AN EYE-OPENER.
In her own room the miserable child fell on her knees, and gave way to a
burst of passionate weeping. She cried as she had never cried in the
whole course of her life before; her tears seemed as though they could
not cease. She was so exhausted at last that, kneeling by her little
bed, she fell into a sound sleep. In her sleep she dreamed that she was
home again; but all was confusion, worry, distress. Laurie was going to
a school in England; Laurie's heart was broken. Old Paddy Wheel-about
was dead; the squire was so upset and so angry that he would not even
allow Kitty herself to comfort him. Aunt Honora was grumbling and going
from room to room in the old Castle. Aunt Bridget was talking about
dress, and scolding Kitty with regard to the state of her wardrobe.
Kitty's head ached, and she felt a sense of irritation.
"And it's so pretty," said Aunt Honora. "Those ruffles round the skirt
are done in such a dainty manner, and--oh, I won't disturb you if you'll
allow me just to take the pattern. I can in a moment--don't move, don't
move!"
Kitty opened her eyes in some bewilderment, and gazed full into the fat
and somewhat red face of Carrie Lewis. It was Carrie's voice she had
heard, piercing through her dreams. It was Carrie who was bending by
her side and holding up a length of her skirt in her hand.
"Oh, don't move, pray; I have just got the set of it; it's very curious
and very fashionable. I know Sam would like it awfully."
"Who are you, and what do you want?" said Kitty, jumping to her feet and
confronting her unwelcome visitor with flushed cheeks and sparkling
eyes.
"I knocked at your door several times, and you didn't answer," said
Carrie; "so then I opened it softly and came in, and you were
half-sitting, half-kneeling by your bed, sound asleep; and your skirt
did look so very fashionable that I was tempted!--oh yes, I have taken
the pattern in my mind's eye. I'll alter my blue nun's-veiling. I can
easily get a bit more of the stuff to match, and it will make it quite
_comme il fait_,"
"But who are you?" said Kitty, who had never laid eyes on Carrie before.
"I'm Elma's sister. Now you know."
"Elma's sister?" said Kitty. "But what have you come to my room for?
What do you want here?"
"To speak to you. I want to help you if you'll let me."
"To help me?" said Kitty languidly. "I would much rather you went away.
You cannot help me; you know nothing whatever about me. I am in great
great trouble, and I would much rather be alone."
"You would not rather be alone if you could be helped," said Carrie. "I
know all about it. You have got a brother in Ireland who has got into a
scrape. Bless you, I know all about the scrapes of young men. Now, poor
Sam Raynes, he----. Yes, what is it, Miss Malone?"
"I wish you would leave me," said Kitty in a haughty tone. "I am not
friends with Elma just now, and I would rather not see any of her
family."
"Yes, but I think you'll see me when I tell you my errand," said Carrie,
in no way abashed by Kitty's manner. She crossed the room as she spoke,
and deliberately placing herself in the one easy-chair the room
possessed, crossed her legs, and leaning back, looked fixedly at Kitty.
"Very well, if you won't go, then I must," said Kitty. "I don't
understand English people. They talk a great deal about manners; but no
Irishwoman, none that I ever heard of, would dream----"
"Oh, bosh! Stop all that," said Carrie in her rudest voice. "I have come
here to help you, and I see that I must explain myself. You want some
money, don't you?"
"Yes; but I cannot get it," answered Kitty.
"Oh, my dear, do just stay still a moment. What a sweet little shoe!
Did you get it at any shop here?"
"No," answered Kitty, interested for the moment in spite of herself.
"Aunt Honora bought these in Grafton Street, Dublin. They have the
nicest shoes in that special shop of any place I know. Do you like it?"
"Oh, it is quite sweet; it is the way the heel is arranged, and that
little buckle."
"Well, never mind about my shoes now," said Kitty, pushing the
attractive little foot well in under her skirt. "What is it you have
come to say? Please say it, and then--go."
