are later than ever to-day, Elma, and mother has been fretting
herself into hysterics. Do come in at once and be quick about it."
Elma mounted the two or three steps which led to the hall door, and
pulled the bell with considerably more energy than was her wont. The
sovereigns were in her pocket; they made all the difference to her
between misery and happiness. She entered the house in high good-humor.
"What is it, Carrie?" she called to the fretful voice, which was now
approaching nearer.
The next moment a slatternly-looking girl appeared at the head of the
stairs.
"It's very easy for you to ask what is it," cried its owner, speaking in
high dudgeon. "You promised to be in between five and six, and it is now
between seven and eight. Here is all my chance of an evening's fun
knocked on the head. It's just like you, Elma; that it is."
"Oh, never mind now; please don't scold me," said Elma. "What is
it--about mother; has she been bad again?"
"Oh, it's the usual thing; she has had one of those dismal letters from
father. I can't imagine why she thinks anything about them. It came just
when we were all sitting down to dinner, and she began to cry in that
feeble sort of fashion."
"Oh, don't, Carrie; she will hear you," said Elma. "Pray go back to your
room, and I'll be with you in a minute. I have something to tell you.
You won't be quite so miserable when you hear my news."
Carrie stared at Elma, and then slowly backed until she reached a very
minute bedroom which she and Elma shared together.
Elma ran briskly upstairs. Turning to her right, she knocked at a
certain door; waited for an answer, but none came; then turned the
handle and went in. The Venetian blinds were down here, and the form of
a woman was seen lying in the center of a big bed.
"Is that you, Elma?" said a voice; and then the head was buried once
more in the pillows, and no further notice whatever was taken.
"Yes, mother, I am here," answered Elma. "I was thinking you might like
something nice for your supper--a crab or a lobster, or something of
that sort. Which would be your preference, mother?"
"A crab or a lobster!" muttered Mrs. Lewis. "You might as well ask me if
I should like a bottle of champagne, or some caviare. One is about as
likely to be forthcoming as the other."
"I tell you you may choose," said Elma. "I have my hat still on, and
I'll go as far as the fishmonger's, and bring in either a lobster or a
crab."
Mrs. Lewis raised herself on her elbow as Elma spoke.
"What are you dreaming about?" she said. "Where have you got the money?"
"Never mind. I have got the money. Which Would be your preference?"
"Oh, crab, dear; crab. I like it when it's well dressed; but then Maggie
never can do anything properly."
"I'll dress it on this occasion," said Elma. "You shall have a good
supper--crab and salad, and--There mother, do keep up heart again; you
give way too much."
"Ah, child," said poor Mrs. Lewis, "I have had another terrible letter.
He says he is starving; he cannot get work. I made the greatest possible
mistake in allowing him to leave the country."
"You could do nothing else," said Elma, with a little stamp of her foot.
"You know he would not help you in any way; he had to leave. But there,
mother, you shall tell me the dismal news after tea. You will feel ever
so much better when you have partaken of the dainty meal I mean to get
for you."
Mrs. Lewis did not say anything further. Elma bent down, touched her
parent on her brow with the lightest possible caress, and then stepped
on tiptoe out of the room.
"Poor mother!" she muttered. "It is surprising the kind of things that
comfort one; she is soothed at the thought of crab for supper with
salad. Well, that is all right; she will be as amiable and petting to me
as possible for the rest of the day. Now, then, for Carrie. A loose,
untidy, badly, hung together girl like Carrie is a trial to any sister.
However, I know the sort of thing that pleases her. I must be very
careful of my treasure-trove. I shall not spend it lightly; but in
giving my family small unexpected surprises it will be doing me an
immensely good turn."
Elma now entered the room where Carrie was fuming up and down.
"Well, what have you to say for yourself, miss?" she cried, when her
younger sister put in an appearance.
"Only that I am very sorry, Carrie; but to be honest with you, I quite
forgot that you wanted to go out this afternoon. Did I not tell you
that I was engaged to tea at Gwin Harley's?"
"You are forever with that odious girl," said Carrie.
"Gwin Harley an odious girl! What in the world do you mean?"
"What I say. Oh, of course I have seen her, and I know she's pretty, or
some people would think her so; in my opinion she's vastly too stuck up;
and so Sam Raynes says. Sam saw her last Sunday in church, and he said
she wasn't a bit his style."
"Oh, pray, don't quote Sam Raynes to me," said Elma. "Well, Carrie, of
course I had tea with Gwin, and of course she's about the nicest girl in
the world; and Kitty Malone was there, that scamp of an Irish girl. Oh,
she's not so bad when you get to know her better. And Alice Denvers was
there, and Bessie Challoner. We had quite a nice time. Of course I told
you about that society that I have joined. Well, there are about ten
girls members now, quite the elite of the school. I believe we shall do
a vast lot of good."
"What does it matter to me," said Carrie, stamping her foot. "I have
lost my pleasant afternoon with Sam. He and his sister promised to meet
me. I was to go with them to the Crystal Palace. Oh, it's too
provoking."
Carrie still fumed up and down the room.
"And I have such a dull time," she continued; "those children are quite
past bearing. They wear the very life out of me. See what that little
imp of a Claude did to my dress this afternoon."
As Carrie spoke she held up a decidedly shabby dress, which bore a huge
rent at one side.
"He caught it in his nasty little boot," said the girl. "He was
scrambling up on my knee, and made such a fuss, and there happened to be
a tiny hole, and then he wriggled and wriggled, and made it worse and
worse. The skirt is not fit to wear. I don't know what I shall do. I
really have not a blessed farthing to buy myself another new thing."
Elma made a careful calculation.
"How much was that stuff a yard?" she asked suddenly.
"What does it matter, Elma? It's worn out now, and there's an end of it.
You cannot buy me another gown; so where's the good of talking."
"But perhaps I can," said Elma dubiously.
"My dear Elma what do you mean?"
"Well, I am not quite certain, of course," said Elma; "and it would have
to be very cheap--very cheap indeed. But what color would you like,
Carrie?"
"Oh, blue," said Carrie, "rather light in shade. I love blue; and Sam
says I look sweet in it."
"If you begin to quote Sam again I don't think I'll give you sixpence
for anything. You know perfectly well that I loathe and detest him."
"Oh, that's your way," said Carrie. "You think it is very fine to detest
all the young men in our set; but I tell you Sam is a right good fellow,
and he has his ideas as much as anybody. He is going to get a raise,
too, at Christmas, and--"
"Are you engaged to him, Carrie?" asked Elma suddenly.
"Not yet. Oh, we don't think of any such thing; but I like to go with
him. He is great fun, and so is Florrie. Florrie doesn't mind a bit how
often she acts gooseberry."
