Of the Lewis family the first who came home that special evening was Carrie. She walked straight into the little sitting-room, where Kitty Malone's letter lying on top of the blotter immediately attracted her attention. It need not be said that she instantly read it, and not only once but twice.
"Ha! ha! Elma, I have got you into my power at last," she said to herself. "So that accounts for the money. Now, what did you borrow it from that queer Irish girl for? But now that I know a thing or two. I may be able to draw on you to a considerable extent. Return it! not you—you are not likely to; but I think I'll be able to frighten you. I shall certainly do my utmost."
It will be seen from these remarks that Carrie was by no means an amiable girl. She ran up to her room, took off her hat, and surveyed herself in the pale blue dress which had been purchased with some of poor Kitty's money. She then returned to the sitting-room, and folding up the letter, deliberately put it into her pocket. As she was doing so Maggie came in to lay the tea.
"Oh lor! Miss Carrie," cried the maid-of-all-work as she spread the not-too-clean cloth upon the table, "whatever 'as become of that bit of writin' that was lyin' atop of the blotter here?"
"What bit of writing?" asked Carrie, turning calmly round and surveying her.
"Oh, a letter miss; I don't know what was in it, but it was a money transaction, as important as the Bank of England, and it was to be give to Miss Helma the very instant she come 'ome. Didn't you see it, miss, when you come in?"
"No, I didn't," said Carrie promptly. "I saw no letter of any kind. Here's the blotter, there is nothing on it. It may have got between the folds, however." She took up the thick pad of blotting-paper and shook it, but no letter dropped out.
"There," she said. "I have not the least doubt that Fido jumped on the table and took it up and ate it."
"Oh lor! miss, you don't think so?"
"I should not be surprised. Fido can never resist paper; he is always pulling it about and chewing it."
Maggie looked frantically under the table for even stray pieces of the letter, but she could not find any.
"If he had ate it," she said at last, fixing Carrie with a very determined stare—"if he had ate it he would have left some bits about. I don't believe it; I believe you 'as took it Miss Carrie. Oh, miss, for shame; and it was as important as the Bank of England—a money transaction, miss, what ought not to be trifled with. I can't read writin', though I can read books fair enough; but the young lady was awful put about."
"What young lady?" asked Carrie. "You had better tell me everything."
"Oh, it was that Irish young lady, Miss Malone. She come here with the most beautiful 'at on (no, it was wot they calls a talk), and the wiolets in it they might 'av growed, I could a'most smell 'em; and she come in distracted like, and writ the letter, and told me I was to give it to Miss Helma the very moment she returned, and that Miss Helma was to take her the money to-night—what money is more than I can tell, for I didn't think Miss Helma ever had any. And she said it was an important transaction. And I said, 'Is it like the Bank of England, miss?' and she said, 'Yes, to be sure.' Why, Miss Carrie, you have not gone and hid the letter, 'ave you? That would be real mean of you."
"Look here," said Carrie; "what did you say about those violets?"
"Why, she gave 'em to me, miss; she took 'em out of her cap, and she give 'em to me, and I was to give the letter to Miss Helma. It was a fair and honest bargain, and I must keep my part of it miss."
"Would you like some roses to put with the violets?" said Carrie, making a careful calculation.
"Roses, miss? That would be prime, and very seasonable, wouldn't they miss?"
"Yes, violets and roses look very pretty together, and I'll pin them into your hat and furbish it up. And, look here, Maggie, you can go out with your young man on Sunday. I'll manage it—I can. I will stay at home."
"Oh, Miss Carrie, you don't mean it?"
"Yes, I do. I'll manage it; but I'll do it only on a condition."
"What is that miss?"
"That you don't every ask me another question with regard to that letter, and that you never, never on any account breathe a word of it to Elma. If you do, why——"
"Oh, Miss, it don't seem fair."
Poor honest Maggie walked to the window and struggled for a few minutes with her temptation. The thought, however, of roses to add to the violets, the thought also of Joe, whom she dearly loved, to walk with her on the following Sunday, proved far too seductive. She struggled with her enemy for a few minutes, and then she fell once and for all.