"I will, if you wish me to. Look here, I know all about your story. You
are in dreadful trouble, and so is Elma; but I do declare I think poor
Elma's trouble much worse than yours."
"You know nothing about it," cried Kitty, with passion. "Elma in worse
trouble! Oh, if you only could guess!"
"I guess well enough," said Carrie, "and so does Elma. You want money,
which, evidently, as a rule, is as plentiful to you as blackberries on
the hedges in September; and you think, because you cannot lay your hand
on that money immediately, the whole world is going to change. But let
me tell you that Elma and I want money far, far more badly than you have
any idea of. Until you gave Elma that eight pounds, we neither of us
ever in our lives had so much in our possession."
"I didn't give it--you make a mistake--I lent it."
"Oh, it is all the same. Elma had it, and, for practical purposes, it
was just as valuable as if it were really her own."
"Well, I want her to give it back to me now. I surely have a right to
ask for my own money back again?"
"No, you have not--not without reasonable notice. She asked you to lend
her some money--she never asked for eight pounds--you let her take it.
You said she might have as much as she liked. When she explained the
position of things to me, I said: 'Elma, you were a rare fool not to
take the whole fifteen.'"
"You must be a very queer girl," said Kitty, astonished at this
remarkable specimen of young ladyhood.
"Am I? I don't know. I am frank, and I am generally hard-up. I know, if
any one does, where the shoe pinches. Bless you! it would do you good to
open your eyes. You don't know what poverty means--a little house, a
disgusting little house, shabby paper, dirty ceilings, badly-carpeted
floors, the drains wrong, the water-supply as likely to poison us as
not, an invalid mother--"
"Oh, have you a mother? Then, I am sure you are not to be pitied,"
interrupted Kitty.
"Little you know! What good is a mother who is in bed most of the day, a
father who--Well, I need not mention him; he is not in the country at
any rate. No education to speak of; no dress worth considering; toil,
toil from morning till night; and life a mere scramble, a scramble for
bread without butter. That's what our life is!"
Kitty had ceased to fidget; she even sank down on the corner of the
nearest chair. Her pretty figure, her beautifully-appointed dress, her
whole appearance, from the crown of her head to the sole of her foot,
betokened what the other girl could never aspire to, never hope to
have--abundance of money. And yet at the present moment Kitty was
breaking her heart for want of money. No wonder Carrie was puzzled.
Kitty's own eyes were opened to an extent they had never been opened
before.
"Yes, our life is a rough one," continued Carrie; "very rough indeed;
but I don't grumble. I was brought up to it, and use is half the
battle, as perhaps you don't know, but you ought. You'll get accustomed
to doing without your eight pounds after a bit, and never give it
another thought."
"Oh, no, that I won't," said Kitty, now jumping to her feet in her
indignation; "and it is not for myself, it is for----"
"Oh, never mind who it is for. You want it, and you think the world is
going to stand still because you cannot get it. Well, the world won't
stand still. I, who am quite used to doing without money, can assure you
as to the truth of that fact. Would you like to know, now, how I spend
my days? I teach some horrid children in a small private school from ten
to one each morning, and then in the afternoon I go to a family and
teach some more little brats; and I am scarcely paid anything for all
this toil--starvation wages I call it--and I hate it, hate it. But I
have my consolations. I am not overparticular; very small pleasures
content me; and there's a fellow whom I love."
"A fellow whom you love?" echoed Kitty; "is it a brother?"
"Bless you, I'm not likely to put myself out about a brother; not that I
have one, and so much the better, thank goodness. There's a man whom I
love, and a right jolly fellow he is--his name is Sam Raynes. He is not
one of your fine, bread-and-butter gentlemen--not he. He is rough and
ready, and he has his joke, and he isn't too handsome, although some
people admire red hair; but, anyhow, I'm fond of him and he's fond of
me, and some day--I don't know when--when we can scrape enough
together, we are going to set up housekeeping."
"You are going to marry; is that it?" said Kitty.
