"I CANNOT HELP YOU."
Elma scarcely slept that night. At an early hour on the following
brilliant summer's morning she stole softly out of bed, glanced for a
moment at Carrie, as she lay sleeping the sleep of the just, with her
towzled hair tossed about the pillow, and then, getting deftly into her
own clothes, left the room without arousing the sleeper. She had made up
her mind very definitely what to do. Without even waiting to get any
breakfast, she unfastened the hall door, opened it, and stepped out into
the full radiance of the summer's morning. A quick walk brought her in a
little over half an hour to Harley Grove. When she went up the ponderous
flight of steps which led to the principal door of the mansion a clock
far away struck the hour of seven.
"It is terribly early," she said to herself, "terribly early to disturb
her; but it is my only chance. I must have time; I cannot rush this
thing. If she can help me I believe she will; and anyhow, I do no harm
by what I intend to say to her."
Elma rang the bell, but her early summons was not immediately attended
to. Presently a servant girl, who looked as if she might be one of the
under-housemaids, unbolted and unbarred the door, and opened it a few
inches. "When she saw a neat-looking girl, in all probability a
schoolgirl, standing outside she opened it a little further and her jaw
dropped in some astonishment.
"I have come here," said Elma to know if I can see, Miss Harley
immediately on very special business."
"I don't know, miss, I am sure," answered the girl, who was a stranger
in those parts. "I can't say that you can see Miss Harley now, for I
think she is fast asleep and in bed, miss."
"It is of the utmost importance or I would not disturb her," said Elma.
"I have brought a note with me; can you manage in some way to have it
delivered to her? I can wait downstairs in any of the rooms until I get
her answer."
As Elma spoke she slipped a little three-cornered note into the girl's
hand, at the same time placing in it one of her own most valuable and
very few and far between shillings.
"Can you manage it for me?" she said. "It is really of the utmost
importance."
A shilling was a small bribe; but the housemaid was young and
tender-hearted. She looked again once or twice at Elma, who could wear a
most pleasing expression when she chose, and then, ushering her into a
small room to the left of the wide entrance hall, departed slowly
upstairs on her errand.
While she was away Elma fidgeted, walking from end to end of the little
room into which she had been admitted. All depended, or so she imagined,
on her note reaching its destination. She knew Gwin's kind heart; she
was certain that if Gwin received the note, however tired and sleepy
she was, she would at least see her for a few minutes. Elma had worded
it craftily.
"I am in great trouble," she had written. "It is connected with Kitty
Malone. I see my way to helping Kitty if you, Gwin, can help me. But I
must see you now at once. Let me come to your bedroom. I would not
disturb you if it were not a matter of life or death."
This note, sufficiently startling in its contents, was given by the
under-housemaid to Gwin's own special maid. The girl, after some
deliberation, said she would venture to give it to Gwin, early as the
hour was. Accordingly she stole into the shaded bedroom, drew up one of
the blinds, and when Gwin opened her sleepy eyes presented her with the
little three-cornered note on a salver.
"There's a young lady, a Miss Lewis, waiting downstairs. She brought
this note and begged that it should be delivered to you at once, miss. I
ventured under the circumstances to wake you, as the young lady seemed
from all accounts to be in a desperate way."
"What can it mean?" said Gwin. She sprang up in bed, tore open the note,
and read the contents.
"Is my cold bath in the room, Simpson?" she asked of her maid.
"Yes, miss; in your dressing-room."
"Well, I shall dress at once. Go down, please, to Miss Lewis and tell
her that I'll be ready to see her in my study in twenty minutes."
The maid departed on this errand, which brought much relief to poor
Elma.
In less than the time named she was summoned by Gwin's maid to come
with her to Miss Harley's study. There a moment later she and Gwin were
clasping each other's hands. Gwin was in a long white dressing-gown; her
hair streaming over her shoulders.
"Well, to be sure, Elma," she exclaimed, "you are an early bird. Now,
what do you want with me? I am full of curiosity. You are in trouble,
and it is something connected with Kitty Malone?"
"Yes," said Elma. "I am desperate, and I have come on a desperate
errand, Gwin. Can you manage, somehow or other, in some fashion, to let
me have the use of eight pounds for--for say a fortnight?"
Gwin Harley gasped; not only at the magnitude of the sum demanded, but
also at Elma's audacity in asking for it.
"You want eight pounds," She exclaimed. "But, Elma, you know the rule?"
"Oh, yes, I know the rule; and it is because I am fairly desperate I
apply to you. You might lend the money to my sister Carrie; or perhaps
mother would be best. It might be managed so that I didn't appear to
borrow it. I would not ask for it if--if the trouble were not terrible;
and--and the secret belongs to another."
"What do you mean?"
"It belongs partly to Kitty Malone."
"I cannot help you," said Gwin decidedly.
"Why? Oh Gwin, I did not know you could be so cruel."
"You don't understand, Elma. I am surprised that you should ask me. How
could I break one of the strictest rules of the school?"
"Oh, but you need not really break it; I mean it could be managed in
this way: Would not your father lend mother the money? You need not do
it at all; all you have to do is to ask him."
"You must tell me everything, Elma. This is most mysterious. Why do you
want money? Is it for yourself? You must tell me every single thing."
"I cannot tell you, because the secret is not mine."
"You say Kitty is mixed up with this?"
"Yes, yes."
"And you will not tell why?"
"I cannot. I wish I could."
"Then, Elma, I also must be firm. I cannot help you."
"You will not ask your father?"
"How could I? It would be a subterfuge--the whole thing would be a
subterfuge. I must have nothing to do with it. I am sorry, Elma, for I
see you are in great trouble; but I am powerless."
