WIT AND GENIUS: THE PLAN PROPOUNDED.
While Kathleen was locked in Alice's room, she was writing to her
father:
"MY DARLING DADDY.--If ever there was a cold, dreary,
abominable land, it is this where they wave the British flag.
The ugliness of it would make you sick. The people are as ugly
as the country, and they're so stiff and stuck-up. If you
suppose for a moment that your wild Irish girl can stand much
of this sort of thing, you are fine and mistaken, and you can
tell the mother so. I mean to write to Aunt Katie O'Flynn
to-morrow and give her a fine piece of my mind. Early in the
day, dad, I did not think that I could stay at all; but I have
got a plan in my head now, and if I succeed I may at least put
up with one term of this detestable school. I won't tell you
the plan, for you mightn't approve; in fact, I can guess in
advance that you wouldn't approve. Anyhow, it is going to
occupy the time and thoughts of your Kathleen. Now I want a
good bit of money; not a pound or even five pounds, but more
than that. Can you send me a ten-pound note, daddy mine, and
say nothing whatever about it to the mother or the retainers
at Carrigrohane? And can you let me have it as quick as quick
can be? Maybe I will want more before the term is up, or maybe
I won't. Anyhow, we will let that lie in the future. Oh, my
broth of an old dad, wouldn't I like to hug you this blessed
minute? How is everybody at home? How are the mountains? How
is the sea? How is the trout-stream? Are those young cousins
of mine behaving themselves, the spalpeens? And how are you,
my heart of hearts--missing your Kathleen, I doubt not? Well,
no more for the present. They're rattling at the door like
anything, and there's a detestable boy now whistling 'Garry
Owen' right into my heart. You can't imagine what I am
feeling. Oh, the omadhaun! he is changing it now into 'St.
Patrick's Day,' Wisha, then, daddy! I must stop, for it's more
than the heart of woman can stand. Your affectionate daughter,
"KATHLEEN."
This letter was posted by Kathleen herself. After supper she went with
David into the old loft over the tumble-down stables. It was not a very
safe place of refuge, for the rafters were rotten and might tumble down
at any time. Still, the sense of danger made it all, the more
interesting to the children. There they sat side by side, and Kathleen
told David about her old life. She was very outspoken and affectionate,
and very fierce and very wild. To look at her, one would have said there
never was any one less reserved; but Kathleen in her heart of hearts was
intensely reserved. Her real feelings she never told; her real hopes she
never breathed. She talked with high spirits all the time; and although
she liked David and was much comforted by his words and his actions, he
did not get at the real Kathleen at all.
When Alice came back that evening Kathleen was sound asleep in her
little bed, dreaming of Carrigrohane and the old home. She was murmuring
some loving words as Alice entered the room.
"Oh, daddy mine, my heart is sore for you," she was saying in a tone
which caused Alice to pause and look at her attentively.
"She is the most awful girl I ever heard of," thought Alice. "I am sure
she will get us into trouble. I know that those three guineas a week
that mother gets for having her are not worth all the mischief she will
drag us into. But still, she does look pretty when she is asleep."
Kathleen had very long and very thick eyelashes and nobly arched brows.
Her forehead was broad and full and beautifully white. The mischievous,
dare-devil expression of her face when awake was softened in her sleep.
Alice, who had determined to come very noisily into the room and bang
her things about, to take rude possession of her own half of the
room--which, after all, was the better half--was softened by the look
on the girl's face. She knelt for a moment at her bedside and prayed
that God would keep her from quite hating Kathleen. This was a great
deal from Alice, who had made up her mind never to be friends with the
Irish girl. Then she got into bed and fell asleep.
The next morning, quite early, Kathleen was up. She was accustomed to
getting up almost at cock-crow at Carrigrohane, and when Alice opened
her eyes, it was to see an empty bed and an empty room.
"I wonder if she's up to mischief?" she thought.
She got up and went to the window. Kathleen was walking across the
common. She had no hat on, and no jacket. She was stepping along
leisurely, looking up sometimes at the sky, and sometimes pausing as
though she was thinking hard.