"Yes; some day we'll marry. Now, you see, that's a bit of fun for me;
and I can go out with Sam on bank holidays and on Sunday afternoons just
like any other girl with her young man. Bless you, I don't mind."
"I wonder what all this is leading up to," said Kitty, with a slight
yawn. "Of course, it is very interesting to you; but I don't care about
your young man."
"No more you do, you haughty little minx; and I wouldn't bother you
about him, for, with all his faults, he's too good to have words wasted
about him to a little independent chit of a thing like you. But, as I
was saying, I'm not talking for nothing, I'm leading up to something.
Now, I am content enough with our lot; but Elma isn't. Elma is quite
different from me--she has got a great deal of refinement about her."
"Has she indeed?" said Kitty in a voice of scorn.
"Yes, she has, and you needn't contradict me. She's a very clever girl,
is Elma. I don't say that she's always as straight as a die--I don't
pretend that she is; but she is a clever girl, and she is fond of her
books, and she's likely to get on--that is, if you don't spike her
guns."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, well, it's only an expression of mine. I heard Sam use it last
week. I often copy his phrases, they're so fine and full of flourish.
Well, now, if you don't spoil sport, Elma will get into an altogether
different circle from your humble servant. Mother and I will go one way,
and Elma another. Elma, with her grand notions and her set-you-up sort
of airs, will rise in life. She's heartily welcome to go her own way,
and I wish her Godspeed, for she is the only sister I have got."
"I don't understand," interrupted Kitty.
"If you'll let me speak I'll soon explain. You don't suppose that girls
such as I am are often to be seen at Middleton School?"
"Well, I have not seen any like you," said Kitty, gazing from head to
foot at her very peculiar visitor.
"No more you have, bless you; and I'm not the least offended by your
very frank stare. Sam admires me, and that's enough for me. Now, Elma
looks a lady, doesn't she?"
"I suppose so," said Kitty in a dubious tone.
"You suppose so indeed! Let me tell you that Elma is a born little lady,
a real lady, and she looks it, every inch of her. That is why she goes
to Middleton School; but now, who do you think pay for her?"
"How can I tell?"
"Do you think mother, or father, or I? Now, who do you think does? I
should be interested to know your thoughts."
"I cannot really tell you, Miss Lewis."
"Oh, it does sound fine to hear you Miss Lewising me. My name is
Carrie."
"I prefer to call you Miss Lewis."
"Highty! tighty! we are haughty. Well, the person who pays for Elma is
our Aunt Charlotte--a certain Mrs. Steward, wife of the Reverend John
Steward, rector of St. Bartholomew's, Buckinghamshire. There's a grand
enough name for you; and I suppose, being a clergyman, you'll consider
that he is a gentleman and that his wife is a lady. Aunt Charlotte
happens to be own sister to mother; and when Elma made her little
complaint to her she took pity on her; and now she pays all her expenses
at Middleton School. And if Elma does well and nothing disagreeable
comes to Aunt Charlotte's ears, she will send her presently to Newnham
or Girton. Think of that I Elma will be a college girl; she will be an
undergraduate of one of the universities--and some day a graduate; and
then she will get a first-class post as high-school mistress, or
mistress of something or other. But if you tell on her and make things
bad, and the truth gets out--You look pale; are you ill?"
"I am all right," said Kitty. She staggered across the room and poured
some water into a glass.
"I did not eat much lunch," she continued; "and I am--Never mind; go
on."
"Well," continued Carrie, "if nothing comes to Aunt Charlotte's ears to
turn her mind the other way, Elma will be all right; she will move in
your sphere--yes, she will, whether you like it or not. She is just so
clever she is able to do anything. So I have come to say that I hope to
goodness you won't split on her, for it would be mighty cruel of you.
You would ruin her for life, and that would be a nice consolation for
you when you came to die. She did not steal your money, remember; you
gave it to her."
"I lent it to her."