Elma went and stood by the window. She looked gloomily out. How shabby
and sordid her home was; how miserable everything seemed! Carrie was
really a trial to any sister. Elma wondered if in the future she would
have to tolerate Sam Raynes as her brother-in-law. A sick feeling crept
over her. She was not a particularly refined girl; but in her school
life she associated with girls of a totally different caliber from poor
Carrie, and a shudder ran through her frame as she thought over her
sister.
"If you mean anything by that talk about a new frock, you had better
speak out plainly," said Carrie. "If you can really give me money to get
the stuff, something pretty and cheap, I could buy it to-night; there is
still plenty of time."
"Put on your hat and we'll go out at once," said Elma.
Carrie rushed to her wardrobe, took down her frowzy, over-trimmed hat,
stuck it on her towzled head, drew a pair of gloves up her arms, and
announced herself ready. The two girls ran briskly downstairs. Mrs.
Lewis called from her bedroom after them:
"Where are you two going?" she said. "Am I to be left alone in the
house?"
"No, Maggie is in the kitchen," called out Carrie.
"Oh, I am sick of being by myself, and I want my supper."
"I must go out to choose the crab, mother," said Elma.
"Oh, the crab," replied Mrs. Lewis in a mollified tone. "If you are
going really to get one, Elma, be sure you see that it has plenty of
coral in it, and choose nice, crisp lettuce. I care nothing for crab
without lettuce."
"All right mother; I'll manage," said Elma.
The girls found themselves in the street.
"So you are going to get mother crab and lettuce for supper," cried
Carrie. "Then I suppose after all you don't mean to give me money to buy
stuff for a new dress?"
"Yes, I do, Carrie, if you'll only have patience. I said I would, and
there's an end of it."
"But how have you got the money?"
"Never you mind; I have got it."
Carrie walked on, her spirits rose, and she began to talk in her high
staccato voice, allowing each person who passed to hear what she was
saying.
"This is Thursday," she said. "I shall get up at daylight to-morrow
morning, and I shall cut out the dress and put it in hand. I am always
home between four and five in the afternoon, so I can work at it again
until late at night. Then on Saturday, thank goodness! there's a whole
holiday. Oh, I shall manage to get it done by the evening, and Sam and I
can have a jolly time together in the park on Sunday."
"We will buy the crab first," said Elma, "and then we can call at
Macpherson's on our way home."
"They have sweet things at Macpherson's," said Carrie. "You really are a
very good-natured old thing, Elma."
"I am glad you think so," said Elma, her lips parted in a slightly
satirical smile.
Carrie, now beaming all over with good-humor, assisted in the choosing
of the crab; she further volunteered to carry this luxury home, and
suggested that radishes would be a great addition to the lettuce.
"Is there anything else you think mother would like?" asked Elma.
"Oh, a bottle of really good Guinness' stout," said Carrie.
"Capital, Carrie! Why, you are getting quite a head for housekeeping.
We'll give mother such a good supper, and it will do her a world of
good."
"Poor old dear, so it will," said jubilant Carrie.
Having purchased the materials for an appetizing meal, the girls now
entered a large establishment which, being supported by people of
extremely slender means, could only afford to indulge in the cheapest
articles. Carrie desired the shopman to exhibit cheap materials in
different shades of blue. She finally selected one, turquoise in color,
and wonderfully pretty, which cost the large sum of sevenpence
three-farthings per yard. She ordered the required length to be cut, and
Elma took out her purse to pay for it.
She did not at all want her sister to see how many sovereigns that purse
contained, and turned her back slightly as she laid one on the counter.
"Well, how you got it baffles me!" cried Carrie.
"Pray, don't speak so loud," said Elma; "they really will think that I
stole it if you go on giving me those sort of staccato rises of your
eyebrows. It's all the better for you; that sovereign has got you a new
dress."
"So it has, and you are an old darling," said Carrie. "I'll tell Sam
all about you on Sunday, Elma. By the way, what a good idea; wouldn't
you like to come with us? There's Sam's cousin, Maurice, a capital
fellow--Maurice Jones."
"Oh, no; don't speak of him," said Elma. She gave a shudder, and turned
her head aside.
The materials for the dress were purchased, even down to the linings and
buttons; and Carrie, holding her parcel tucked comfortably under her
arm, started home, Elma accompanying her. Carrie was so excited and
delighted with her dress that she had no time even to think of the
wonderful problem as to how Elma had got the money.
When they reached the house Elma ran into the kitchen and prepared to
dress the crab. She did so well, and when the dainty little meal was
upon the table, ran upstairs to bring her mother down.
"Now, mother, get up at once," she said.
"Get up. Oh. I can't," said Mrs. Lewis; "I have got such a splitting
headache."
"But the crab is downstairs, and I have dressed it myself, just in the
way you like best. I have brought in a little cayenne pepper, too, for I
know you don't care for crab without it; and the lettuce is wonderfully
crisp and fresh, and there are some radishes. Oh, and Carrie reminded me
that you would not care for crab without your stout."
"I know," said Mrs. Lewis in a plaintive voice; "your father would never
allow me to touch crab or lobster without stout. Ah, but those good old
days are gone!"
"Not quite mother, for there is a bottle of Guinness's waiting at your
disposal."
"Oh, is there?" said Mrs. Lewis. She raised herself on her elbow. "Then
I think I'll go down," she said.
"Well, make yourself smart, mother. I shall be waiting for you, and so
will Carrie."
CHAPTER IX.
THE HEAD-MISTRESS AND THE CABBAGE-ROSE.
Middleton School, which consisted of from six to seven hundred girls,
was kept in a state of discipline not so much by punishments as by a
very strict code of honor. There were certain things which no Middleton
girl who respected herself would ever dream of doing. There were other
things which she would do as a matter of course. For instance, she would
uphold her school through thick and thin, allowing no outsider to run it
down. To be a member of Middleton School insured her friendship with all
the other girls in the school. The _esprit de corps_ of this celebrated
day school was exceptionally strong. Even in after-life its members met
as friends, never forgetting that they were at one time schoolfellows in
one of the best and most thorough colleges of learning in the whole of
England.
As the fees for instruction were necessarily low, and as the school was
therefore open to all classes of girls, from the very rich to those who
had but limited means, a rule, and a very strong one, was that all money
and class distinctions were to be absolutely abolished. The girls, so
long as they belonged to the school, were absolutely on the same
footing, notwithstanding the fact that their home-lives might be very
far removed the one from the other. Among the most emphatic rules of
the school--a rule which, if it were disobeyed, would cause ostracism on
the part of the girls and the gravest reprimand, not to say a chance of
expulsion, on the part of the teachers--was the borrowing of money.
Money was supposed not to be mentioned between the girls; and as to a
poor girl borrowing from a rich, it was considered about the blackest
crime which could take place in Middleton School. Now, Elma, knew this
fact perfectly well, and when she took the eight pounds from Kitty
Malone she was aware of the grave risk which she ran. More depended on
her keeping up a good character in the school than her companions were
at all aware of. She was sent to Middleton School by an aunt who to a
certain extent had adopted her--her mother could not possibly afford to
pay the fees, small as they were.