"I'll have the roses, Miss Carrie. I can't resist them and the thought of Joe on Sunday. Joe is so passionate loving, miss, I can't resist 'im." And then Maggie rushed out of the room.
She flew to her attic, threw herself by the side of her bed and burst into sobs.
"But I oughtn't to 'ave done it," she said several times—"I oughtn't to 'ave done it. If it worn't for the roses and for Joe I'd 'ave stood up to her; but as it is I was too tempted. But all the same I oughtn't to have done it—no, I oughtn't to 'ave done it!"
Meanwhile Carrie up in her bedroom was thinking hard. Here indeed was a revelation! So Elma possessed eight pounds, or nearly eight—for Carrie knew that her blue dress, and the lobster, and the lettuces, and the stout had not cost a great deal of that valuable sum of money.
"At the present moment," she concluded, making a careful computation in her mind, for she was a smart enough girl in certain ways—"at the present moment Elma must possess the sum of seven pounds or thereabouts." What in the world did that Irish girl lend it to her for? What an utter fool she must have been! But as to Elma's paying it back! as to Elma getting rid of those riches—Carrie thought she saw her way of preventing that. In order to do so, however, it was all-important that Elma should not see poor Kitty's passionate little appeal to her; for although Elma was anything but an amiable girl, Carrie was certain that mere fright would make her return the money.
Carrie stayed some time in her room; she was thinking out a plan. How could she prevent Elma returning the money to Kitty Malone? She considered rapidly. Never before had she felt so full of energy and of resource; it suddenly occurred to her as extremely unlikely that Elma would carry about so much money on her person. Suppose she, Carrie, had a thorough good hunt for it now on the spot. Suppose she found it, then would it not be her duty, by taking possession of it, to guard Elma from giving it away? Carrie made up her mind quickly; she determined to have a search for the money at once. In the somewhat meagerly-furnished bedroom there were not a great many hiding-places, and Carrie began her search systematically. Elma and she had a little set of drawers each; there were no locks to these drawers. With all her faults, Elma absolutely trusted her own family. It never occurred to her even in her worst moments that Carrie would examine her drawers; she also believed that Maggie was perfectly honest.
Carrie now began to search. She opened Elma's drawers and looked through them. Soon she found what she sought for. In the small right-hand drawer at the top corner was a little parcel. It felt heavy. Carrie opened it and there lay seven shining sovereigns. There were also a couple of shillings and a few pence; but Carrie's eyes were principally fixed upon the sovereigns. Bright and new they looked, almost as if they had just come from the mint. Carrie danced a pirouette there and then.
"I have found the treasure," she gasped. "Now I must take it where it will be safe. I know what I'll do. I'll give it to Sam Raynes to keep for Elma. It will be a nice excuse for seeing him again, and I'll tell him it is money of my own, and ask him to bank it for me. He'll be ever so pleased; he will think all the more of me if he supposes I am wealthy. Yes, I'll take it to Sam; he shall keep it for me."
Flushed, excited, her heart beating high, Carrie once more pinned on her hat. She ran downstairs. As she passed through the hall her mother was letting herself in with a latchkey.
"My dear Carrie," she said, "you are not going out again at this hour of night?"
"I shan't be long, mother. I am just going into Summer Terrace to see the Raynes."
"I wish you would not go out so late, Carrie; it really isn't——"
But Carrie had slammed the door without even waiting for her parent's last words. She soon reached the Terrace, which was within three minutes' walk of her own house. Florrie Raynes let her in.
"My dear Carrie," she said, "what do you want? Oh, you naughty girl; you knew Sam would be in."
"Well, I want to speak to him. Can I see him just for a moment?" gasped Carrie, panting and breathless, pushing the hair from her forehead as she spoke.
"Yes, come right in," said Florrie; "you need not apologize. He is only having a cigar, and he'll be right pleased to see you."