"Oh, how you will harp upon that! But you didn't tell her to a day when
she was to pay it back again."
"No, I certainly did not; but, of course, I expected that she would
return it to me when I asked for it; and then she spent it on dress."
"Spent it on dress? What do you mean?"
"She told me so."
"Oh, naughty, naughty little Elma!" said Carrie, shaking her forefinger
in a very knowing manner "She didn't like to tell about Sam, and so she
made up that story, did she? Well, it was an untruth. She didn't spend
that money on dress; she--well, I will tell you--I stole it from her."
"You!" gasped Kitty, backing away in horror.
"Yes. Good gracious! how scared you are! You don't understand the larks
of girls like me. I didn't mean any harm. I took it and gave it to Sam
to keep for her."
"Then," said Kitty, coming close up to Carrie, her lips parted, the
color flooding her cheeks, her eyes full of light, "then, of course,
you, Carrie----"
"Oh, I'm Carrie now, am I?"
"Yes, you are; but never mind. Then, you, Carrie, can get it back for
me?"
"So I will, all in good time, my pretty little dear. You shall have the
money if you are willing to wait, say a month."
"There's no use at all in that," said Kitty, her voice sounding faint
and far away.
"I am afraid there must be, as far as that eight pounds is concerned.
The fact is, Sam is speculating with the money, and when we get it back
it will be doubled. Elma and I will divide the profits between us, and
you shall have your eight pounds back. Now, I think I have told you
everything except--"
"And, having told me, I wish you would go away," said Kitty. "I don't
know that you have bettered matters in any way. Of course I am sorry for
Elma; but it is only right that you should know something. It would be
well also for Elma to know the truth. I told her yesterday when I went
to your house that I would keep her secret until after morning school."
"Good gracious! You have not blurted out the truth?"
"Wait till you hear. When I was at school this morning I was--oh so
miserable! I could not help thinking of--But never mind; you would not
understand."
"No, no, of course not; pray proceed."
"I was thinking how soon I might tell."
"Nice sort of creature you are!"
"Why will you interrupt me?" said Kitty. "But then I looked at Elma, and
I saw that she seemed very anxious and miserable; and wretched as I was,
I made up my mind to be kind to her. I said to myself I will keep her
secret; and--and I wrote her a note to tell her so. You would not
understand if I said any more; but--but immediately after morning school
she--she was false to me; utterly false. You ask her when you see her
how she received that letter I wrote to her at the risk of getting into
terrible trouble myself. I have been angry, furious, beside myself; and
now Miss Sherrard knows everything."
"You don't mean it?" said Carrie. Her florid face had turned perfectly
white. She bit her lip and looked out of the window. After a time she
looked back again at Kitty, and said slowly:
"You are very cruel, and you have ruined Elma; but after all it is
partly my fault. I ought not to have taken that money. Now, look here,
shall I tell you what I really came for to-day?"
"If you would do so quickly and then go."
"You won't be in such a hurry to part from me when you know the truth.
Now, then, listen. You want some money; I think I see a way to getting
it for you."
"Do you really?"
"Yes, I do; that is, if you on your part will do what I want."
"I will do anything to get the money. I want to send it to Laurie if I
can this evening. There's nothing I would not give you."
"I will remember that small promise presently," said Carrie in a frank
voice. "But now let me tell you what my plan is. You have a great many
clothes, have you not?"
"Yes; but please don't bother me about them now. I was always fond of
pretty dress; but I should not care if I had to wear rags at the present
moment if only I might get that eight pounds."
"If them's your sentiments," said Carrie, "you very soon can have your
wish."
"What in the world do you mean?"
"Why, this. If you'll just allow me to take the pick of your wardrobe I
can take away the things and sell them. I'll soon bring back the eight
pounds--yes, and for that matter ten too."
"Sell my clothes?" said Kitty. She stared at the other girl as if she
did not believe the evidence of her own senses.
"Yes. Did you never hear of a pawnshop, you dear little wiseacre?"
