"WE ARE BOTH IN THE SAME BOAT."
Gwin had explained all her points, and Miss Sherrard had listened to her
with indulgence, sympathy, and comprehension. They were seated together
in Miss Sherrard's charming little sitting-room.
"I am glad you take such an interest in Kitty," she said when the girl
had stopped speaking.
"I do. She is uncommon; she is unlike anybody else," said Gwin Harley.
"I hope," she added, looking anxiously at the head-mistress, "that you
will feel it right so far to mitigate her punishment as to allow the
Tug-of-war girls to talk to her. This seems just the time for a society
of this sort to help its members.
"There's a great deal in what you say, Gwin; but all the same, to my
regret, I am obliged distinctly to refuse your request."
Gwin's face, which had been slightly flushed, now turned pale. She rose
to her feet.
"Don't be hurt with me, dear," said the mistress in a gentle voice. "I
admire you for your kindness, Gwin, and I can also see the thing from
your point of view; but all the same Middleton School is a very
important one; there are from six to seven hundred girls here. Most of
these girls have got parents; all have got guardians and friends. It
would not do for them to know that such a wild and reckless act as
Kitty Malone has perpetrated should be passed over without a severe
punishment. Kitty will live through this week of isolation and be all
the better for it. At the end of that time you Tug-of-war girls can do
all in your power to help her. For this one week I must insist on her
living in Coventry. She will do her lessons, of course, for it would not
be at all wise to give her a holiday; but no girl belonging to the
school with the exception of Alice must speak to her."
"I am sorry; and you will forgive me for saying, without any disrespect
to you, that I think you are wrong," answered Gwin. She now held out her
hand to Miss Sherrard. Miss Sherrard took it and pressed it gently.
"You are a very good girl, Gwin; and I wish with all my heart and soul
that I could grant your request."
Meanwhile Kitty had returned to the Denvers' house in a whirl of
passionate protest and indignation. She could not understand why she had
been punished. The sin she had committed did not seem to be any sin at
all to her. What did it matter how she dressed or when she went out? The
fact that she had broken a very strict rule of Middleton School did not
affect her. She was now seriously unhappy--the fetters with which she
was surrounded tortured her. How could she live through the terrible
week of isolation? And what made her more wretched than anything else
was the fact that she could not see Elma in order to get the money from
her to send to Laurie.
Kitty and Laurie had always been more than ordinary friends. The
thoughts of each were known to the heart of the other. If there was one
person in the wide world whom Kitty loved with passion, almost with
idolatry, it was her handsome brother Laurie. The bare idea that Laurie
should plead to Kitty to help him, and that Kitty would be obliged to
turn a deaf ear to his entreaties was enough to madden the reckless
girl.
The whole of that afternoon she spent in her bedroom, pacing up and down
like a young caged tiger. Mrs. Denvers went to talk to her, but Kitty
would not speak. She would pour out her troubles to no one. Her proud
Irish heart felt as if it would burst from misery; but she would not
stoop to the sympathy of those who, she felt, could not possibly
understand her.
Of all the Denver family, she liked Fred the best; and when he ventured
to knock at her door in the course of the evening she did not refuse to
open it to him.
"Come along downstairs at once, Kitty," said Fred, holding out his hand
to her.
"I would rather stay where I am, Fred, asthore."
"I say it's a beastly shame to have you treated like this."
"Oh, don't begin to sympathize with me," said Kitty; "if you do, I'll
cry the ocean full of tears. I am holding them back hard now. You don't
know what a thing it is when an Irish girl fairly gives way."
"Well, they're beastly hard on you; but I'm sure I would not cry if I
were you," said Fred. I'd just be too proud. But come downstairs to my
den, Kitty; I have made it awfully comfortable."
"Your den?" said Kitty, her eyes lighting up; "have you got one?"
"Yes; it's not in the house; it's in the garden, at the further end.
It's a shed; but I have made it waterproof, and I have got a little
lamp, an oil one; and we can sit there and have a jolly talk."
For a moment Kitty's eyes sparkled with renewed hope. "And I have still
got some chocolates in my drawer," she exclaimed. "We might eat them
together and have a real good time. But oh, that money! it's the money
that's bothering me entirely. Oh dear! dear! I'll let the whole thing
out if I talk any more to you Fred. Fred, it's the true comfort you are
to me, and I'll never forget it to the longest day I live; but I can't
go to that shed with you, gossoon asthore, for if I did I'd let out
everything."