As she spoke she opened the door of a small sitting-room and pushed Carrie in, slamming it behind her. The echo of her rude laughter as she performed this unladylike feat was heard down the passage.
Sam was seated in front of an open window smoking a cigar. When he saw Carrie he removed it from his mouth and came forward in a somewhat nonchalant way to meet her.
"Now, Car," he said, "what's up? Any news? Can we have a jolly time nextSunday?"
"Yes," answered Carrie panting slightly, "and for as many other Sundays as you like. See here, Sam, I cannot wait a minute now. You know you once told me that I was a frivolous little thing, that I was extravagant, and all that. Now, what will you say if I ask you to put seven pounds in the bank for me?"
"Seven pounds!" cried Sam; "'pon my word! Where in the world did you get it, Car?"
"It's out of my savings," replied Carrie.
"Well, I must say—" Sam gave her a look of the broadest admiration he had ever yet bestowed upon her. "You can bank it for me, can you not?"
"Yes, that I can. But I say, Car, would you like me to speculate with it? I might double it, you know."
"Oh, do what you like with it, only keep it safe," answered Carrie. "I shall want to draw a little of it from time to time. Now, good-by, Sam. I can't wait another moment."
She laid the money on the table. Sam's large and somewhat fat hand closed greedily over it, and the next moment it was conveyed to his waistcoat pocket.
"This will come in very handy for myself," he muttered; but Carrie did not hear the words—she ran home breathless and excited. She thought she had managed splendidly.
Kitty was miserable that night. An Irish girl has always her ups and downs. She is either up in the seventh heaven of bliss, or she is down almost below the ordinary earth in misery. Kitty was suffering from an intense revulsion of spirits. Laurie was in trouble. He was the best brother in all the world; he was Kitty's idol. There never was anybody more reckless, more passionate, more dare-devil than Laurie Malone; and Kitty had always been with him heart and soul, always from the time that they had been little tots together. And now Laurie was in danger. The best broth of a boy might be condemned to go to a school in England; he might be condemned to the misery, the want of freedom, which she was now enduring. Oh, she must save him at any risk. She could do so. She could send him ten pounds; she would have exactly that sum in her possession if only Elma returned the eight which she had lent her. It did not occur to Kitty as at all difficult for Elma to return the money. She had never yet know money difficulties herself; and when Elma had asked for the loan of it she imagined that she could have it back at any time. If this was not the case it would not greatly matter; but now, of course, Laurie's letter altered the complexion of everything.
Kitty was too unsettled and anxious to stay quiet for a single moment. She fidgeted Alice, who was busily engaged preparing her lessons for the following day.
"Kitty," she said, when that erratic young person had jumped up to lean her body half out of the window for the twentieth time, "if you cannot sit still yourself, you ought to have some thought for me. What am I to do if you keep rushing to the window and back again to your seat every couple of minutes?"
"I am looking for Elma," said Kitty.
"For Elma Lewis? Do you expect her to-night?"
"Yes, and on a matter of vital importance. Oh, don't talk to me please,Alice. If she doesn't come soon, I believe my heart will burst."
"That is exactly like one of your exaggerated statements," said Alice."People's hearts don't burst. Oh, if you only would stay quiet."
"I believe that's herself turning round the corner," cried Kitty, bending out so far now that it was a wonder she was not overbalanced.
"Really, Kitty, you make my heart stand still," said Alice. "You will fall out if you are not careful. Oh, for goodness' sake, don't stoop out any further."
"It's not her," said Kitty, popping in her head. "I was only stooping far enough to catch a glimpse of her boots. Elma always wears such horrid shabby boots; and her feet are too large. By the way, Alice, what do you think of these shoes; do you like them with straps across, and little rosettes?"
"I don't like anything in the way of dress at the present moment," said Alice. "I want quiet and peace. It is impossible for me to do anything while you fidget as you do."
Kitty jumped with a bang into the nearest chair; opened a novel, and tried to read it upside down.
