KATE'S LITTLE PLAN.
AFTER morning lectures on the first day of Cecil Ross' arrival at
Redgarth, Kate O'Connor walked suddenly into the classroom where
Matilda was putting up her books. As a rule, Kate did not take the
slightest notice of Matilda. Now she walked straight to her side, and
asked if she were going back to dinner.
"Yes," replied Matilda, drawing up her little squat person, and
trying to look imposing and not frightened; for Matilda, like many
other people of her special genus, could be a rare coward on certain
occasions. "Yes," she said; "why not?" She tried to throw a pert tone
into her voice.
"Why not, of course," replied Kate, standing very upright, and tall,
and handsome by her side. "I also am going back to dinner, and as our
road home lies part of the way together, shall we start at once?"
"But you don't really want to walk with me?" said Matilda, shrinking
back.
"On this occasion I happen to wish to walk with you," said Kate. "I
have something to ask you."
"Oh!"
Matilda's freckled face became mottled. She stooped down under the
pretense of tying her shoe.
"I am in a great hurry," she said. "Will not this afternoon do?"
"No, it will not do. I shan't take up any of your valuable time. I
shall simply walk with you across the quadrangle. Now, come on, or some
other girls will join us."
"But I promised to walk with Rosy Merton."
"Rosy Merton must look for another companion. Come, Matilda, I shall
think you have reasons for shirking my society if you make any more
excuses."
"How could you possibly think that?" said Matilda, with a little
nervous laugh. "Everyone knows that to be seen walking with Kate
O'Connor is a distinction."
Kate made no response.
"Are you ready?" she said.
Matilda shouldered her bag of books, and the two girls left the school
together.
Several curious pairs of eyes saw them go, and the news began to
circulate through the class room that Matilda was going to get her
deserts from Kate. Matilda's story with regard to Kate was now known
to every girl at St. Dorothy's. They listened to the envious, wicked
girl's spiteful words with avidity, disliking her cordially all the
time, and feeling rather more interested in Kate than they had done
hitherto.
Julia Hinkson was one of the girls who saw the pair walk off together,
and Julia felt her heart sink down into her boots, as she expressed it.
"Now," said Kate, when they had got beyond the school precincts, "I
want to ask you a very plain question, Matilda. Oh, you need not turn
away, for I am determined to ask it! Pray slacken your steps; there is
no hurry."
"There is. I have a great lot of work to get through," mumbled Matilda.
"I thought I could get five minutes before dinner to work up my French
verbs. I am going to try for the governors' scholarship, you know,
Kate."
Kate made no response for a minute. Then she said in a slow, deliberate
voice, which she scarcely recognized as her own: "I am not interested
in your studies, Matilda; if I know anything about you, your path and
mine in life will always be far apart. I have asked you to walk with me
to-day because I have heard a report which troubles me very much. About
three weeks ago I happened to tell certain facts with regard to my
early life to my friend, Molly Lavender. The story I told her has now,
it appears, become common property at St. Dorothy's. More than one girl
has told me this. No, excuse me, I do not intend to mention names. In
each case I am told that you are responsible for the report which has
been circulated about me; I am told, further, that you have got your
information from Molly. I want to know if this is the case."
Matilda did not speak at all for a moment.
"Is it true, Matilda?"
"Why do you ask me?" replied Miss Matthews, giving her fat shoulder a
little shrug. "Your action and manner tell me all too plainly that you
have not a spark of respect for me. If I were to tell you, would you
believe me?"
It was now Kate's turn to be silent.
"If you do not intend to believe me, what is the use of my speaking?"
continued Matilda.
"On this occasion I think I must believe you," answered Kate.
"Very well; repeat your question."
"Did you hear the report about me from Molly Lavender?"
"Yes."
Kate felt herself turning pale. A cold dew stood out on her forehead;
she pressed her hand with a quick movement to her heart.
"I said I'd believe you," she answered, after a pause. "I will not
press for further confidence. Our roads divide here. Good-morning!"
Kate rushed off to St. Dorothy's.