Elma knew well as she lay down to sleep that night that if the little
transaction between herself and Kitty were known she would be
practically ruined for life. No other girl belonging to the school would
lend money even if it were asked for, so strong was the feeling on this
head; but Kitty knew nothing about it; she had not been long at
Middleton, and the subject had not been mentioned to her. Elma sincerely
trusted to Kitty's never alluding to it. Kitty had promised not to tell;
and Elma believed, wild and erratic as she was, that when her word was
once given, she would respect it. When she had asked Kitty to lend her
money she had intended only to take half a sovereign; she wanted this in
order to pay her subscription to the Tug-of-war Society; but when Kitty
generously opened her purse and told her to help herself, the temptation
had proved far too strong. Before she quite knew what she was doing she
had taken eight sovereigns; had put herself absolutely into Kitty's
power, and had run the chance of being ruined for life. Still, that
first night she slept soundly, and awoke in the morning with a sense of
bliss. She had still a little over seven sovereigns; not her own, and
yet in one sense quite her own, for Kitty had said there was no hurry
about the replacing of the money. Oh, yes, she was quite certain that no
one would find out. She opened her sleepy eyes, yawned, and saw Carrie
sitting at the window, busily employed cutting out her dress. Elma
remarked crossly at the blaze of light.
"Oh, don't say you mind it, you old dear," cried Carrie. "I can't see
unless I have plenty of light, and it's most important how I cut this
sleeve. I mean it to be puffy and yet not too puffy, and the elbows must
fit exactly in the right place. What a pity it is, Elma, that you and I
are not the same sort of figure. I am nearly double as big as you. It
would be so convenient if you could be my model; then I might fit my
things like a glove. Ah, well, I suppose there's nothing perfect in the
world."
Elma turned on her other side.
"If you talk to me any more," she said, "I shall become so cross as to
be unbearable. Go on with your dress if you must, but don't speak."
Elma returned to the land of dreams, and Carrie cut and snipped, and
basted and pinned, until it was time for her to go downstairs to
breakfast. Elma got up at her usual hour, ate her breakfast with
scarcely a remark, and started for school. When she got there the
different members of the Tug-of-war Society were hanging about the
doors. The school was not yet opened and the girls who belonged to the
society nodded to one another and whispered and smiled. Among the party
waiting at the door were Alice Denvers, Kitty Malone, and Bessie
Challoner. Gwin Harley had not yet arrived. It was never Gwin's stately
way to be either too early or too late for school; she generally
appeared on the scene, driving up in her pretty little phaeton, just as
the clock struck nine. The other girls always made way for this dainty
little turnout, and Gwin would spring carelessly to the ground, give a
direction to the smart tiger who sat behind, and who immediately took
the reins, and then, turning with a gay nod to her companions, would
enter the school with them.
Gwin was certainly the pride of the school. The girls who were not her
absolute friends looked at her with awe, wonder, and admiration. The
girls who were her friends bragged of the fact to their companions. It
was a pleasure even to look at Gwin, for, although she never overdressed
herself, she was always so wonderfully dainty--her neat little shoes,
her lovely stockings, the fine quality of her cambric handkerchiefs, the
delicate scent which clung to them, the glossy braids of her ever
exquisitely arranged hair, and the very set of that perfectly plain
sailor hat with its band of white ribbon, were all the acme of
perfection. Oh, they all betokened wealth and taste, taste and wealth.
No wonder the girls worshiped Gwin. She never boasted of her wealth,
she never brought it prominently forward; but for all that it pervaded
her from the top of her head to the point of her pretty bronze shoes.
Kitty now gave Gwin an earnest and longing look. There was a peculiar
expression about Kitty's face: a sort of new, thoughtful look, as though
something was worrying her and causing her to cudgel her brains to quite
a remarkable extent. Kitty Malone had never yet been affected with
shyness, nor was she shy now. Just as Gwin's carriage appeared and the
other girls made way for it as was their wont, and Elma approached quite
close to Alice, meaning to make some remark to her, what she never
afterward remembered, Kitty ran straight up to Gwin and clasped her by
the hand.
"I want to say something to you very badly," she began.
"How do you do, Kitty?" answered Gwin in her pleasant high-bred voice.
"You want to say something to me? But the bell has just rung; we must go
into school."
"I mean after school," continued Kitty. "Can I walk with you during
recess?"
"Oh, but please, Gwin," cried Elma at that point, "you promised to walk
with me to-day; don't you remember?"
"Yes, and you promised to walk with me, Miss Harley," exclaimed a girl
of the name of Marcia Tyndal.
"But it is so important, Gwin," pleaded Kitty, bringing that peculiar
Irish quality into her voice which it was difficult to resist.
"Ah, now do, Gwin," she continued; "do let me walk with you just during
this recess. The others may have you for every other recess until
Christmas; but do let me be with you just for to-day."
"I think you must, Kitty," said Gwin. "Elma, you won't mind, will you?
Marcia, you and I can have to-morrow instead of to-day; is it a
bargain?"
"Oh, I don't mind," said Marcia Tyndal in a good natured voice,
shrugging her fat shoulders as she spoke.
Then the girls trooped into school, prayers began, and immediately
afterward they all assembled at their different classes.
Kitty was restless and nervous, she could not settle to her work. She
was more _distrait_ and inattentive even than usual. The younger girls,
who delighted in her, and quite prided themselves on having her in their
class, nudged her in vain.
"Kitty," whispered one little girl quite three years Kitty Malone's
junior, "if you don't open your history book you won't have your lesson
ready when Miss Worrick comes."
"Oh, I know all that stupid history," cried Kitty in a low voice. "Don't
bother me, Annie, asthore. I can't be teased. I have got something in
the back of my head."
"Something in the back of your head?" whispered Annie.
"Yes, yes; but hush, alanna! I can't let it out; it's bothering me
entirely. There, if I must look at the stupid history, I must. What part
are we doing, Mary Davies?"
"Oh, it's about Charles the First."
"Poor martyr! Shame to England to cut off his head!" Kitty bent over her
book, but soon her erratic fancy had started off in another direction.
She was sent to the bottom of the class when the history lesson came on,
and was looked at with growing disfavor by Miss Worrick, a particularly
painstaking and earnest young teacher.
"Really, Miss Malone, if this sort of thing goes on I must report you,"
she said. "It is pure inattention. If you wish to take any position in
the school you must make up your mind that while in school you must
work."
"And while out of school I must play," retorted Kitty. "Ah, then, it's
little of the play I get. If I had my share of the play I could do my
share of work."