"She will catch cold and be ill; that will be the next trouble," thought
the indignant Alice. She sleepily proceeded with her dressing. It was
only half-past seven. The Great Shirley School met at nine. Alice was
seldom downstairs until past eight. When she came down this morning she
saw, to her amazement, Kathleen helping the very untidy maid-of-all-work
to lay the breakfast things. She was dashing about, putting plates and
cups and saucers anyhow upon the board.
"Now then, Maria," she said, "shall I run down to the kitchen and bring
up the hot bacon and the porridge? I will, with a heart and a half. Oh,
you poor girl, how tired you look!"
Maria, whom Alice never noticed, looked with adoring eyes at beautiful
Kathleen.
"It isn't right, miss. I ought to be doing my own work," she said. "I am
ever so much obliged to you, miss."
"Wisha, then, it is I who like to help you," said Kathleen, "for you
look fair beat."
She dashed past Alice, and appeared the next moment in the kitchen.
"Where's the bacon, cook? And where's the bread, and where's the butter,
and all the rest of the breakfast? See, woman--see! Give me a tray and I
will fill it up and take the things upstairs with my own hands. You
think it is beneath me, perhaps; but I am a lady from a castle, and at
Carrigrohane Castle we often do this sort of thing when the hands of the
poor maids are full to overflowing."
The cook, a sandy-haired and sour-looking woman, began by scowling at
Kathleen; but soon the girl's pretty face and merry eyes appeased her.
She and Kathleen had almost a quarrel as to who was to carry up the
tray, but Kathleen won the day; and when Mrs. Tennant made her
appearance, feeling tired and overdone, she was amazed to see Kathleen
acting parlor-maid.
"I love it," she said. "If I can help you, you dear, tired, worn one, I
shall be only too glad."
"I am sure, mother," said Alice, "it is very good of Kathleen to wish to
do the household work; but as she has been sent here to gain some
information of another sort, do you think it ought to be allowed?"
"And who will prevent it, darling? That is the question," said Kathleen
in her softest voice.
Alice was silent.
"I tell you what," said Kathleen. "When I see you beginning to help your
poor, exhausted mother, and running messages for that overworked
slavey--I think you call her Maria--then perhaps I'll do less. And when
there's some one else to mend the boys' socks, perhaps I won't offer;
but until there is, the less you say about such things the better, Miss
Alice Tennant."
Ben kicked David under the table, and David kicked him back to stay
quiet. Altogether the breakfast was a noisy one.
Kathleen went to school quite prepared to carry out her promise to Susy
Hopkins. She had neatly packed the little Irish diamond brooch in a box,
and had slipped under it a tiny note:
"Get as many foundation girls as you can to meet me, at
whatever place you like to appoint, this evening. I have a
plan to propose.--KATHLEEN O'HARA.
"_P.S._--You can name the place by pinning a note under my
desk. Be sure you all come. The plan is gloryious."
The thought of the note and the plan and the little brooch kept Kathleen
in a fairly good humor on her walk to school. There she saw Ruth Craven.
She was decidedly angry with Ruth for having, as she said to herself,
"snubbed her" the day before. But beauty always had a curious effect on
the Irish girl, and when she observed Ruth's really exquisite little
face, clear cut as a cameo, with eyes full of expression, and watched
the lips ready to break into the gentlest smiles, Kathleen said to
herself:
"It is all over with me. She is the only decent-looking colleen I have
met in this God-forsaken country. Make up to her I will."
She dashed, therefore, almost rudely through a great mass of incoming
girls, and seized Ruth by her shoulder.
"Ruth," she said, "go and talk to Susy Hopkins during recess. She will
have something to say, and I want you so badly. You won't refuse me,
will you, Ruth?"
"But I don't know what you want," said Ruth.
"Go and talk to Susy Hopkins; she will know. Oh, there she is!"
"Kathleen, Kathleen!" called out Alice. "The school-bell has just rung,
and they are opening the doors. Come do come."
"In a jiff," replied Kathleen.
She ran up to Susy.
"This is what I promised," she said; "and there is a note inside. Read
it, and give me the answer where I have asked you."