She appeared at dinner with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. Her manner
had undergone a complete revolution. She was no longer stiff nor
defiant. She addressed herself almost as much as formerly to Molly,
who received her first advances with delight, but presently turned
away her head with a sigh. This voluble, excitable Kate was not the
Kate O'Connor of old. A certain element which had made her slightest
remark delightful had left her voice. Molly thought, as she listened
to her gay and excited words, that she would rather have her silent and
distant. But Cecil, who did not know Kate, and the other girls at the
dinner table were charmed to have her bright and cheerful once more.
When the meal came to an end, Kate rushed off to find Miss Leicester.
"I want to ask a great favor of you, Miss Leicester," exclaimed the
girl.
"What is that, my dear?"
"My birthday will be on Saturday. I shall be seventeen on that
occasion; I want to know if I may celebrate the event by a little
party, to which I want to ask all my friends and acquaintances
belonging to the school."
Miss Leicester considered for a moment.
"We don't much care to have entertainments of that sort during term,"
she said.
"Yes; but this is a most special occasion. I do beg of you to let me
have it."
"Where do you propose to entertain your friends, Kate?"
"I think Hester Temple will let me use her room; it is a good large
one."
"My dear, I can't, of course, really object. You want to have a little
supper?"
"Yes; if I may."
"You may, Kate; you are a good girl; we all like you, and I am not
going to refuse the first request you have ever asked me."
"Thank you a thousand times! How truly kind you are! Will you add to
the favor you are conferring on me by being one of my guests?"
"If you really wish it, of course, my dear; but will it not spoil the
fun?"
"I don't think there will be much fun."
"What do you mean?"
"Will you come, Miss Leicester? I really can't explain myself."
"Kate, you don't look happy. Is anything the matter, my dear child?"
"You will know if you come on Saturday. Of course there is nothing the
matter--I mean nothing of consequence. Please come! I am Irish; I am
subject to moods--to many moods."
"Yes, I will come, Kate. Have you got money for your little
entertainment?"
"I have an unbroken sovereign in my purse--more than enough. Thank you
a thousand times for giving me leave."
Kate went off with her head in the air. She met Hester coming
downstairs.
"Hetty," she cried, running up to her, "I am going to have a birthday
on Saturday!"
"Are you indeed, Kate? and how bright you look!"
"Why not? Have you any objection?"
"No, I am sure I have not," replied Hester heartily. "I am only too
delighted. I felt like cutting out my tongue, Katy, for having told you
what I did last night."
"Oh, I don't bother myself with reports like that!" replied Kate, in a
low tone. "Most people have gossip spread about them."
"Then you are not going to quarrel with Molly Lavender?"
"Quarrel with her? Certainly not. Hetty, I want to ask you a favor."
"What is it?"
"I want to celebrate my birthday."
"Indeed, lucky you! have you got money?"
"Yes; an unbroken sovereign. I mean to give a feast."
"Delicious! Bon-bons, do you mean?"
"More than bon-bons. I thought of lemonade, sandwiches, ginger-beer,
chocolate, cakes."
"Nectar for the gods!" cried Hester, with enthusiasm.
"I spoke to Miss Leicester, and she has given me permission," continued
Kate.
"Oh, the angel!" exclaimed Hester. "Then it is not going to be a case
of stolen sweets; eh, Kate?"
"No; it is to be all rectitude, noble example, true hospitality; the
most aboveboard sort of thing in existence."
"It won't be such fun as if there were a little spice of wickedness in
it," quoth Hester.
"Hetty, you shock me! I shall be seventeen on Saturday. At seventeen
one ought to discard wickedness as one would a worn-out shell."
"All right, love! Of course I approve, but did you not say that you
wanted to ask me a favor?"
"Rather; I want you to lend me your room for the great occasion."
"Of course I will; what is more, I will help you by every means in my
power. Of course Molly is coming to the birthday feast?"
"Of course she is; she is to be one of my most distinguished guests."
"And that new girl, Cecil Ross?"
"She shall also be invited; Molly shall not be deprived of her dear
friend's society."
"Kate, I am certain you are jealous of Cecil Ross."
"Furiously jealous," answered Kate, with a light laugh.
"Oh, but you needn't be! Molly loves you; she was crying about you this
morning."
"What a very unpleasant thing to tell me!" said Kate. "Am I in such a
deplorable condition, in either mind or body, as to require tears?"