"If she isn't in time I won't be able to send the letter to-night and then—Alice, do you mind my interrupting you for a moment? What time does the last post go?"
"The pillar outside the gate is cleared at twelve," said Alice.
"It is only nine now. You don't happen to be able to tell me when a letter, cleared at twelve, would reach Castle Malone?"
"I cannot tell you. Forgive me, Kitty, I cannot stay in the room any longer. I am going to our bedroom."
Alice gathered up her books, and swept out of tho room. When she reached the bedroom she shut and locked the door.
Kitty was now left alone in the drawing-room, for Mr. and Mrs. Denvers were spending the evening out. She was glad of this, as she could lean as far out of the window as she dared, and there was no one to shout at her. She could also pace up and down the room, which she presently did with the rapidity and eagerness of a young tigress.
Oh, to be back again at Castle Malone! What was Laurie doing now?Suppose Paddy Wheel-about really told her father about Laurie!
Squire Malone was extremely kind to Kitty; there was no saying what he would not do for Kitty were she in trouble; but Laurie and Pat were different matters. He had fits of severity-with them—only fits, mind you; for he was too Irish in his character, too generous-hearted, ever to keep his anger long; but in these fits he often made strange resolves, and when these resolves were made, as a rule, he carried them out. He was too proud to change his mind. If once he decided that the boys were to go to school to England, to school they must go—to "prison," Kitty termed it. Tears rose in her bright eyes, they rolled down her cheeks. Oh, why was not Elma in time? How dreadful, how dreadful if she (Kitty) missed the twelve-o'clock post! She was in this state of fret and worry, when Fred entered the room. Fred hated all girls, with the exception of Kitty Malone. He could not be said by this time to hate her, for he admired her very much indeed. The moment she saw him she called out to him to come in.
"Ah, then, Fred, it is you. Come along in," she cried; "you'll be a drain of a comfort—not much, but still a drain. Oh, Fred, it's I who am in the trouble entirely. You wouldn't think it to look at me, but I am."
"Dear me, Kitty I am sorry," said Fred. "What's up? Has Alice been teasing you as usual?"
"Oh, bother Alice! as if I minded her little pinpricks. It's that darling Laurie in Ireland. He has got into trouble, the broth of a boy that he is."
She then related what had occurred in connection with PaddyWheel-about's coat.
"And the poor old coat is in the bottom of the lake," she added, "and the lake is feet deep in mud just at the bottom, and anything that falls with a weight into it would sink and sink. Oh, they will never find the coat till the day of judgment, and it full of beautiful money! And Paddy Wheel-about has lost the little grain of sense he ever possessed, and Laurie will be sent to one of those prisons."
"To prison?" cried Fred; "but surely your father—"
"Oh, I mean a school—it's all the same. Don't interrupt me, Fred. When my mind is full I must rattle off the speech somehow."
"And he wants you to send him ten pounds?"
"Yes."
"And have you got ten pounds to send him?"
"To be sure I have—I have ten pounds ten. I am an awful girl for spending money. I bought a whole pound's worth of chocolate yesterday. I only wish I had the money now instead; but poor little Agnes Moore and the other girls in my class, they do love chocolate, and they quite seem to fatten them. I bought the chocolates, and I have got ten shillings in my pocket."
"But you showed me a whole purseful of gold the other day," said Fred.
"Well, it's gone, Fred, and it isn't gone; but I know who could help me to find it if I could catch a sight of her."
"And who is that?" asked Fred.
"Elma Lewis."
"Elma Lewis! Do you like her?"
"I can't say that I like her—no I don't think I do; but she would help me, if I could only get to see her."
"Then, do you want me to go to her house and tell her so?"
"Why, Fred, that's a splendid idea. You are a jewel, a darling, a duck!Let me fetch my hat, and you and I will go together."
"But I don't know my lessons yet. It is that beastly German. I have pages to translate. It is such rot."
"Oh, what does the German matter? Think of the misery poor Laurie is in.Just stay where you are, Fred; I'll be back in a minute."