"Then I am ruined," said Elma. She covered her face with her hands, and
the tears trickled slowly between her fingers.
"I wish I could help you," said Gwin kindly. "Is there any other way?"
"No other way. I want eight pounds for a fortnight--I want it
desperately. You could manage to let me have it without breaking the
rules of the school, but you will not."
"I am truly sorry, but--I will not."
"Oh, Gwin, if you would only trust me. We were always friends, were we
not?"
"Yes," answered Gwin slowly. "I have always liked you, Elma."
"We were friends," continued Elma, wiping the tears passionately from
her cheeks; "and I did think last night, when I was in such trouble,
that perhaps you could come to my aid. I thought you would trust me
without my telling you everything."
"I cannot, Elma," said Gwin again.
"Why?"
Elma now looked steadily into Gwin's face. Gwin looked gravely into
hers. After a time Gwin spoke slowly:
"Because," she said--"forgive me, Elma--you are not trustworthy."
"Oh!" said Elma. She turned first pale and then red.
"There is no use in my staying," she said, after a pause. "I am sorry I
got you up so early."
"Oh, that does not matter," said Gwin, in an altered tone. "I would do
what I could to help you; but I cannot do the impossible."
"I see that I was mistaken in you."
"Not at all," replied Gwin. "You found me what I have always been. I am
naturally careful. I never jump to wild conclusions; I am not impulsive.
I have liked you, and I shall go on liking you in the future."
"Even though I am not trustworthy?"
"Yes; I shall like you for what you are. You have always been nice to
me, and I wish to be nice to you. Please understand that this will make
no difference."
"And you won't tell what I came about?"
"No, I shall never mention it. Now, must you go?"
"I must," said Elma.
The full morning light fell upon her face as she spoke, and Gwin
noticed that it looked small, pinched, and thin.
"You must have some breakfast first," she said. She walked across the
room and sounded the bell. The servant appeared in a moment.
"Order breakfast to be served here this morning," said Miss Harley, "for
two, please." The maid withdrew. Gwin opened the window and looked out.
"I am very sorry for Kitty," she said, after a pause.
Elma did not reply. After a time she said slowly:
"Did you see Miss Sherrard last night?"
"I did; but it was useless. She won't retract her mandate."
A sigh of relief came from Elma's lips.
The servant again appeared with breakfast. Gwin poured out tea for her
friend. Elma drank a cup, her throat felt dry. She saw no way out of her
difficulty. She could scarcely bring herself to eat.
A few moments later she was on her way back from Harley Grove. She
hesitated whether to go straight to the school and wait there until nine
o'clock or to return to Constantine Road. After a little reflection she
decided on the latter course. She reached home hot and weary between
eight and nine o'clock. Carrie was seated at the breakfast table; a
letter lay on Elma's plate.
"Why, Elma, what have you been doing out and about at this unearthly
hour?" said Carrie, as she cracked the shell of an egg by no means
fresh.
"Where is mother?" remarked Elma, as she seated herself at the table.
"She has a bad headache. I have sent up her breakfast. Are you going to
see her?"
"No, I think not. I shall just have time to eat something--not that I am
specially hungry--and then start for school."
"There's a letter on your plate. Why don't you read it?"
"I know; it's from Aunt Charlotte."
"Well, well, and you are interested in Aunt Charlotte more than I am,"
said Carrie. "Do read your letter."
Elma somewhat languidly tore open the envelope. The next moment she
uttered an exclamation, and her face went first red and then pale.
"Aunt Charlotte writes to say she is coming here to-day."
"To-day! Good gracious!" said Carrie. "She doesn't want me to stay in,
does she?"
"Oh, no; but this is terribly awkward."
"Why so, Elma? Why shouldn't you ask her to lend you the money?"
"Ask Aunt Charlotte! I may as well put my hand into the fire."
"Well, suppose I were to help you," said Carrie, after a time.
"You, Carrie; how could you?"
"But suppose I were to--I am not the sort of person who does anything
for nothing. What would you give me if I got you out of this?"
"But how could you get me out of it?"
"Why, I suppose by giving Kitty the money."
"Carrie, you talk nonsense. Unless, indeed, you were to persuade Sam
Raynes----"
"Oh, it's useless to worry poor Sam. He has speculated with that money,
and if he doubles it we shall have it back. I think when that time comes
the very least you ought to do, Elma is to give me half of the balance
over and above what you borrowed. That would be three pounds ten, for me
quite a nice little sum. It would keep me in ribbons, gloves, and boots
for a bit. I get such a very small salary."
"Well, the money has not been doubled; it's time enough to talk of our
chickens when they are hatched," said Elma. She rose from her seat,
looking despairingly at the open letter which she held in her hand.
"After all, I may as well take this up to mother," she said.
"One moment before you go, Elma. Would you like me to help you, or would
you not?"
"If you could help me, Carrie, of course I should be obliged."
"And what is the punishment they have inflicted upon that Irish lass?"
"Oh, dear me, Carrie, I told you all about that yesterday; she is in
Coventry--we are none of us allowed to speak to her."
"All the same, you did speak to her last night, don't forget."
"Yes, I could not help myself; but if it was found out it would go hard
with us both."
"Then I am the one to interfere," said Carrie _sotto voce._ "I'll do my
best, Elma, and trust to you to make it up to me when I have got you out
of this scrape."
"I wish you would do something, Carrie; but I don't suppose you can.
It's awful to think of Aunt Charlotte coming now. If I can't help Kitty,
Kitty is sure to tell, and then it will be all over the school. They
won't blame her so much as they'll blame me. Oh dear, dear! if you would
do something!"
"Well, I promise that I just will," said Carrie. "Now go off to school
with an easy mind."