"But why shouldn't you let out everything?" said Fred. "There's
something bothering you, and you're keeping it all to yourself."
"But I promised I wouldn't tell, and I don't want to break my word. I
said when she asked me, 'No; I can't keep secrets;' but then it was put
in such a way that I must keep it. I can't go with you Fred; pray don't
ask me again. Good-by to you, and thank you, thank you."
Kitty ran into her room, shut the door, locked it, and retreated to the
window, to be as far as possible from Fred's insinuating voice and ways.
Mr. and Mrs. Denvers were out again that night, and the time dragged
terribly. Kitty wondered how she was to live through a whole week of
this torture.
"I promised Elma that I would not tell about her asking me for that
money," she said to herself. "I wish I hadn't said so now; but she
seemed so earnest, and I really thought nothing of it at the time. Oh
dear, dear! I wonder she does not bring it to me. She must be the
meanest of the mean. I never liked her; but now I hate her. Poor, poor,
dear old Wheel-about! Don't I know what he is feeling, and what Laurie
is feeling, my broth of a boy, my Laurie, asthore! Oh, to think that he
is in trouble, and I can't help him! How I wish I was back in Ireland
now! This will break my heart--it will break my heart."
Tears filled her eyes; but she was too proud to let them roll over.
"I will keep them back if I die for it," she said to herself. "I am
Kitty Malone, and they will break my heart if this goes on; but I won't
cry. No, that I won't."
While these thoughts were coursing through the poor girl's brain, there
came another knock at the door; an insistent and somewhat fierce one
this time. The handle was sharply turned, and the clear voice of Alice
was heard.
"Open the door at once, please, Kitty," she said.
Kitty crossed the room, turned the key in the lock, and allowed Alice to
enter.
"I must beg of you, Kitty," said Alice, "not to lock the door again."
"And why not, pray? You locked it last night. It was on account of that
I am now in all this trouble."
"Really, Kitty, you are quite too ridiculous; as if I were the cause of
your trouble. You are in trouble because you disobeyed a strict rule;
and my locking the door or not had nothing whatever to do with it. You
are quite the most tiresome, inconsistent girl I ever came across."
"Well, it is nothing to you what I am," said Kitty. She sank down on a
chair by the side of her little bed as she spoke; her expression was so
woe-begone, her face so pale, the droop of her eyes so pathetic, that
Alice was slightly touched in spite of herself.
"I am going to see Bessie Challoner," she said. "If you were different I
would not leave you."
"Oh, never mind me, pray."
"All the same, I would not leave you, Kitty; for remember I am the only
girl belonging to the school who may speak to you for the next week;
but, really, your ways are so unpleasant----"
"And I so infinitely prefer your absence to your company," retorted
Kitty. "So you may go with quite an easy mind."
"Thanks awfully," replied Alice, with a sneer. Her momentary good-nature
had dried up like the dew. She put on her hat, wrapped a shawl round her
shoulders and left the room.
Kitty returned to her place by the window. It was now between eight and
nine o'clock. She had refused both dinner and tea, and was in
consequence feeling weak and faint. There was a giddy sensation in her
head to which she was not accustomed. She did not connect it with the
fact that she was starving, and wondered what was the matter with her.
She was too excited and wretched to feel her ordinary appetite. She had
gone through a great deal, and her nerves were reminding her of the
cruel trick she was playing on them. It was very dull in her room; the
gas jet shed a hideous glare over the place. The room in itself was by
no means pretty, for the paper was the worse for wear, and the paint was
nearly worn through to the woodwork. The hangings to the windows and to
the two little beds were of an ugly drab color; and the view out of
these windows only revealed a narrow street. At Kitty's own home she had
a bedroom in the Castle end; the paper hung in ribbons, the door was
draughty, the bedstead rickety and old; but what a view there was from
the windows! A view of Lake Coulin and the mountains in the distance,
and the park lying verdant and green between the lake and the house.
What a breeze blew in at those windows!
"Oh, I should never be dull if I were locked up in the dear old bedroom
at home," thought the girl. "But here! here it is enough to madden one;
and yet I must stay here, for I cannot talk to the others. I will not
allow Fred to guess my secret. Oh, what a miserable, unhappy, wretched
girl I am! I am a prisoner. Oh, if only Laurie saw me! Dear Laurie; the
darling, the treasure that he is! It would break his heart if he knew
what I am suffering."