"Come, you must not answer me," said Miss Worrick. "Now, sit down and
read up that chapter in your history. You will not be allowed to go out
during recess this morning."
"Not go out during recess?" cried Kitty in horror; "but it's most
important. Ah, now, do let me out; just excuse me to-day, won't you?
I'll be as good as gold to-morrow, and better; but excuse me to-day;
please, please. Say you will; for I really must go. I was to meet Gwin
Harley, the darling; and it's put out she would be awfully if I wasn't
with her. You'll let me out to-day, won't you? Please say yes."
"I do not understand you, Miss Malone. When I say a thing I mean it.
You are not to go out during recess."
Kitty's bright face fell; the cloud which had more or less hovered
round her during the entire morning deepened. She sank into her seat
with a heavy sigh.
"Never mind, Kitty; we all of us have to stay in sometimes," whispered
little Mary Davies.
"Take a chocolate out of my pocket, darlin', and don't talk to me any
more," was Kitty's answer. "I am sad past bearing. Not to see Gwin when
I had arranged it all; but I will, I must! There, take a second
chocolate if you want it; they are full of cream. But just leave me to
my own thoughts for a bit. I am so worried I don't know whether I am on
my head or my heels."
"Silence, girls--no whispering!" called the mathematical teacher, who
now came on the scene.
Poor Kitty's morning began badly, and it certainly was destined to go on
badly. None of her lessons were prepared with the slightest care; she
went down lower and lower in class, and each teacher gave her an
imposition or some other punishment. When recess came she alone in the
whole class was required to remain in the room.
The rest of the girls looked at her with pity.
"She's such an old dear, although quite the idlest and most ignorant
person I ever came across," said Mary Davies to her companions.
"Yes," whispered another little girl with fat rosy cheeks and round
eyes; "but did you ever taste such chocolate creams? Why, they must
cost a halfpenny apiece. I do love to sit next to her; she says I may
dive my hand into her pocket as often as I like."
"Oh, she's an old love!" echoed all the girls: "but what a pity it is
that she won't learn."
"She does not want to learn," said Mary Davies. "Learning would spoil
her; she is a pet."
Meanwhile in the playground Gwin Harley waited in vain for Kitty to join
her.
"Does any one know where Kitty Malone is?" she said, addressing one of
the girls in Kitty's class.
"She is kept in for an imposition; she did not know her history, and
Miss Worrick said she was to stay in," answered Mary Davies.
"Oh, well, I suppose I can see her another time," said Gwin. At that
moment she met Elma's anxious eyes.
Elma was just about to dart to the side of her friend, when, to the
amazement of all the girls, Kitty walked calmly across the playground.
"Oh Gwin, I must speak to you; it is about Alice. You know, you and
Alice are great friends. Things get worse and worse, and they are almost
past bearing. Last night I heard her sobbing in bed. She sobbed and
sobbed, and at last I could stand no more of it, and sprang out of bed,
and bent over her and said: 'Alice, is it about me you are crying?' and
she said: 'Oh, yes, Kitty, it is;' and I said, 'And why 'Oh, yes,
Kitty?' What has poor Kitty done to you?"
"'I am not happy,' answered Alice. 'Since you came everything has
changed; you have made my home miserable to me. I don't like your ways.'
"'Have you made up your mind never to be friends with me?' I asked.
"'Yes,' said Alice. 'I wish you would go away.' She sat up in bed then
with her tear-stained face, and looked at me ever so earnestly. 'Tell
mother that you would rather go to some other house--that you won't stay
here. I never could stand vulgar girls, and you are one.'
"Oh Gwin, I felt so mad. You don't think me a vulgar girl, do you?"
"Tell me the whole," said Gwin in a low voice.
"Oh, there is not much more. Alice was in a regular temper. She buried
her face in the clothes, and though I tried pinching her, and pulling
her, and petting her even, not another word would she utter. Now, you
must see for yourself, Gwin, that if this sort of thing goes on I shall
have to return home, and then the old dad will be fretted, and he will
think that I don't want to learn manners nor to get learning into me. Oh
dear, I don't want to fret him, although I hate England. I have just
been wondering if you would speak to Alice."
"Yes, certainly," answered Gwin. "I--" Her words were interrupted.
"Miss Malone, do I see you in the playground?" said a stern voice. Miss
Worrick had appeared on the scene.
"Why, then, yes, Miss Worrick, you do. It's a fine day, isn't it; and
the air is most refreshing," said Kitty in her most impertinent tones.
"Do you know that you have distinctly disobeyed me? I forbade you to
leave the schoolroom during recess. How dared you do so?"
"There wasn't much daring about it. I walked to the door, opened it, and
came out. I had made a previous engagement, and it was not at all
convenient to break it. I told you so at the time, did I not?"
For answer Miss Worrick took Kitty by the arm and led her across the
playground.
"I must take you to Miss Sherrard," she said. "I cannot manage a
disobedient girl like you."
She opened a side door, and, still holding Kitty by the arm, led her
down a long passage and into a small room, where she desired her to wait
while she fetched the head-mistress.
Miss Sherrard was a little woman, but she had a native dignity which is
beyond and above all mere personal appearance. She had a keen and
commanding eye, a somewhat pale face, an upright little figure. She was
not only short in stature, but slight; nevertheless, there was not a
mistress in the great school who did not hold her in awe as well as
admiration, and not a girl, with the exception, perhaps, of Kitty
Malone, who did not do her reverence.
When the door was shut behind Kitty, she drummed impatiently on the bare
mahogany table near which she had been placed, then walked to the window
and looked out. From her position she could catch a glimpse of Gwin
Harley pacing up and down the playground with Elma Lewis. She saw Alice
come up and talk to Gwin; she noticed that Gwin and Elma paused, then
that Alice slipped to the other side of Gwin, and the three walked
slowly up and down. As they walked they talked. Alice nodded her head
once or twice; Elma made emphatic grimaces; Gwin alone looked quiet,
calm, and stately.
"They are talking about me," thought the Irish girl, and an angry
feeling rose in her heart. "Is it for this I have left the dear old dad,
and the beautiful home, and the animals, and Aunt Bridget, and Aunt
Honora? Oh, is it for this I have left dear Old Ireland, may her heart
be blessed! to come here to be slighted, to be made little of, to be
joked at! Am I Kitty Malone, or am I somebody else? Oh! my heart will
break, my heart will break!"
"Miss Malone, I am sorry to hear this of you," said a very calm, very
distinct, and withal very kind voice, just at Kitty's back. Kitty turned
abruptly, and said aloud:
"Oh, and did you overhear me?" She then involuntarily dropped a courtesy
to the head-mistress.
Miss Sherrard shut the door behind her.
"I am sorry," she began, "to learn from Miss Worrick that you are
showing insubordination and disobedience."
"Why, then, now, and won't you let me tell my own story in my own way?"
said Kitty.