Kitty dashed upstairs, two or three steps at a time, and thundered a loud tattoo on the locked door of Alice's bedroom.
"You cannot come in, whoever you are," cried Alice from within.
"Yes, but I must, Alice, aroon; let me in, jewel that you are. I want my hat, and gloves and jacket, nothing else. Do, for goodness' sake, let me in, Alice, asthore!"
But Alice was obdurate. Once let Kitty in, she would never be able to get rid of her again, and her lessons must be learned. They were specially difficult and required all her attention.
"Then if you won't," cried Kitty, whose quick temper was beginning to rise, "at least fling the things out of the window."
"You know you must not go out at this hour."
"If you won't give them to me," said Kitty, "I'll go without them."
"You are not to have them; you are not to go out. It isn't right," called Alice, who felt strong in the cause of virtue.
Kitty rattled violently on the handle for a moment longer, and then rushed downstairs again to where Fred was waiting.
"I can't get my hat," she said; "but it doesn't matter. I'll go as I am."
Now Kitty's dress was more picturesque than suitable. She had on a crimson blouse and a skirt bedizened with many ribbons and frills. The blouse had only elbow sleeves and was cut rather low in the neck. Nothing could be more becoming to the dancing eyes, the rose-bloom cheeks, the head of dark hair.
"Lend me a cap of yours, Fred, there's a darling," called Kitty, "and we'll be off. Alice is in one of her tantrums, and she won't let me into our room nor give me my hat and jacket. If your mother were there it would be all right."
Fred only thought that Kitty looked remarkably pretty. It did not occur to him as at all queer that she should want to walk a couple of miles in this erratic dress. He went downstairs, accommodated her with a small cap which bore the college coat of arms in front, and the two were soon hurrying along the roads at a rapid rate in the direction of Elma's house.
There were two ways to Elma's home. One way was by crossing a wide common, cutting off a certain corner, walking down a by-street, and so, by a series of short cuts, reaching Constantine Road. By the other and slightly longer way you had to pass an open thoroughfare in the center of which blazed, with its shining lights and its gay exterior, a large public-house called the "Spotted Leopard." Now the "Spotted Leopard" was by no means a nice place to pass at night. Men considerably the worse for drink were apt to linger about the doors. Gossiping and idle fellows would congregate just by this special corner, ready to take up any bit of fun or nonsense which might be coming, meaning no special mischief, but being decidedly disagreeable to meet at night.
Fred was as careless a schoolboy as could be found in the length and breadth of Great Britain; Kitty was equally reckless, perhaps more so, if that were possible. That special evening Fred decided that they would not take the short cut across the common.
"A beastly lonely place at this hour of night," he said, "and the road is so uneven and there are no lamps. We'll go round by the 'Spotted Leopard'. You don't mind, do you, Kit?"
"Never a bit," answered Kitty. "Come along, Fred; stretch your legs. I must get to see Elma Lewis to-night as quickly as possible."
Fred walked fast, and Kitty laughed and talked and danced by his side. Now that she was in action she forgot her fears; her volatile spirits rose once again to a height. She entertained Fred with numerous stories relating to Paddy Wheel-about, Laurie, and Pat, and invited him to come to Castle Malone for the whole of the summer holidays, assuring him that the fishing would be splendid, the cycling superb, the riding such as would make your eyes water, and the shooting and the hunting when that season began all that could stimulate the least ambitious of boys. And when Kitty spoke she was apt to illustrate her words, dancing now in front of her companion, now keeping by his side, now lingering a little behind him, all the time gesticulating with eyes and lips and gay motions. She was like a restive young colt—beautiful, excitable. The boy felt that he had never had such a charming companion before.
All went well, and Kitty's bizarre dress, her hair tossed wildly over her head and hanging partly down her shoulders, her little feet encased in the shoes with the rosettes and steel buckles, the frills on her gay skirt, her bare arms, failed to attract any special attention. But when they got into the neighborhood of the "Spotted Leopard," a blaze of light fell full across her. She was a remarkable enough figure to be out at this hour, and when joined to the somewhat peculiar spectacle, the wild-looking boys—for they were little more—who had congregated round this special corner, saw the college cap on her head, they made a rush forward and the next moment had surrounded her.