Hester opened her lips to speak, but Kate suddenly clapped her hand
across her mouth.
"Not a word more, Hetty," she exclaimed; "I have really no time to
consider Molly Lavender's feelings at the present moment. I mean to ask
all the girls whom I know to my birthday feast, even Matilda Matthews."
"Oh, that horrid creature! I wouldn't if I were you."
"You would if you were me."
"But surely you are not going to take up a girl of that sort?"
"Did I say so?"
"No; but to ask her to your party!"
"That is no special sign of friendship," replied Kate; "both friends
and acquaintances are to be invited. Well, this is Wednesday, and
I have no more time to spare. I must go to my cubicle now to write
invitations."
Kate ran off.
That afternoon the girls at St. Dorothy's, and several girls in other
houses of residence, received short letters from Kate O'Connor. The
letters ran as follows:
"Kate O'Connor requests the pleasure of your company
to a birthday supper on the twentieth inst., at eight
o'clock.
"R.S.V.P."
Molly found her invitation lying on the top of her bureau; there was
one also for Cecil. The girls began to talk and wonder, but Kate kept
her own counsel. Her eyes were brighter than usual, and she held
herself more aloof than of old. All the girls to whom the invitations
had been sent longed for Saturday--all, with the exception of Matilda
Matthews. Matilda was devoured with curiosity, she was proud of being
invited; but mixed with her pride and her sensations of curiosity was a
strange, incomprehensible feeling of fear.
So many girls accepted the invitation that Hester's room was discovered
to be quite too small for the festive occasion. A good-natured
neighbor, however, Lucy Anderson by name, came unexpectedly to the
rescue. She suggested that the supper should be in her room, and that
the guests should assemble in Hester's. This could be easily managed,
for the two rooms had communicating doors. Kate was now very busy, and
Hester became her right hand.
A week ago she would have consulted Molly with regard to all the
arrangements for her birthday party; now Hester was the favored one.
Kate was in her gayest, most _débonnaire_ mood. Her Irish wit rose to
fever point; she kept those girls with whom she chose to be intimate
in ceaseless giggles and wild peals of mirth. As she scattered her
_bon-mots_, she scarcely laughed herself, but the light in her
sparkling eyes was infectious, and the smiles which came at rare
intervals, and showed her pearly white teeth, had something fascinating
about them. Hester was alone in the secret with regard to the
capacities of Kate's sovereign. Hester was clever with regard to the
laying out of a limited sum of money. Between twenty and thirty girls
had accepted Kate's invitation. Girls of the ages of from fourteen to
seventeen are proverbial for healthy appetites; wise Hester therefore
suggested that the cakes should be plain and abundant, rather than rich
and scanty; that the lemonade should not be made entirely with fresh
lemons; in short, that several little economies should be practiced in
order to make the feast, if simple, full and plenty.
[Illustration: KATE'S PICTURE.]
There was no hitch in the arrangements. Each girl was requested to
bring her own cup and saucer, her own spoon, plate, and glass. When the
hour arrived, Hester met the invited guests at the door, and quickly
relieved them of these little accessories to the feast. Laughter, talk,
and high good-humor marked the auspicious hour. Kate herself, the
acknowledged queen of the evening, was one of the last to appear. This
fact rather astonished Hester, who, although behind the scenes in one
sense of the word, was completely in the dark as to Kate's real motive
for calling her friends together. She walked into Hester Temple's
pretty rooms when they were quite full, and nodded to her assembled
friends with a bright smile and a word of welcome. Her dress on this
occasion annoyed more than one. It consisted of a cotton blouse and
a short dark-blue serge skirt. The blouse was slightly old-fashioned
in make, and looked as if it had often visited the washtub. Kate's
luxuriant hair was arranged more simply than on ordinary occasions, her
cheeks were flushed, her eyes were wonderfully bright; she wore neat
black stockings, and a stout little pair of shoes.
"Dear me, Kate, what a funny costume!" said Lucy Anderson. "Why, you
look exactly as if you were dressing up to do the part of a dairymaid."
"Well, it's a very good part to do, isn't it?" said Kate.