"A pawnshop! Do you think I would allow my clothes to go to a pawnshop?"
"I know nothing whatever about it; but I make you the proposal. I will
transact the business for you if you'll allow me ten per cent, upon it.
I can get you the money."
"Oh, Carrie, it seems such a bitter shame," said Kitty. Her face was
crimson; she went to the other side of the room, opened the window and
put out her head. She wanted the cool air to soothe her scorched cheeks;
her heart was thumping in her breast. Had matters indeed come to this,
that she, Kitty Malone, was to pawn her pretty dresses, her trinkets,
her whatnots! Alas! she could not do it.
"I have often had to do it," said Carrie. "I know just how to manage. If
you'll allow me to select the most suitable of your things, I'll bring
you back the money in no time."
"You are sure?" said Kitty, beginning to yield.
"Certain--sure--positive. But you must allow me ten per cent."
"I know nothing about percentage; but you may take every scrap that is
over after you have got me the eight pounds."
"Very well, that's a liberal offer," said Carrie. "Now, then, I may as
well take a look at your clothes."
"Oh, it seems such an awful thing to do," said Kitty. "Are you sure,
quite sure, that no one will find it out?"
"Not a bit of it; that is, if you'll be quick and not allow that other
girl--Alice, you call her--to come into the room."
"I'll lock the door," said Kitty. She rushed across the room with new
hope, turned the key, and came back again to Carrie.
"I never heard of anything quite so extraordinary in my life," she said.
"And you--you call yourself a lady?"
"No, I don't; I call myself a good-natured lump of a girl."
"Well, perhaps you are; but to pawn one's things! Do you mean that I
will never see them again?"
"Oh, yes; whenever you like to return the money. They'll be kept safe
enough for you. If you don't return the money, of course, they belong to
the pawnbroker; but you have lots of time to think of that. Look here,
I'll pawn them for a month; that will give you heaps of time to look
round."
"So it will," said Kitty. "And are you quite, quite certain that I shall
have the money to-night?"
"Oh, yes, if you won't talk so much, only act. Now, then, open your
wardrobe."
Kitty unlocked the door of the mahogany wardrobe which she shared with
Alice, and Carrie began to pull her choice little garments about.
Kitty went and stood by the window.
"Don't you want to know what I am taking?" said Carrie. "Don't you want
to make a selection?"
"No; I'll leave it all to you. I can't bear to see them. Take--take what
you want."
"Goodness, what a girl!" thought Carrie to herself. "Here's an
opportunity for me."
She made a hasty and very wise selection, choosing the richest dresses,
the most stylish jackets, skirts, shoes, ribbons, gloves--clipping the
feathers out of the hats and the flowers from the toques--throwing in
some of the finest cambric handkerchiefs; and then, taking a sheet of
brown paper which she had put into a basket on her arm when she left
home, she folded the things into it and fastened her parcel with stout
string.
"Here I am," she said; "and this is my parcel. I have looked through
your wardrobe; your clothes are neat, fine, some of them gaudy, but all
good. I can get from three to four pounds for this lot."
"But why don't you take enough to get the eight pounds?" said Kitty, who
had quite made up her mind by this time.
"I could not carry any more. Now, then, open your jewel-case, quick."
"My jewel-case. Oh! I cannot part with my jewels."
"You must, if you want your eight pounds by to-night. I know my
pawnbroker. He won't give five pounds for this little parcel. Now then,
be quick. Oh, there I see Alice Denvers coming up the road with that
other fine young lady, Bessie Challoner. Where's your jewel-case?"
Kitty's face was like a sheet.
"I have not any jewels," she said; "or scarcely any worth mentioning. I
didn't bring any jewels with me. But here's my watch; will that do?"
"Do--rather! Why, it's a beauty. Don't say a word to the others; keep
your own counsel. Now, then, I'll be off to the pawnshop, and you shall
have the money to-night. _Au revoir! an revoir!_"