In spite of herself, Miss Sherrard gave an involuntary smile. It soon
vanished, but Kitty had caught the glint in the eye and the tremble
round the lips. "Why, then I see at a glance that you have the kind
heart," she said; "you thought to keep it in, but I saw it breaking out
just then. You'll let me tell my own story, won't you?"
"That seems fair enough," said Miss Sherrard. She seated herself as she
spoke on one of the bare, comfortless chairs, and looked full up at
Kitty.
Kitty was dressed according to Rule IV. of the Tug-of-war Society. She
wore a decidedly fashionable dress, the sleeves well puffed out at the
shoulders, fitting nicely at the elbows, and with ruffles of lace, real
lace, round the wrists. Round Kitty's throat also there were ruffles of
lace; the neck of her dress was cut a little low, showing the soft, full
contour of her exquisitely-curved throat. Her waist was clasped with a
belt of solid silver, and in front she wore a great bunch of
cabbage-roses. The cabbage-rose has a scent which, when once it assails
the nostrils, can never afterward be forgotten. Miss Sherrard, in spite
of herself, gave a little sniff.
Quick as lightning Kitty saw it, and detached the bunch of roses from
her belt.
"Now, will you have them?" she said. "Ah, do now, just to please me,
Kitty Malone; they came all the way from Old Ireland this morning. Stay,
I'll pin them into the front of your dress. Hold easy a moment dear
woman, and you'll have as neat a little bunch as ever you clapped your
two eyes on."
Miss Sherrard could not help once again letting that ghost of a smile
play round her lips, and then vanish.
"But really," she said--"oh, thank you for the roses; yes, they are very
sweet; yes, delicious! She bent her head and sniffed quite audibly.
"Ah, then, aren't they refreshing, and aren't they melting the anger
down in your heart? Say they are now--say they are. You see you never
had an out-and-out wild Irish girl to manage before. Well, and what is
it you want with me? I'll be as civil as you please, and as willing to
listen to the words of wisdom, if only you'll let me first tell my own
story."
"It is only fair that you should be allowed to tell your own tale,"
said Miss Sherrard; "but please understand that I am very angry. Miss
Worrick's story has amazed me. Do you know. Kitty Malone, of what you
are accused?"
"Well, I do, and I don't; but I should like to hear the crime spoken of
by your pretty lips. What is it? Something black of course; black things
are always laid to the door of Kitty Malone."
"The crime, Miss Malone, is the very grave sin of disobedience. You must
know that in a great school of this kind, if there were not perfect
obedience there would be no order at all."
"True for you, it looks like it; but then, as far as I can see--and I
have watched all the girls pretty closely of late--I am the only black
sheep. Now, I should think that one black sheep in a great big orderly
place of this kind would make a sort of diversion. You would all be
after her, and joking at her, and thinking which of you could get her
under control. Well, I am the black sheep, and I suppose I am sorry."
"Don't talk any more, Kitty; listen to me."
"Yes; what is it?"
"You have been disobedient; you were very inattentive over your history
lesson, not knowing it at all. Miss Worrick says, as a matter of fact,
you did not even trouble to open your book, and when the time came for
you to go through your lesson you were not able to answer a single
question. For this extreme carelessness she desired you to stay in the
schoolroom during morning recess. She said you pleaded hard that she
would excuse you, not liking to take the punishment which you richly
deserved; but Miss Worrick, very justly insisted on her word being
obeyed. What then, was her astonishment to see you in the playground
walking calmly up and down with Gwin Harley."
"Yes, dear; and what else could you expect?" answered Kitty.
"What else could I expect? I don't understand."
"Well, was it likely now that I would stay in that close, stifling
schoolroom when the sun was shining and there was a bird on a tree
outside singing to me as loud as ever it could? And I had made an
arrangement with Gwin Harley to walk up and down with her during recess,
and the darling girl had put off two others for me, and was waiting for
me. Don't you think it was about natural that I should disobey Miss
Worrick, whom I never cared twopence for, and go out to Gwin Harley,
whom I love? Of course I knew I was disobedient, and I supposed she
would punish me; but I didn't think she would have me up for you to
lecture me."
"You behaved very badly indeed," said Miss Sherrard; "and you are now
talking in an extremely silly way."
Kitty bowed her head; the light went out of her eyes, her face turned
pale.
"What punishment will you invent to torture me with?" she said at last
in a low voice. "I suppose I have done wrong, and I am willing to take
the punishment. What is it?"
"Of course you must be punished," said the head-mistress; "it would
never do to allow disobedience is the school. You see, Kitty--"
"Oh, bless you, bless you, for calling me by my Christian name,"
muttered Kitty Malone.
"Kitty, I am inclined to take you into my confidence."
"Are you, indeed? I declare you're an old dear!"
"You have come to school to learn, have you not?"
"Not a bit of it," answered Kitty; "I came to school to please the old
dad."
"Your father?"
"Yes, the dear old dad, the dearest, the best in the world."
"But what did he send you here for?"
"Well, I suppose to get knowledge and manners. Ah, bad luck to them! and
I suppose also to tame me down a bit. He said he never could manage that
at Castle Malone."
Miss Sherrard once more gave that faint involuntary smile.
"Your father sent you here," she said, "to put you under discipline.
While you are in this school, my dear girl, you must obey me, and also
the other teachers. If you are disobedient the other girls will be
disobedient, and then where should we all be?"
"It would be a lark!" muttered Kitty, with sparkling eyes.
"Don't interrupt, and please listen. I should be very sorry to send you
back to Castle Malone in disgrace. I should be sorry to have to write to
your father in order to tell him that his Kitty, whom he loves--his
bright, pretty, lovable daughter--can never learn manners nor
accomplishments, nor be tamed in the very least. There are from six to
seven hundred girls in this school, who all now know about your very
daring act of disobedience. Were I not to punish you they would be
astonished, and some of them might even go to the length of copying your
behavior. You see this for yourself, don't you?"
"Oh, I see it plain enough," answered Kitty; "plain as a pikestaff.
What's the punishment to be?"
Miss Sherrard hesitated. Once more she looked at Kitty; Kitty's eyes
were as bright as stars.
"You need not be afraid," said the pupil in an encouraging voice. "I am
nothing of a coward; I'll take anything in reason. Is it a flogging you
are thinking of ordering for me?"
"Oh, no; we never flog in this school," said Miss Sherrard in a shocked
voice.
"Why, then, if it is something in the shape of learning a lesson it will
go cruel with me. I don't care for learning, and----"
"I am afraid, Kitty, that I must give you the kind of punishment which
all the school may know about. All the school now knows of your
disobedience, and it must also be well aware of your punishment."
"Good gracious! this sounds exciting," answered Kitty. "I am to have a
punishment that all the school will know about."