She laughed merrily, and, going into the supper room, began to help
Hester in dispensing the viands. Matilda Matthews, who was sitting
near one of the doors, looked strangely uncomfortable when Kate came
in; she felt somehow as if Kate were laughing at her. She did not like
that dairymaid dress, and wondered if she could quietly escape without
anyone noticing her exit.
The thought had scarcely darted through her mind before Kate approached
her.
"I am so glad to see you," she said; "you must not sit there by the
door; you are a stranger in this house, and as a stranger, I wish to
show you special attention. Pray come up and sit here. You won't! Oh,
yes, I am sure you will, to oblige me! Here's our new girl, Cecil Ross.
I will introduce you to Miss Ross; she is a very distinguished-looking
girl, and will make her mark at St. Dorothy's. You always like to be in
the swim; don't you, Matilda? Well, you ought to know Cecil. Come, I
shall have pleasure in making you both acquainted with each other."
Matilda found herself absolutely tongue-tied. Kate's words were polite
enough, but beneath them she felt the strong and iron will of the
resolute and thoroughly enraged girl. The two walked across the room
together; they made a striking contrast. The phrase "One of nature's
ladies" darted through more than one girl's mind as she looked at
Kate. Matilda was much overdressed. She wore a dirty rose-colored silk
blouse, and a tawdry skirt trimmed with quantities of cheap lace. Her
light hair was frizzed and distorted out of all grace, her freckled
cheeks were mottled, and her dull eyes were destitute of life and fire.
Cecil rose gravely from her seat by Molly's side, when Kate brought
Matilda up to be introduced to her.
"Miss Matthews--Miss Ross," said Kate. "Matilda Matthews hopes soon to
be an inmate of St. Dorothy's," continued Kate. "You are the new girl
at present, Miss Ross. Matilda hopes to be in that enviable position at
the half term."
Cecil bowed gravely. Matilda squeezed her fat person into a chair by
her side.
"Did you ever see anyone more plebeian in your life?" she whispered to
Cecil, when Kate moved off.
This remark slightly relieved her feelings, and there was a good deal
of venom in the tone in which she uttered it.
"I don't understand you," replied Cecil gravely.
"Well, I wonder you don't; I suppose I must explain myself. Our hostess
looks like a dairymaid, _n'est ce pas_?"
"I am not particularly acquainted with the appearance of dairymaids,"
replied Cecil. "I think our hostess quite the prettiest girl I have
ever seen."
Matilda shrugged her fat shoulders.
"_Chacun à son goût_," she repeated.
Cecil looked at her in a puzzled way. She felt surprised at Kate's
going to the trouble of introducing her to such a girl, and after
saying a few polite words, turned again to talk to Molly. Molly was in
white, and looked one of the sweetest girls in the room. Her simple
white dress, the innocent, open expression of her face, gave her
something the appearance of a daisy. Cecil, pale, and in deep mourning,
made a strong contrast to her friend. The festivities of the evening
were now at their height. The girls laughed and joked, and walked
from one room to the other. Kate was here, there, and everywhere.
The birthday party became so hilarious that Kate's somewhat peculiar
dress was forgotten; all was eager conversation and high mirth. Still,
Matilda had her own reasons for feeling uncomfortable. Again and again
her eyes sought the neighborhood of the door. But whenever she began to
make her escape, Kate was down upon her.
"You are eating nothing, Matilda," she said on one of these occasions.
"Come into the supper room. Oh, how hot you look! a little lemonade
will do you good. Come in here; come with me. Hester, will you give
Matilda Matthews a glass of lemonade?"
Hester hurried to comply. As she did so, Kate stooped to whisper to her:
"I don't want that girl to slip out of the room," she said. "Watch her;
follow her; keep your eye on her."
"Kate, what is the matter with you?"
"Nothing, nothing! Only keep your eye on Matilda Matthews."
The supper was over at last; even schoolgirls' appetites were satisfied.
"Now, then, let's clear the room," cried Kate.
A few eager hands and legs were immediately at her service. The trays,
piled with plates, cups and saucers, and glasses, were conveyed into
the passage outside. A moment or two later Miss Leicester came in. She
wore a black velvet dress with a long train, and looked particularly
dignified and handsome. Kate ran to the door to bid her welcome.
"How sweet of you to come!" she cried. "You are just in time for my
birthday speech."