They began to laugh and to make facetious remarks. It was all done in a second. Kitty stood stock still as if some one had shot her. He gay manner ceased on the instant, she drew herself erect, and the next moment aimed a blow straight from the shoulder at the nearest of the men, knocking him over as completely as though he had been a ninepin; then taking hold of Fred's arm—who had come to her rescue, although the poor lad had not the least idea what to do—marched away, her face as crimson as her gay silk blouse.
"Well, Kitty, you did that splendidly," he said.
"The impertinent wretches! Don't speak to me about them," answered Kitty. But just then she came face to face with a more serious obstacle. This was no less a person than Miss Worrick herself.
Now if there was a prim mistress in the whole length and breadth of England, it was Matilda Worrick. She liked girls to be neatly dressed; she could not bear to see them out at what she called inclement hours. She would have thought it the height of impropriety for Kitty and Fred to walk together at such an hour; but when in addition to this Kitty went out in a dress which Miss Worrick would have thought very unsuitable for home, when she wore a boy's college cap on her head, and when she had so far distinguished herself as to have been for a moment the center of a lot of low noisy, rough men, Miss Worrick felt that the moment had come for her to interfere. She grasped Kitty Malone firmly by the arm.
"What are you doing, Miss Malone?" she said. "How dare you be out at this hour?"
"How dare you interfere?" answered Kitty, who, excited already, could not for a moment brook Miss Worrick's interference.
"I shall march you straight home," said the mistress. "If Miss Sherrard knew of this she would expel you from the school. You are a very wicked girl. Fred Denvers, you can go home or go on with your walk, just as you like, but I have charge of Miss Malone; she belongs to the Middleton School, and I must see her home before I go a step further."
Poor Kitty felt staggered.
"I really meant no harm," she said. "I cannot imagine what you are talking about. I could not get my hat and jacket, and as it was most important that I should see Elma Lewis, Fred promised to take me to her house. Please don't ask me to return now with you, Miss Worrick, I really cannot come."
But Miss Worrick was inexorable. She grasped Kitty very firmly by the arm, turned abruptly in the direction of home, and walked forward with a firm step. There was no help for it; Kitty Malone must accompany her. They soon found themselves back again at the Denvers' house. Mr. and Mrs. Denvers were out, but Miss Worrick inquired for Alice.
"Ask Miss Alice to come to me immediately," she said to the servant.
The girl looked pityingly at Kitty, who was a prime favorite with her, and then went away to fulfill her errand.
The instant Alice got this somewhat startling message, she forgot her lesson, unlocked her bedroom door, and flew downstairs as fast as she could. Miss Worrick was standing in the center of the drawing-room. Kitty was leaning up against one of the window-curtains. Kitty's face was red, her hair was tossed in wild confusion, and her dark eyes seemed to flash fire.
"Alice," said Miss Worrick, coming straight up to Alice when she appeared. "I must ask you to take charge of Kitty Malone."
"Why so?" asked Alice in some astonishment.
"Just do what I say. Your father and mother are out. Kitty is not to return to school to-morrow until she hears from Miss Sherrard. In the absence of your parents I put her in your charge, Alice. She has behaved disgracefully, and I shall have the great pain of reporting what I have just witnessed to our head-mistress to-morrow."
So saying, Miss Worrick walked quickly out of the room and out of the house.
"Well, thank goodness, she's gone—the old cat!" cried Kitty.
"Now, Kitty what have you done?" said Alice. "Oh, this is terrible! Fresh scrapes! We seem to live in constant hot water. What is the matter now, you headstrong and dreadful girl?"
"Nothing is the matter," replied Kitty, "absolutely nothing. It is all a storm in a teacup. But if any one is to blame you are the one."