"Yes, it is this. To-morrow morning, just before recess, you are to go
up to Miss Worrick, and tell her before the entire school that you are
sorry you disobeyed her; you are then to offer to stay in during the
play hour."
"If that's all," said Kitty, "it is not much of a bother. I am to say I
am sorry, and I am to stay in to-morrow. You won't object to my
bringing--"
"I'll hear of no conditions," answered Miss Sherrard, starting to her
feet. "Go away now, my dear girl, and please remember that your father
sent you here to learn, that I trust you will learn, and that you will
also endeavor to be good to--to please me, Kitty."
Kitty's eyes filled with sudden tears.
"You are very kind," she murmured. "I know I should soon learn to love
you. You wouldn't mind letting me give you a hug, would you?"
"I will certainly kiss you, dear, but no demonstration, please. Kitty, I
know you have a warm heart; but don't let it lead you into mischief.
There is much for you to learn in England, as I doubt not there would be
much for an English girl to learn in your country."
"Ah, but it is the dearest land in all the world," said Kitty.
"I am sure it is to you; but say no more now. I will speak to Miss
Worrick; she will expect you to do what I have desired to-morrow."
CHAPTER X.
PADDY WHEEL-ABOUT.
The next day there was a whisper through the school that Kitty Malone
was about to do public penance. She had already made more or less
sensation in that part of the school where she worked. In her own class
the girls, as has already been stated, adored her; but the other girls
also looked at her with interest. They admired her dress, her free,
careless gait, her upright, erect figure, and the bright, happy glance
in her eyes. They all thought her charming, and the expression of her
face was often so comical, the shrug of her shoulders so ludicrous, that
at a glance she set the girls tittering.
On this special occasion she sat down between her favorite Mary Davies
and Agnes Moore, and whispered to the former:
"Ah, then, darling, it is not your place I'll be taking to-day; sure my
head is bothered entirely. But I have got all kinds of nice things about
me. Do you know that I sat up late last night putting a pocket in the
left side of my dress as well as the right, so now the girl on each side
of me can have as many chocolates as she has a fancy for? You dive in
your hand whenever you feel the least bit inclined for a sweetie, Agnes;
and you do the same, Mary Davies; and, Mary, you might pass one on now
and then to that poor, little, thin Katie Trafford at the other end of
the class."
It was certainly impossible for a girl like Kitty Malone not to be
popular; and the other girls valued her, and thought themselves highly
privileged to be in the same class with her, dunce as she was.
Kitty had learned her lessons a little better, but the thought of the
public confessions which she was about to make rested heavy on her soul.
It made her restless; and her lessons, although they had been better
prepared, gained her no more marks than on the previous day.
"I wonder how I ought to do it," she whispered more than once to Agnes
Moore.
"To do what?" asked Agnes, who was a very earnest little student, and
whose dream was that she might get a remove at the end of the term.
"About what, Kitty? I wish you would not interrupt me."
"Oh, bother it, dear. Have a chocolate, won't you? What are your lessons
compared to my perplexities? What ought I to say? Ought I to drop a
courtesy or go on my knees? There was an old romance which I found in
the garret at home; and when the heroine did wrong she always dropped
upon her knees and folded her hands, and raised her eyes toward
heaven--is that the way I ought to do it?"
"Don't, don't, Kitty; you'll make me laugh, and then I'll be sent down.
Please, don't talk to me any more."
Kitty turned her attention to Mary Davies.
"Would you, Mary, go on one knee or on two? If you dip your hand down to
the very bottom of my pocket, you'll find some caramels--some people
like them better than chocolate creams."
"You must not talk to me any more or I'll get into disgrace," whispered
Mary in a low, frightened voice. "Look, Miss Worrick has come into the
room. Now do open your history book, there's a dear girl."
Kitty bent her curly head over her book. She was really interested in
the cruel fate of the martyr-king, but at that moment she saw nothing
but the picture she was conjuring up each moment before her excited
imagination--the tall girl asking pardon of the little teacher. Was the
girl to go on her knees?
"It really would be better," thought Kitty. "I'd be lower than her then.
It does seem ridiculous that the big should ask pardon of the little,
and--Oh, Miss Worrick, I beg your pardon; were you speaking to me?"
"I was, Kitty. Stand up; I am just going to lecture."
The history lesson began. Kitty did no better than yesterday. It came to
an end. The mathematical teacher took her class, and then the great bell
was rung for recess. Just at the moment when its last note echoed
through the vast school Miss Worrick came a step forward into the room,
and held up her hand to arrest the movement of the classes. She looked
at Kitty with an expectant expression. Kitty returned her gaze, and said
nothing. Kitty Malone felt glued to her seat. For a moment every nerve
seemed paralyzed, her face became crimson, her eyes filled with ready
tears, she looked down, the great tears splashed upon the desk before
her. At that instant she encountered the vindictive and delighted
glance of Alice Denvers.
Kitty had confided all her trouble to Alice on the previous night, and
Alice at the time had pretended to give a little sympathy; but where was
her sympathy now?
"I hate her," thought the Irish girl. "No one else would be glad to see
me so miserable."
"You have something to say to me, have you not, Miss Malone?" said Miss
Worrick in her stiff, precise voice.
Kitty staggered to her feet.
"I don't want to say it a bit," she grumbled.
"Come forward, my dear; come forward."
Kitty left the protection of her desk, and staggered across the room.
Miss Worrick had mounted a little platform, all the other teachers stood
waiting, and the girls waited also. Kitty looked round, the eyes in each
face seemed multiplied fourfold--the room seemed to be all eyes. She
longed for the mountains, for her father, for Laurie, for the old home.
She hated the school, she hated England. Why was she to be publicly
disgraced?
"Oh, it is very wrong indeed to ask me to do it," she cried. Then the
following words rushed out: "Miss Worrick, I am sorry I disobeyed you
yesterday, and I'll stay in class to-day. Yes, I will stay; but I hate
every one of you, and I hate England, and I wish I was back again in
dear Old Ireland. Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear! Why was I ever sent into
this horrid, cold, freezing land? Oh, my heart is broken! my heart is
broken!"
Kitty's sobs were distinctly heard across the great schoolroom. She
returned to her seat. Miss Worrick with a wave of her hand dismissed the
rest of the girls. Kitty bent her head low down upon the desk before
her, and sobbed louder and louder. At last she felt a hand resting
lightly on her shoulder.
"I know I did it dreadfully, Miss Worrick," she said; "but it was so
bad. Why did you make me, why did you make me?"
"There, Kitty, it is over now, and you will never disobey your teacher
again as long as you live," said a kind voice, and Kitty raised her eyes
to see, not the face of Miss Worrick, but that of the head-mistress.
"Oh, Miss Sherrard, how could you make me do it?" she sobbed. "It wasn't
in me. None of the Malones could beg anybody's pardon, and I couldn't go
on my knees when the moment came because they felt stiff, they had no
joints in them. I could not do it properly; no, I could not."