"Are you going to make a speech, dear child?" said Miss Leicester.
"Yes; a little birthday oration. I hope you won't mind."
"No; I shall be interested to hear what you have got to say."
Kate led Miss Leicester to the chair of honor. All the girls had now
collected in Hester Temple's pretty room.
"It is awfully hot," whispered Matilda to her nearest companion.
"For my part, I think this a very stupid sort of entertainment. The
food was awful. Fancy asking a person to come and eat seedcake, and
that dreadful lemonade made with tartaric acid. I shall have the
stomach-ache to-night. Don't you think this affair very slow, Jenny?
What do you say to our going home?"
"No; I'm enjoying myself," said Jenny Howe. "Did you hear Kate say that
she was going to make a birthday speech? Kate is such a bright, clever
creature, I am quite longing to hear what she has got to say. By the
way, Matilda, I don't believe a word of that horrid story you told me
about her."
"Did I say anything?" queried Matilda. "I'm sure, if I did, I've
forgotten all about it. Of course, I admire Kate O'Connor. She is a
little peculiar, but she can't help that."
"Hush!" said Jenny; "she is going to begin her speech. Try not to be so
spiteful, Matilda."
Matilda flushed more hotly than ever. She looked in the direction of
the door, and made a sudden dart toward it. Hester Temple was standing
close to it.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Home; I am suffocating. This room is too hot for me."
"I'll open the window, and you can stand near it. You really can't go
now, Matilda; it would be awfully rude; just when Kate is going to make
her birthday speech."
Matilda looked round her wildly; there was no means of escape. She
resigned herself sullenly to her fate.
There was a little empty space in the middle of the room, and into
this space Kate now lightly stepped. She looked around her to right
and left. Her eyes, bright as stars, met Molly's. They did not rest a
moment on her old friend's face. From Molly she looked full at Matilda.
"There is a seat in front for you," she said. "Come forward, Matilda;
you are choking, back there in the crowd. Come and sit near Miss
Leicester."
"Yes, my dear; here is a comfortable chair, in which you will be quite
cool," said Miss Leicester.
Poor Matilda was dragged unwillingly to the front. Kate's eyes danced
more brightly than ever, and smiles of delight soon rippled all over
her face.
"It was so kind of you all to come to celebrate my birthday," she
began. "I am seventeen to-day; quite old for a girl. I have been at St.
Dorothy's exactly a year. It has been a very happy year to me. I have
made a good many friends. The girls in the house have been particularly
kind to me. I want to thank all the girls here for their kindness. I
want also to say something else."
Here her manner suddenly changed. The gay sparkle and fun went out of
her face. She pressed one hand for an instant to her left side; her
eyes, troubled and misty, were fixed on Miss Leicester's face.
"I think Miss Leicester knows all about me," she said. "She knows my
origin; she knows what I was before I came to St. Dorothy's."
"Kate, dear, I would rather you did not allude to that subject," said
Miss Leicester, distress and astonishment in her tone.
"I am very sorry to disobey you, Miss Leicester, but I have thought
it all out, and I think it is best," replied Kate. "I am ashamed of
nothing. I should like now to describe the life--the early life--of a
girl."
Here she looked quickly from one eager face to the other.
"The girl is myself," continued Kate. "If I were to shut my eyes now,
I should see a picture. Perhaps I can describe that picture to you
with eyes open. There is a little farm, far, far away in the west
of Ireland. The country is beautiful, although somewhat wild. The
mountains seem in parts to reach the very sky. Now and then the clouds
come right down and cover them. The grass is very green, and the
streams make a merry sound as they ripple past the little farmstead.
The house would be thought a poor one by most of you. It has a thatched
roof; there is a kitchen, and a great open hearth. On the hearth the
fire blazes merrily. A lot of bacon hangs from the rafters across the
ceiling. There is a deal table in the middle of the room, and a great
dresser at one side. The table is clean and white, as white as snow.