"I?" cried Alice. "What next?"
"Well, you are. You would not give me my hat and jacket. I have a nice plain hat and a jacket to match. I should have put them on if you had not locked our bedroom door, and prevented my coming into the room, which is just as much mine as yours. As it was imperative for me to see Elma Lewis immediately, I asked Fred if he would walk round with me to her house, and I wore his college cap. When we were passing the 'Spotted Leopard' a lot of rough, rude boys rushed out and began to make impertinent remarks about my dress. I just gave one of them a black eye and knocked him over. The next moment I found myself under the fire of Miss Worrick's anger."
"And small wonder," said Alice. "Kitty, what is to be done? Before you came here I thought myself a respectable girl—all we Middleton girls did; and now for such a fearful thing to happen. Why, it will be all over the place in the morning. They will talk of it everywhere. Oh, Kitty, you have disgraced me for ever."
Here Alice burst into tears.
"Good gracious!" cried Kitty, "what are you crying about? I did nothing; it was the rude men, or boys, or whatever you like to call them, who were to blame."
"You did nothing, going out in that dress?" cried Alice—"that red blouse, and your arms bare, and with Fred's college cap on your head. I should not be a bit surprised if Fred were expelled; he will certainly get into an awful scrape. Oh dear! oh dear!"
"I cannot imagine what you are talking and crying about," said Kitty. "But there; I have got a headache, and am going to bed. I suppose there is no chance of my—Oh, poor Laurie! What a wicked girl Elma Lewis is!"
Kitty rushed up to her room. Not that she was frightened—that was not her way; but she saw that disagreeable things might be pending. In the meantime her most anxious thoughts were for Laurie. What would happen if she could not send him the money by an early post?
Early the next morning Mrs. Denvers was a good deal surprised by receiving a letter from Miss Sherrard. It ran as follows:
"DEAR MRS. DENVERS: I have just heard an extraordinary story from Miss Worrick with regard to Kitty Malone. She met Kitty with your Fred at a late hour last night just outside the 'Spotted Leopard.' She was not wearing an outdoor jacket, and had the college cap on her head. In consequence, she was spoken to impertinently by some men outside the public-house, and when Miss Worrick came up had just knocked one of them down. Miss Worrick says, further, that Kitty showed her great impertinence; and, in short, that the whole affair was wrong and disgraceful. It is my painful duty to look thoroughly into this matter, and I should be glad if you would bring Miss Malone to Middleton School this morning in order that I may do so.
"Yours very truly,
"My dear Alice," said Mrs. Denvers, as her daughter entered the room, "what does this letter mean?"
Alice read Miss Sherrard's letter hastily.
"It is exactly as I feared, mother," she said.
"Exactly as you feared, Alice! What do you mean?"
"I always told you that Kitty would be certain to get into trouble sooner or later. Well, she got into trouble last night."
"But what occurred?"
"What occurred!" said Fred, who came into the room at that moment. "I thought you would be talking about poor Kitty. I will tell you exactly what did occur mother; but first I want to say something else. Kitty is just as nice a girl as we ever had in the house. She has not a low nor a small thought in her, but she is excitable, and she has high spirits; and yesterday evening, when I went into the drawing-room, I found her there alone, and in no end of a fret because one of her brothers in Ireland had got into trouble. He had written to her; but she would not tell me what he said. For some extraordinary reason, which none of us know, it seems that Elma Lewis can get him out of his trouble, I cannot pretend to explain what this means; but such is the fact. Poor Kitty was wild to see Elma, and she asked me if I would walk over to her house with her. Of course I promised to do so, for it was difficult not to be good-natured to the poor thing."
"At what hour was this, Fred?" interrupted Mrs. Denvers.
"It was rather late, I will own, mother—about half-past nine."
"Go on, my dear boy. What happened then?"
"Now it is Alice's turn to get into your black books," continued Fred, darting a malicious look at his sister. "She doesn't like Kitty, and nothing that Kitty can do or say is right in Alice's eyes."