"You did it, dear, but not very well. You did it, however, and you have
learned your lesson. Now come with me into my private sitting-room. You
and I will have lunch together, and I will excuse you from any more
lessons to-day."
Kitty Malone never forgot that next hour. Miss Sherrard was an ideal
head-mistress. She had the keenest sympathy with girls. In her long
experience she had met girls of every shade of character, the bold, the
ambitious, the timorous, the idle, the frivolous, the noble, the
earnest. She knew all about the Christian girl as well as the pagan
girl; all about the girl who had a terrible battle with her own evil pro
pensities, and the girl whose nature was so amiable, so gentle, so
sweet, that life would be comparatively easy for her. But although she
had been head-mistress of the great Middleton School now for several
years, she had never before met quite such an extraordinary specimen as
Kitty Malone. Where, however, others would see nothing but a spirit of
frivolity, a love of admiration, dress, pleasure, in Kitty, Miss
Sherrard peeped below the surface and discovered some really noble
qualities. She determined to be very gentle to this wild, willful
girl--to take her, in short, as she was.
"Oh, I wonder you care to speak to me," said Kitty, when her sobs having
ceased, she stood looking half-repentant, half-rebellious in Miss
Sherrard's private room.
"You are not to be the subject of our conversation at all for the
present, Kitty," said Miss Sherrard. "Lunch is ready, and you must be
hungry. Would you like to go into my room--it is just next to this--and
wash your hands and brush out your hair?"
Kitty looked at Miss Sherrard's small and beautifully-kept hands. She
was fastidious to a remarkable degree about her personal appearance.
"I dare say my hair is somewhat untidy," she said. "I might as well take
a squint at myself in the glass. I never like to look ugly. Is my nose
very red, Miss Sherrard?"
"Never mind about your appearance," said Miss Sherrard, who could not
help feeling slightly annoyed at what she considered such a very
irrelevant remark.
"I expect I am a fright," said Kitty standing up and talking half to
herself and half for the benefit of the head-mistress. "Crying always
spoils me. Now, I knew a girl at home, and the more she cried the
prettier she got. She used to let her tears roil down her cheeks in
great drops, and never attempted to wipe them away, and her nose never
got red, and her eyes only got bigger and quite dewy. Now, as to me when
I cry, my nose----"
"Kitty, will you please remember that I am waiting for lunch,"
interrupted Miss Sherrard.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, ma'am," answered Kitty. She ran into the next
room, examined herself critically in the glass, arranged her hair,
dipped her hands into hot water, and came back looking spruce, bright,
pretty, and once more restored to the highest good-humor.
"I said yesterday that I would love you, ma'am," she said, as she seated
herself at the other side of the appetizing board. "Oh! what a dear
little pie! I wonder is it pigeon pie"
"No, it is lamb pie," answered Miss Sherrard. "Will you help yourself?"
Kitty cut herself a generous slice.
"I like all sorts of good things," she said. "I am sure I was meant to
do nothing in life but dress well, and look pretty, and have the nicest
food to eat, and----"
"How dare you?" interrupted Miss Sherrard. Her words coming firm and
strong, the expression on her kind face arrested the idle girl's silly
remarks.
"What do you mean?" asked Kitty.
"I mean this, Miss Malone, that you are a girl with a considerable
amount of ability----"
"Oh, now that I have not got."
"With a considerable amount of ability," continued Miss Sherrard, "and
with a great many talents."
"Talents! I thought talents meant genius. Now, I have always and always
been told that I was a dunce of the dunces. It's not joking me you are,
is it, Miss Sherrard?"
"No, Kitty; I am in very sober earnest. You have been sent to me to make
something of you."
"Well, my dear woman, I am afraid you won't make much. The fact is, I am
wild through and through. I come of a wild stock. I wish you could see
us at home, and Laurie, and----"
"You must tell me about your home afterward," said Miss Sherrard. "But
now I have something to say about yourself."
As she spoke, Miss Sherrard drew her cup of coffee to the side of the
table, leaned back, and looked fixedly into the bright and lovely face
of the girl who sat opposite her.
"You have read your Bible, have you not?" she said.
"My Bible!" cried Kitty. "Yes; I read it every day."
"I am glad to hear that."
"Why, you don't suppose we are a lot of heathens at Castle Malone, do
you, Miss Sherrard? Father has prayers every morning, and we all troop
in, every one of us, into the big hall. Oh, I wish you could see the
hall, and the pictures of my ancestors, and----"
"Afterward you shall tell me about them," interrupted Miss Sherrard. "So
you do read your Bible every day. Then I dare say you happen to know
the beautiful story, or rather parable, spoken by Christ himself about
the talents?"
"Yes, I love that story; only I don't think it applies specially to me,
for I have not got any."
"Have not you? Perhaps I can find that you have."
Kitty gazed at her mistress very earnestly.
"What is it I am good in?" she asked after a pause. "Is it my English?
Bless you, they tell me it's awfully Irish."
"It certainly is, Kitty."
"Then, I don't know any music, although I can sing and whistle. Oh, I
can whistle anything. There's not an air that Laurie plays (it's he that
has the genius for music, bless the boy)--but there's not an air he
plays that I can't whistle it right up and down, and with variations
too."
"Yes, my dear, yes; but I was not thinking of this special talent. Now,
let me tell you something that you have got."
"What? Please speak."
"You have plenty of money."
"I never thought that was a talent," cried Kitty.
"I should think it a very great and responsible talent. You have been
given that money to do something for God. He wants you to use it for
Him. Then, also, you have a very bright, attractive, loving manner."
"Oh, I feel every word I say. It's not manner," said Kitty. "You don't
suppose I'm a hypocrite, do you?"
"No, I think on the contrary you are very sincere. We will now admit
that you have got two talents; you have got money and you have got a
pleasant manner. I think also that you have got a third, and I may be
able to prove to you that you have got a fourth."
"Dear me, this is most entertaining!" exclaimed Kitty. "So I have really
got two talents, and you think I have more. What is the third?"
"I don't wish to make you vain; but you have--yes, I must tell you--a
remarkably pretty face."
"Ah, now, what a darling you are! I always thought you were sweet. What
part of me do you admire most, the eyes or the mouth? I have the real
Irish eyes I know--gentian-blue, yes, that's the color--and my
eyelashes--aren't they long?"
"We need not discuss your beauty piece by piece," said Miss Sherrard.
"You are pretty, and I am willing to admit it. Now, a bright face like
yours, with an attractive manner, is a gift. Then, besides, you
have--you will be astonished when I say this--lots of becoming dress,
which adds to the charm of your appearance. Kitty, if you were all you
might be--if you would use that money which God has given you, that
beauty which God has given you, that attractive manner which God has
given you, all for His service--why, you could do a great deal in the
world. You could make it a better place, a brighter place, a happier
place. Now, my dear child, your father has trusted you to me. He wrote
to me a great deal about you before you came to Middleton School----"
"Dear old dad!" cried Kitty.