Susy Hopkins, a most ordinary little girl, who had no position of any
sort in the school, colored high with delight. Some of the paying girls
looked at her in astonishment. Susy walked into the school with her head
high in the air; she quite adored Kathleen, for she was making her a
person of great distinction.
"We are going to have a glorious time," whispered Susy to Kate Rourke as
they made their way to their respective classes.
Susy was small, rather stupid, and absolutely unimportant. Kate was big,
black-eyed, impudent. She was jealous of the paying girls of the school;
but she treated Susy as some one beneath contempt.
"Don't drag my sleeve," she replied crossly. "And what you do mean by a
glorious time? I don't understand you."
"You will presently," said Susy. "And when all is said and done, you
will have to remember that you owe it to me. But I have no time to talk
now; only meet me, and bring as many of the foundationers as you can
collect into the left-hand corner of the playground, just behind the
Botanical Laboratory, at recess."
Kate made no answer, unless a toss of her head could have been taken as
a reply. Her first impulse was to take no notice of Susy's
remarks--little Susy Hopkins, the daughter of a small stationer in the
town, a girl who had scarcely scraped through in her examination. It was
intolerable that she should put on such airs.
The work of the school began, and all the girls were busy. Kate was
clever, and she meant to try for one of the big scholarships. She would
get her forty pounds a year when the time came, and go to Holloway
College or some other college. She was not a lady by birth; she had not
a single instinct of a true lady within her; but she was intensely
ambitious. She did not care so much for beauty as for style; she made
style her idol. The look that Cassandra wore as she walked quietly
across the room, the set of her dress, the still more wonderful set of
her head as it was placed on her queenly young shoulders--these were the
things that burnt into Kate's soul and made her restless and
dissatisfied. She would willingly have given all her father's
wealth--and he was quite well-to-do for his class--- to have Cassandra's
face, Cassandra's voice, Cassandra's figure. Cassandra was not at all a
pretty girl, but her appearance appealed to all the wild ambitions in
Kate's soul. She had a jealous contempt of Ruth Craven, who, although a
foundation girl, managed to look like a lady; but her envy was centered
round Cassandra. As to the Irish girl, she had scarcely noticed her up
to the present.
Work went on that morning with much verve and vigor. It was a pleasant
morning: the windows were open; the schoolrooms were all well
ventilated; the teachers, the best of their kind, were stimulating in
their lectures and in their conversation. There was a look of business
and animation throughout the whole place: it was like a hive of bees. At
last the moment of recess arrived. Kate just raised her head, looked
over the shoulders of her companions, and saw Susy Hopkins darting
restlessly about, catching one girl by the sleeve, another by the arm,
whispering in the ear of a third, flinging her arm round the neck of a
fourth; and as she spoke to the girls they looked interested,
astonished, and cordial. They moved away to that lonely part of the
playground which was situated at the back of the Botanical Laboratory.
Kate had made up her mind not to take the least notice of Susy. She was
pacing up and down alone; for, most provoking, all her chosen friends
had gone off with that young lady. Suddenly she saw Ruth Craven going
very quietly by. By all the laws of the foundationers, Ruth ought to
speak to her companions in misfortune. Kate rushed up to her.
"What are they all doing there?" she said. "Do you happen to know Susy
Hopkins?"
"No," replied Ruth gently. "She came up to me just now and asked me to
join her and some other girls at the back of the Laboratory. I don't
know that I want to."
"I am curious," said Kate. "Of course, I am no friend of Susy's; she is
a most contemptible little wretch; but I may as well know what it is all
about. Come with me, won't you?"
Ruth hesitated.
"Come along; we may as well know. There is probably some mischief on
foot, and it is only fair that we should be forewarned."
"I don't want to know," said Ruth; but as Kate slipped her hand through
her arm and pulled her along, she said resignedly, "Well, if I must I
must."
As they strolled across the big playground, Ruth turned and glanced at
Cassandra; but Cassandra was busy making friends with Florence, who was
very angry with her for her desertion of the day before, and took no
notice of Ruth. The Irish girl was nowhere in sight. Ruth sighed and
continued her walk with Kate.