There were no books at all interesting to Kitty in the room, so she
could not while away the lagging hours with a novel. As a rule the
arranging of her wardrobe, the trying on of her many dresses, gave her
pleasant occupation; but she was in no humor to make herself smart that
evening.
"I suppose the love of dress is a sin," she said to herself; "although
it is one of the rules of the Tug-of-war Society that the girls are to
be fashionably dressed. Anyhow, it seems to have been my undoing, for if
I had only gone out in somber ugly attire last night I might have the
money now for my darling Laurie; and this heavy, heavy weight would be
off my mind, and I should not be in disgrace at Middleton School--not
that that much matters."
She went to the window, flung it open, and looked out. It was a clear,
starlit night. She could see the sky from between the long rows of
houses. She looked up at it, and then put in her head again.
"I shall suffocate if I stay any longer in this room," she said to
herself. "After all, why should I obey Miss Sherrard? She spoke about my
word of honor; but I have not given it. I was silent--I was silent on
purpose. If I could only see Elma and get my money back all would be
right, and I could really bear the rest of this terrible week. I have a
great mind to risk it and go to her."
No sooner had the thought entered the head of the wayward girl than she
proceeded to act upon it. She put on a long cloak which reached nearly
to her feet, a little cap of blue cloth was secured over her mass of
curling hair, and then going cautiously across the room, she took the
key out of the lock, unfastened the door, shut it behind her, locked it
from the outside, put the key in her pocket, and ran downstairs.
"If the servants or Alice come up they will think I have gone to bed.
What fun if I keep Alice out of her bed for an hour or two!" laughed
Kitty. She was now once more in high excitement and pleasure. It never
took long to raise her volatile spirits. "I hope Fred won't be about. I
don't want to get the poor darling into mischief," she said to herself.
There was no one in sight, however. The younger children were away in
another part of the house, Mr. and Mrs. Denvers were out, the servants
were in the kitchen, Alice was with Bessie Challoner, and Fred was down
in his shed mourning the absence of Kitty, whose bright ways were
fascinating him more and more.
"It's all right," thought the girl. She left the house, and a few
moments later was walking at a rapid pace in the direction of
Constantine Road. The thought of her disobedience, of the daring of her
own act, but added zest and pleasure to her walk.
"How happy I shall be when I get the money," she said to herself. "I'll
coax Fred or Mrs. Denvers to get me a postal order to-morrow, and I'll
send it to Laurie at once. Oh, what a weight will be off my mind! Why,
I'll almost feel inclined to turn good again!"
The walk to Constantine Road was a long one, and Kitty on this occasion
was determined to avoid the neighborhood of the "Spotted Leopard." In
preference she took the short cut across the common. It was very lonely
here, but she had no fear of ghosts or bogies. She walked with her
upright, young carriage, her quick, alert, dancing step. It was ten
o'clock however, before she reached Constantine Road. She ran up the
steps of No. 14, and rang the bell. The door was opened to her by the
servant, Maggie.
"Oh, Miss Malone," cried that young woman, "is that yourself, miss? I
has got into the most terrible trouble."
Maggie's face was flushed and blistered with crying.
"They has took away my wiolets, miss, and I call it a bitter, cruel
shame."
"Never mind that now, Maggie," answered Kitty, "I want to see Miss Elma.
Is she in?"
"That she is, miss, and she shan't escape you this time. Come right into
the parlor, and I'll send her down to you."
Kitty danced into the house. As far as her appearance now went she had
never known a sorrow nor a care in her life. She stood in the center of
the room, waiting impatiently for Elma to appear.
Maggie having shut her in, went cautiously upstairs. Elma and Carrie
were in their bedroom. Carrie was already in bed.
Maggie, who seemed to scent mischief all round, thought she would now
act with considerable guile. She knocked a low and gentle knock on the
panel of the door. Elma came to open it.
"What is it, Maggie?"
"Miss Helma, will you come outside on the landing for a minute?"
Elma went out.
"I have a bit of news about that money, miss. If you'll come right down
to the dining-room I'll tell you there."
"News about my money, Maggie? Oh, impossible!" But hope, ever ready to
dawn in the human breast, could not help rising now on poor Elma's
horizon. It all seemed utterly impossible; but what earthly sense would
there be in Maggie telling a lie.
"I was just getting into bed," she said. "Can't you tell me here?"