"He loves you with all his heart."
"I should think so, the darling blessed man--may the saints preserve
him!"
"As your father feels so strongly about you, and as I promised him to
do what I could for his child, will you help me, Kitty? Will you
remember that you are equipped for the battle of life much more bravely,
much more strongly than most of the other girls in Middleton School? Use
your beauty for Him, dear; use your attractive manner for Him."
"You make me feel very solemn," said Kitty. She rose. "I will try and
think about it," she said. "I wish I was not quite such a giddypate; but
I'll try and think about it."
Miss Sherrard kissed her.
"And now I want you to do something more," she said. "You won't be able
to be a better girl than you were in the past if you don't pray to God
to help you; and when you pray, Kitty, ask Him to teach you to restrain
your feelings a little, not to let them all rush to the surface, to keep
a little back. Thus you will gain strength of character, and--and be all
the better for it, my child."
"You are very good to me," said Kitty. "I don't mind what I do for those
I love. I suppose now you would wish me to learn my lessons perfectly
every day?"
"I certainly should."
"And to--to turn poor little Agnes Moore from the head of her class?"
"Well, Kitty, I cannot say anything about that. II you do better work
than Agnes Moore you will get to the head of the class and she will go
down; but I doubt your being able to do so, for Agnes is a very clever
and a very diligent little pupil. But I want you, dear, soon to get out
of that class, for it is a great deal too young for you. I want you to
be with girls of your own age. We are yet one month to the end of the
term. By the end of term I want to be able to tell you that you have got
a remove. And now, dear, good-by. Remember, I shall watch you, and--yes,
I shall pray for you."
"You are very good to me," repeated Kitty; and she walked out of Miss
Sherrard's presence with her head lowered, and a mist before her eyes.
For the next few days Kitty was strangely thoughtful. She did not speak
nearly so much as usual, she felt inclined to go away by herself, and
she was much puzzled about her talents. Miss Sherrard's words had made
quite a deep impression. She learned her lessons with care, and had
every chance, so her teachers told her, of a remove at the end of term.
Even Alice found less to say against her. Kitty began to look on her
school life as something roseate and delightful; but all these things
were to come to a speedy end.
On a certain afternoon she got home to find Alice out and Mrs. Denvers
seated in the drawing-room with a great basket of mending before her.
"Oh, what a lot of work! Would you like me to help you?" said Kitty.
"Very much, dear; but what kept you so late? Oh, here is a letter for
you."
"A letter!" cried Kitty eagerly. "Oh, it is from Laurie. Hurrah!
hurrah!"
She forgot all about her offer to help Mrs. Denvers with her darning,
tossed the letter in the air two or three times, and then sank down on
the nearest ottoman to read it. These were the words on which her eyes
rested:
"DEAR OLD KITTERKINS: I have got into the greatest bother of a mess that
ever assailed a poor gossoon, and if you can't help me, old girleen,
well, I shall be done brown, as the saying is. The whole matter concerns
Paddy Wheel-about. The poor creature has been getting queerer and
queerer lately, and father has been ever so much worried about him. I
didn't know a word of this, mind you, at the time, but learnt it
afterwards; and it makes my bit of a frolic all the blacker, I can tell
you. Father got Dr. Milligan to go and see Paddy in his cabin at the top
of Sleeve Nohr, and the doctor said that the poor old boy was going off
his head as fast as he could, and we must be careful not to give him any
shock. Well, but to come to my part of it. You know that coat of his,
and what diversion we have had out of it from time to time? You made one
of the patches yourself, don't you remember, Kitty? We always told him
that in each patch he had concealed a sovereign. Well, hot as the days
are, he has been wearing that coat, and a figure of fun he did look. The
Mahoney boys and Pat and I thought we would take a rise out of him; so
one night when he was asleep we stole up to his lair and got hold of the
precious coat. We bundled it up and were off with it. We had to cross
the lake, in the old boat with a hole in the bottom, in order to get
home in time, and what do you think happened? Up came a squall, the boat
was upset, and Paddy's coat sank to the bottom of the lake. We swam to
the shore and thought it would be an easy matter to fish up the old coat
on the following morning; but although we dragged and dragged, and Pat
and I both dived down to the bottom a good dozen of times, the coat had
sunk in the deep mud and we could not find it, no nor a sign of it.
Well, of course, our one hope was that no one should know; but what was
our horror to be confronted by no less a person than Wheel-about
himself. You know that craze he has about never speaking. Well, he spoke
to us and pretty sharp too, and told us he knew we had taken the coat,
and didn't he look thunders and daggers at us, and we funked it so
awfully--yes, I will confess it, Kits, your brave Laurie funked it like
anything--for Wheel-about did really look like a roadman; at last there
was no help for it--we had to out with the truth. Oh, didn't he raise a
yell louder than anything you ever heard, and then I told him that if I
could not get back the coat I would give him ten pounds for certain by
Saturday next. He said if I did he would lie quiet for a bit and not
tell the governor, so I want you like a blessed girleen to lend me the
money. Send it off the very instant you read this; for if you don't the
saints alone know what will happen. We are certain to be sent to a
school in England, at least I am. From what you tell me, Kitterkins, of
that place, I should think it would break our hearts to smithereens. Now
look sharp and send the money. Your loving brother,
"LAURIE."
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Kitty starting to her feet. "Do you mind my going
out at once, Mrs. Denvers?"
"Certainly not, my love. Tea will be ready at five o'clock. Are you
going far?"
"Only to Elma Lewis' house. I want to see her; it is awfully important."
"But Elma lives quite two miles from here."
"Oh, that does not matter. I am sure to find my way. It is most urgent,"
said Kitty.
She rushed out of the room, pinned on her hat, and a moment later was
walking down the street as fast as she could go. She crossed a field
and a common, and after a time got into that part of the town where Elma
lived. By dint of asking half a dozen children and three or four
policemen she at last reached Constantine Road, and presently found the
right house. She ran up the steps and sounded a rattling rat-tat on the
knocker. The moment she did so a girl with a mop of untidy red hair
peeped up at her from the area below.
"Come and open the door at once," called Kitty. "Why do you keep a lady
waiting?"
The girl soon appeared, tying on her cap and apron as she did so.
"I thought as they was all out for the day," she began, "--Oh, miss, I
beg your pardon."
Kitty, notwithstanding her rather rude words, presented a very charming
spectacle as she stood on the steps. She was dressed not only in the
height of the fashion, but wore such a perfectly captivating little
toque at the back of her head as to fire the fancy and take the little
wit which she possessed out of Mrs. Lewis' maid-of-all-work.
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 violent
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