The dresser is white also, and the plates and cups and saucers, and
jugs and bowls, and the tins and saucepans, all shine with good washing
and good rubbing. You see, it is a very humble kitchen, and there is no
parlor, nor drawing room, nor any regular sitting room in the little
old house. Upstairs there are two bedrooms. You go upstairs by means
of a step-ladder. One of the rooms is prettier than the other. It
has a lattice window, and there are lots of monthly roses, creepers,
myrtle, and other flowers twining about it. A sweet smell comes in when
you open the window, and you hear the robins and swallows chirping in
the eaves, and you get a sweet whiff of strong air from the mountains
opposite. The little room inside is very poor, but the window and
the view without are lovely. The inner room looks out on the yard or
byre. You can see the cattle from this window; the four cows in their
stalls, and the dairymaid, with her red elbows, milking them. I am not
the dairymaid, but I go to superintend the milking. At the back of the
kitchen is the dairy. The dairy is lovely; it is cool and sweet and
dark. On the hottest day in summer you feel a breath of ice on your
cheek when you enter here, and the milk and cream look good in the
large glass pans; and the churn stands open, waiting to receive its
daily portion of cream; and there are piles of yellow butter standing
on the shelves, and great dishes of fresh eggs not far away.
"I think I have described the house well enough to you now. You must
see for yourselves that it is just the sort of place where poor people
would live. The people who live in it are an old man and a girl. They
keep no servant; they do their own work. There is a dairymaid who
comes morning and evening to milk the cows and help the girl with the
butter, and there are two men who help with the land, and that is all.
The old man and the girl have the house to themselves most of the time.
I should like to describe that old man. He does a lot of rough work;
he lays the fire for the girl day after day, and fills the kettle for
her, and won't allow her to do anything except the lightest part of the
daily toil; but, for all that, he is quite a gentleman. I say nothing
about the girl. She may belong, in every sense of the word, to the
class from which she springs, but the old man is a king in his way. He
has a very noble head, and hair as white as silver. His eyes are dark
and soft, his nose aquiline. When he stands up, he looks dignified;
when he looks at you, you get a peep at his grand soul.
"That old man is between seventy and eighty years of age. He has spent
his entire life in one county, and he is known all over the place. The
old people know him, and the young people, and the children; and there
is not an individual who does not love him. Not an evil word has ever
been flung against him. During the whole of his long life no one can
accuse him of having ever done a mean thing, of having oppressed the
fatherless and the widow, of having taken money that did not belong to
him. All during his long life he has lived by the golden rule, 'Do to
others as you would be done by.' He is not a learned man, but he knows
his Bible very well, and he can quote whole pages from Shakspere. He
also understands nature splendidly. It is wonderful to hear him when he
talks about nature's secrets. There is nothing that grows on the land,
or feeds on the soil, or flies in the air, or lives in the sea (which
is not far away), that this old man does not know about. He can tell
you about the habits of all the birds, and the ways of all the fishes,
and about the medicinal uses of a great many herbs, and the food uses
of all the vegetables and the fruits. It is delightful to hear him when
he speaks, for he chooses his words with grace, and his grammar is
perfectly correct. He has the most beautiful mind the girl ever came
across in the whole course of her life. It is an idyl and a poem to
live with him.
"I must now tell you something of the life of the girl. She is
naturally very fond of books, but she has not much time for them. She
gets up at five o'clock in the morning, summer and winter; she is
busy from early morning till early bedtime. There are the cows to see
to--she loves those cows. She wishes she could describe to you the look
in Cusha's eyes. Cusha has the most perfect brown eyes of any creature
in all the world. The girl cannot think of them now without tears
coming into her own. She loves the memory of the other cows, too, but
Cusha comes first. She has even milked Cusha--yes, with these hands;
look at them. She and Cusha enjoyed themselves at these times. The
girl has not only the dairy to see to and superintend, but she has also
the poultry yard. Do you like fluffy little balls of yellow chickens?
There is nothing vulgar about them, is there? The girl walked about the
yard, and through the gardens, with the chickens pressed to her neck,
and cuddled in her arms, hundreds and hundreds of times; and there are
the goslings, almost prettier still. You see for yourselves that she
must have plenty to do.