"No, miss, it's not me at all; it's news of the money you'll get if you
just come down to the dining-room, and be quick about it."
"Well, _I_ may as well go. Is there anybody there?"
"You go and find out, miss."
"Oh!" thought Elma, "Sam Raynes has repented. He was able to find money
after all, and has brought it to me. This is nice."
"What's the matter, Elma?" called Carrie from her bed.
"Nothing, Carrie. I'll be back in a few moments."
Elma hastily refastened her dress; put up her hands to her hair to
smooth it, and tripped downstairs, full of expectation and hope. Maggie
had relit the gas in the dining-room. Elma bounded into the room.
"Well, Sam," she exclaimed. Then she stepped back a couple of paces; she
was confronted not by Sam, but by Kitty Malone herself.
"Kitty!" cried Elma. There was a faintness in her voice, which Kitty had
no time to remark.
"Yes, Elma, I have come. I have broken my word of honor; but after all,
I never really gave it. I dare say I shall get into a worse scrape than
ever; but I can't help it. I came to you, Elma, because I _must_ have
that money. Will you let me have it now at once please--my eight
sovereigns--will you give them to me now? If I had seen you last night I
should not have been so miserable. I was coming to you when Fred and I
passed the 'Spotted Leopard.' Oh, please, Elma, give me my money at
once!"
Elma's face could scarcely turn whiter. She looked piteously at Kitty.
"I wish I could give it to you," she began; "but----"
"What do you mean; can't you let me have my own money? You have not
spent it, not all of it, have you?"
"Yes, I--I spent it."
"You spent all that money! all those eight sovereigns? Oh, Elma, you
must be joking. Can't you let me have some of it back? Please, Elma,
don't say no. It is for Laurie; he is in the most awful trouble. I must
have the money, and at once."
"I can't give it to you," said Elma. "I am awfully sorry. Sit down,
please, Kitty. Oh, Kitty, you won't tell on me?"
"I don't know what I'll do," said Kitty. "I am nearly distracted."
"But you promised you would not tell. You don't know what an awful
scrape I shall get into if you do. And you--oh, yes--you shall have the
money soon."
"What do you mean by soon; to-morrow? Shall I have it to-morrow?"
"Not quite so soon as that. Give me a week, Kitty."
"I can't," answered Kitty. "It is a case of life or death to Laurie.
Your mother must give it to me if you cannot; but have it I must."
"But you are rich; surely you can manage without it for one week."
"It is not that, and I am unable to explain. Laurie must have the money.
He wants me to help him about something, and I must send it to him
to-morrow."
"I wish I could give it to you," said Elma. "I would do anything in all
the world to let you have it back; but it isn't my fault."
"What did you spend it on? Dress?"
"Oh, in different ways." Elma had made up her mind not to tell about
Carrie and Sam Raynes.
"I'll let her think that I spent the money on finery," she said to
herself. "She is sympathizing about dress. I'll let her think that."
Kitty's hands had dropped to her sides; a look of despair filled her
face.
"What is to be done?" she said. "I never thought for a moment you could
not let me have it back."
"You shall have it in a week; that I promise you faithfully."
"But a week will be no good, Elma. Oh! Elma, Elma, Laurie will suffer
for this. They will take his freedom from him; he will be like a chained
lion; he will lose his spirit; perhaps--perhaps he will die. I cannot
stand it, Elma, I cannot."
Kitty covered her face with both her hands, and the tears which with
difficulty she had been keeping back all the evening burst forth in
torrents. Kitty did not cry as an English girl might. She cried with the
wild, passionate sobs of those who have seldom exercised self-control.
Elma was dreadfully frightened.
"Do stop, Kitty," she said. "You make so much noise; mother and Carrie
will hear you. Carrie will come down."
"What if she does?" cried Kitty. "Oh, Laurie, Laurie! this will break
your heart. You are ruined; ruined for life!"
"There are more than Laurie ruined for life, it seems to me," said Elma.
"Kitty, I am ever so sorry; but if you will only be patient I will try
and think of some plan of helping you. Now, please, please, promise me
one thing--you won't tell that I asked you for this money?"
"Why not? I must tell some one. I must get the money somehow."
"But you made me a promise you would not tell. It is very wrong to break
a promise."
"I don't care whether it is right or wrong. I cannot keep this secret,
Elma. I must remember Laurie, Perhaps Mr. Denvers will lend me the
money. I must think of Laurie first."