The most lonely and most dreary part of the playground was that little
portion which was situated at the back of the Laboratory. Nothing grew
there; the ground was innocent of grass, and much worn by the tramping
of young feet. There were swings and garden-seats and preparations for
tennis and other games in the rest of the big playground, but nothing
had ever been done at the back of the Laboratory. When the two girls
arrived they found five other girls waiting for them. Their names were,
of course, Susy Hopkins, who considered herself on this delightful
occasion quite the leader; a gentle and refined-looking girl of the name
of Mary Rand; Rosy Myers, who was pretty and frivolous, with dark eyes
and fair hair; Clara Sawyer, who was renowned for her vulgar taste in
dress; and Hannah Johnson, a heavy-looking girl with a scowling brow and
a very pronounced jaw. Hannah Johnson was about the plainest girl in the
school. When Susy saw Kate Rourke and Ruth Craven she uttered a little
scream of delight.
"Now we are complete," she said. "Listen to me, all you girls, for I
haven't too long in which to tell you; that horrid bell will ring us
back to lessons and dullness in less than no time. The most wonderful,
delightful chance is offered to us. I met her yesterday, and she decided
to do it. She is a brick of bricks. She will make the most tremendous
difference in our lives. You know, although you pretend not to feel it,
but you all must know how we foundationers are sat upon and objected to
in the school. We bear it as meekly as we can for the sake of our
so-called advantages; but if we can be snubbed, we are, and if we can be
neglected, we are--although it isn't the teachers we have to complain
of, but the girls. Sometimes things are past bearing, and yet we are
powerless. There are three hundred paying girls, and there are one
hundred foundationers. What chance has one hundred against three?"
"What is the good of bringing all that up, Susy?" said Mary Rand. "We
are foundationers, and we ought to be thankful."
"The education is splendid; we ought not to forget that," said Ruth
Craven.
Susy turned on Ruth as though she would like to eat her.
"It is all very fine for you," she said. "Just because you happen to be
pretty, they take you up. I wonder one of your fine friends doesn't pay
for you, and so save your position out and out."
"I wouldn't allow her to," replied Ruth, her eyes flashing fire. "I had
much rather be a foundationer. I mean to prove that I am every bit as
good as a paying girl. I mean to make you all respect me, so there!"
"That'll do, Spitfire," said Kate Rourke. "The time is passing, and we
must get to the bottom of Susy Hopkins's remarkable address.--What's up,
Susy? What's up?"
"This," said Susy. "You know the Irish girl who has come to live with
the Tennants?"
"Can't say I do," said Kate.
"Well, you will soon. She's a regular out-and-out beauty."
"I know her," cried Ruth Craven. "She is most lovely."
"She's better," said Susy; "she's bewitching. See; she gave me this."
Here she pointed proudly to the Irish diamond brooch, which she had
stuck in the bosom of her dress. The diamond had been polished, and
flashed brightly; the silver setting was also as good as was to be
found. The girls crowded round to admire, and "Oh, my!" "Oh, dear!" "Did
you ever?" and "Well, I never!" sounded on all sides.
"You will be so set up now, Susan Hopkins, that we won't be able to bear
you in the same class," said Clara Sawyer.
"Go on," exclaimed Hannah Johnson--"go on and tell us what you want.
Your horrid brooch doesn't interest us. What have you got to say?"
"You are mad with jealousy, and you know it," answered Susy. "Well, I am
coming to the great news. The Irish girl's name is Kathleen O'Hara, and
she comes from a castle over in the wild west of Ireland. Her father is
very rich, and he keeps dogs and horses and carriages and--oh,
everything that rich people keep. Compared to the other girls in the
school, she is ten times a lady; and she has a true lady's heart. And
she has taken a dislike, as far as I can see, to Alice Tennant."
"And I'm sure I'm not surprised," said Rosy Myers.
"Stuck-up thing!" said Clara Sawyer.
"Dirt beneath our feet!" exclaimed Hannah Johnson.