"She has also the flower garden to see to. All the mignonette, and the
sweet peas, and the roses; the great hedges of Scotch roses, white
and red, are her care. She lives with her flowers. The old man talks
to her about them while she tends them. It is strange, but it seems
to me there is nothing vulgar nor commonplace in her life. She has no
time for commonplace thoughts, nor for slander and gossip, nor evil
speaking. She is not to be praised for not indulging in these things;
she has simply no time for them. In the evening she studies. She reads
Shakspere and many books of history, and she always ends up with the
Bible. She goes to bed quite early. Perhaps I have not half described
her life; perhaps also I have told you enough.
"The girl--the girl who now stands before you--lived this beautiful
ideal life until she was nearly sixteen years of age; then God thought
it right, for reasons of his own, to take it away from her. The old
man, the grand old king of the hamlet, was found dead in his bed one
morning. It was a very fitting end for him, and he was quite ready
to go. But the girl! somehow or other, her heart broke then. She has
never been the same since that dreadful summer's morning. The sun
of her early happy youth seemed to set for her then, and though the
bees hummed, and the birds sang, and the flowers bloomed, and all the
creatures of the world went on in their happy way, the girl felt that
nothing could be perfect with her again until she joined the old man in
the land beyond the sea.
"Great troubles came to her after this. Perhaps some of you here would
not have thought them so. The little old farm, the shabby, dear old
house, had to be sold, and Cusha went to strangers, and the other cows
followed her example, and the chickens and goslings, and all the other
live stock, even to dear Black Beauty, the farm horse, who was so sweet
and noble that the girl can't talk about him without tears--they were
all scattered far and wide, and the girl herself was left with money in
the bank; not much, but a little. Then she remembered her grandfather,
and she said to herself, 'For his sake I will stop fretting, and I will
make the most I can out of my life.' She wrote to Miss Forester, and
Miss Forester wrote back, and begged of her to come to Redgarth. She
came, and in the fresh, glad, full life she tried to drown her sorrow.
"But," continued Kate, stopping abruptly, and turning with flashing
eyes from Molly to where Matilda crouched by Miss Leicester's side,
"she can never drown the sorrow which tells her that the old beautiful
life is over. Lately, quite lately, a report has reached this girl,
which for a day or two drove her nearly mad. There are certain girls
at St. Dorothy's, and at other houses of residence, who think the
ideal life which she used to live desecration. This fact cut her to
the heart. Perhaps, girls," continued Kate, "I am not a lady in your
acceptation of the word, but I wish to tell you all to-night, every one
of you, that I would not change with you. I would not give up that old
memory. I would not give up that near relationship to the grand old
king of that humble hamlet for any you could confer on me. You know
everything now. You can gossip as much as you like. You can speak of
me as low, as uneducated, as of humble birth. Do you think I care? No,
not now; now that you know the simple truth. I have only one word more
to say. Among the gossip which has reached my ears, I am told that I am
the recipient of Miss Forester's charity. I am quite certain that Miss
Forester would give charity in the kindest and most thoughtful way, but
my grandfather was proud as well as great, and he left me enough money
when he died to give me all the advantages of this home of learning.
Girls, I may be poor and humble, but I am _not_ here on charity."
As Kate uttered her last words, she walked quietly out of the room. She
had spoken with force; there had been an earnest ring in her voice,
and a look about her eyes which had caused a queer sensation in the
minds of all who listened to her. When she went toward the door of the
room, no one stirred to call her back; there was a dead silence. After
a time, Miss Leicester rose to her feet and spoke.
"I am very much surprised at all this," she said. "Has anyone in this
school dared to be unkind to Kate O'Connor? Has anyone dared to gossip
about her, or laugh about her? No, I don't expect an answer to-night,
for this matter must be thoroughly investigated."
Then she also left the room.
Her departure was the signal for a perfect babel of tongues. The girls
of St. Dorothy's were immensely excited. Matilda sought an opportunity
to find her way to the door; no one noticed her departure now, and she
rushed out of the house trembling a good deal, and glad when she found
herself in the open air. Matilda was a thorough coward. She perceived
at a glance that the full weight of public opinion would be against
her, if her part in this sorry story were known.
"There is nothing for it now, but for me to take up Kate O'Connor," she
said to herself; "to make much of her; to consider it the finest thing
in the world to have been a dairymaid and a peasant girl when you were
a child. Kate is wonderfully clever, and she has scored a point in her
favor. By and by, however, there will come a reaction, and then my hour
will have arrived."