"Please, Kitty, listen to me. If you will promise to keep my secret I'll
manage to get you the money somehow."
"But how, Elma?"
"Oh, I'll think out some plan. Do promise me that you'll keep my secret.
It would be my ruin if it were known. Do promise, Kitty; do, please."
"I cannot," said Kitty. She walked restlessly to the door. "I must go,"
she said; "if I don't they will discover that I am out."
"And if they do you'll get into an awful scrape."
"Oh, it doesn't matter; I can't be worse off than I am. My one hope now
is that they will expel me; then I'll have to return to Ireland; and
perhaps I may coax father not to be too hard on Laurie."
"Then Kitty, you have quite made up your mind to tell all about me?"
"I think so. I cannot imagine why it matters."
"But it does, and I must give you the reason. I did wrong, dreadfully
wrong, ever to ask you for that money. I broke one of the strictest
rules of the school."
"What do you mean?"
"It is one of the strictest rules of Middleton School that no schoolgirl
must ask another to lend her money. The governors are terribly
particular. If it is ever known I shall be most likely expelled. Anyhow,
my character will be gone, and I shall be ruined for life. Oh, Kitty,
you have not such a hard life as I have. Do have pity on me."
Kitty stood silent; she was thinking deeply.
"You'll promise; won't you?" repeated Elma.
"I can't say. I scarcely know what I am doing at the present moment."
"Then listen to me. If you tell about the money I'll tell about this
visit. There; don't you see now we are quits."
"You tell! That would be mean of you."
"Yes. I'll tell that you broke your parole."
"But I never gave it."
"Oh, that is only begging the question, Kitty. Miss Sherrard understood
that you had given it. When you came here you broke it. You'll get into
a terrible scrape."
"And you spoke to me, Elma; so you too will get into a scrape."
Kitty's tears stopped like summer rain, and a flash of sunshine flew
across her charming face.
"Poor Elma, you will be in hot water too," she said. "What a muddle
everything is in."
"You see, Kitty, we must cling together, for we are both in the same
boat. I'll do my utmost to get you that money. I am sure I can manage
somehow. But you must not tell."
"All right. I'll keep the secret until after school to-morrow. Good-by,
Elma."
She left the house, and Elma returned to Carrie.
"Who were you talking to all that time?" exclaimed Carrie.
"That unfortunate girl, Kitty Malone."
"You mean to say she was here?"
"Yes; she came about the money. I am miserable about it. I promised to
get it for her by hook or by crook. How can I manage?"
"Look here," said Carrie after a pause, during which she was sitting up
in bed and thinking intently. "You say that Kitty Malone is very rich?"
"Yes, of course she is. She has more money than she knows what to do
with. Why, I tell you, Carrie, the day she lent me those eight
sovereigns I saw fifteen in her purse. Fancy a girl having fifteen
sovereigns just to do what she liked with? I could scarcely realize it.
I took the money before I knew what I was doing. She did tempt me so
sorely when she showed me her purse."
"Oh, I'm not a bit surprised," said Carrie. "If I had been in your shoes
I'd have taken the whole fifteen sovereigns just as soon as the eight.
But listen to me, Elma; I have a plan in my head. I'll talk it over with
Sam to-morrow; perhaps we can get the money; but there's no saying.
I'll talk it over with Sam."
"I wish you would not. I would rather not get it through his means."
"What a dislike you have to him."
"I have. He is not good enough for you, Carrie. Oh, Carrie, dear, I vow
and declare that I'll work for you and mother; I'll work my very fingers
to the bone; I'll do anything for you. Only don't marry that horrid
fellow."
"How excitable you are, Elma, and queer. Sam suits me very well. Oh, if
you don't want his help you need not have it--remember it is your
scrape, not mine."
"It is your scrape, too, Carrie. You stole the money and gave it to Sam
Raynes. You are a thief, and you have ruined your sister."
"If you begin abusing me I shall certainly not stay awake any longer,"
said Carrie; "I'm dead with sleep as it is. Now, do put out the candle,
like a good girl. I'm off to the Land of Nod."
Carrie pulled the clothes over her head and struggled down among the
pillows. Elma stood and stared out of the window.
"I wonder if I could do it," she said at last to herself. "It might be
the best plan; and Gwin is very kind and very rich. I wonder if I dare.
Anything seems better than my present predicament."