"Well; she doesn't like her either, though she doesn't use that kind of
language," continued Susy. "Anyhow, she wants to befriend _us_--Oh, do
let me speak!"--as Kate interrupted with a hasty exclamation. "She
thinks that we are just as good as herself. There is no false pride
about a real lady, girls; and the end of it is that she has a plan to
propose--something for our benefit and for her benefit. See for
yourselves; this is her letter. It is in her own beautiful Irish,
handwriting. You can read it, only don't tear it all to bits."
The girls did read the letter. They pressed close together, and one
peeped over the shoulder of her companion, another stood on tiptoe,
while a third tried to snatch the letter from the hand of her fellow;
but all managed to read the words: "Get as many foundation girls as you
can to meet me, at whatever place you like to appoint, this evening. I
have a plan to propose." This letter and the end of the postscript
excited the girls; there was no doubt whatever of that. "The plan is
_gloryious_." They laughed at the word, smiled into each others' faces,
and stood very close together consulting.
"The old quarry," whispered Rosy.
"That's the place!" exclaimed Mary.
"Let us meet her, we seven by ourselves," was Kate's final suggestion.
"We will then know what she wants, and if there is anything in it. We
can form a committee, and get other girls to join by degrees. Hurrah! I
do say this is fun."
Susy was now quite petted by her companions. The conference hastily
ended, and on entering the school Susy pinned a piece of paper under
Kathleen's desk, on which she wrote: "The old quarry; nine o'clock this
evening. Will meet you at a quarter to nine outside Mrs. Tennant's
house."
When Kathleen received the communication her eyes flashed with delighted
fire. She thrust the letter into her pocket and proceeded with her work.
The Irish girl looked quite happy that day; she had something to
interest her at last. Her lessons, too, were by no means distasteful.
She had a great deal of quick wit and ready perception. Hitherto she had
been taught anyhow, but now she was all keen to receive real
instruction. Her intuitions were rapid indeed; she could come to
startlingly quick conclusions, and as a rule her guesses were correct
rather than otherwise. Kathleen had a passion for music; she had never
been properly taught, but the soul of music was in her as much as it was
in David Tennant. She had a beautiful melodious voice, which had, of
course, not yet come to maturity. Just before the end of the morning she
took her first lesson in music. Her mistress was a very amiable and
clever woman of the name of Agnes Spicer. Miss Spicer put a sheet of
music before her.
"Play that," she said.
Kathleen frowned. Her delicate white fingers trembled for an instant on
the keys. She played one or two bars perforce and very badly; then she
dashed the sheet of music in an impetuous way to the floor.
"I can't," she said; "it isn't my style. May I play you something
different?"
Miss Spicer was about to refuse, but looking at the girl, whose cheeks
were flushed and eyes full of fire, she changed her mind.
"Just this once," she said; "but you must begin to practice properly.
What I call amateur music can't be allowed here."
"Will this be allowed?" said Kathleen.
She dashed into heavy chords, played lightly a delicate movement, and
then broke into an Irish air, "The Harp that once through Tara's Halls."
From one Irish melody to another her light fingers wandered. She played
with perfect correctness--with fire, with spirit. Soon she forgot
herself. When she stopped, tears were running down her cheeks.
"What is music, after all," she said, looking full into the face of her
teacher, "when you are far from the land you love? How can you stand
music then? No, I don't mean to learn _music_ at the Great Shirley
School; I can't. When I am back again at home I shall play 'The Harp
that once through Tara's Halls,' but I can't do it justice here. You
will excuse me; I can't. I am sorry if I am rude, but it isn't in me.
Some time, if you have a headache and feel very bad, as my dear father
does sometimes, I shall play to you; but I can't learn as the other
girls learn--it isn't in me."
Again she put her fingers on the keys of the piano and brought forth a
few sobbing, broken-hearted notes. Then she started up.
"I expect you will punish me for this, Miss Spicer, but I am sorry--I
can't help myself."
Strange to say, Miss Spicer did not punish her. On the contrary, she
took her hand and pressed it.
"I won't ask you to do any more to-day," she said. "I see you are not
like others. I will talk the matter over with you to-morrow."
"And you will find me unchanged," said Kathleen. "Thank you, all the
same, for your forbearance."