"Fred!" interrupted Alice—"Mother, you have no right to listen to him."
"I am bound to hear both sides of this story, Alice," said Mrs. Denvers."Fred shall tell his side first. Go on, my boy."
"When I arranged to go with Kitty, she ran upstairs to the bedroom which she shares with Alice to get her jacket and hat; but Alice had locked the door, and wouldn't let her in. I heard her crying out and begging of Alice to do so, or, at least, if she would not, to throw her hat and jacket out of the window; but no! good nature was not to be expected from my amiable sister. So then Kitty ran down again, and said that as the night was warm it really didn't matter a bit; and she asked me to lend her a cap. I took one from the peg in the hall, never seeing that it was one of the college caps with the coat-of-arms in front, and Kitty popped it on, and off we set. We neither of us gave a thought to her dress, and we walked as fast as possible, chatting and laughing all the way. All went well till we got in front of that horrid 'Spotted Leopard,' and there were several lads round the door. I suppose Kitty's dress attracted them as well as her pretty face, and all in a minute they surrounded her. Such awful cheek! But do you think Kitty would put up with their impudence? I never saw a girl like her! She just aimed a blow straight at one of the fellows and knocked him over as if he were a ninepin. I can tell you she had the laugh on her side; and I don't believe we would have heard anything more about it if that mean, spiteful old cat, Miss Worrick, hadn't been coming round the corner. She ran up to Kitty, and took possession of her, and marched her off home, and put her, forsooth, into Alice's custody. That's the explanation of Miss Sherrard's letter, mother."
"Dear, dear!" said Mrs. Denvers, "it was a most imprudent thing to do.But of course, the poor child meant no harm."
"I should rather think she didn't," cried Fred. "The one you ought really to blame is Alice. No one would have looked at Kitty, nor thought of her one way or the other, if Alice had let her get her hat and jacket; but what was she to do when she was locked out of her own bedroom?"
"But she know very well that she was breaking rules," said Mrs. Denvers. "None of the Middleton girls are allowed to go out so late in the evening except with a suitable escort; and she certainly ought not to have gone in the dress you have described, my boy. It was all thoughtlessness; but she will get into sad trouble, I fear."
"Of course it was thoughtlessness," said Fred; "and the poor thing was bothered, dreadfully bothered, about that brother in Ireland."
"I see, mother," said Alice, "that you are determined to take Kitty's part, whatever happens. She has bewitched you, like all the rest of the household."
"Whom have I bewitched now?" asked Kitty, who entered the room just then.
"Oh, my poor, dear child," said Mrs. Denvers, "you have got into a terrible scrape. See this letter which I have just received from your head-mistress."
Kitty eagerly seized the letter. She was looking pale, and not like her usual self. There were heavy black lines under her eyes. The poor girl had spent most of her night crying. The thought of Laurie was resting on her soul; she was very anxious about him, and, in consequence, very miserable.
"I always said that I hated England," she cried, coloring as she spoke. "Oh, I know, dear Mrs. Denvers, that you are a jewel; and as to Fred, he is no end of a darling; and Mr. Denvers is as nice as a man could be. But there's Alice, and she doesn't like me; and Miss Worrick can't bear me; and half the girls at school don't understand me, and, for the matter of that, I don't care for them; and I don't understand your stiff, proper English ways. I am far and away too wild for England. In Ireland we would only laugh at such a thing as happened last night. What does it matter what sort of dress I go out in and at what hour I go, if I am doing right all the time? I wanted to do something for Laurie, for my dear, dear Laurie, who is in terrible trouble. Please, Mrs. Denvers, let me go home again. Let us both go to Miss Sherrard this morning, and tell her that it is all no use; Kitty Malone was born wild, and wild she will remain to the end of the chapter. Let me go home; please let me go home."
"My poor child, I must not yield to you," said Mrs. Denvers. "You have been sent to us to be made——"
"Oh, don't begin it," cried Kitty. "Don't begin to talk about all the things you have got to make me, and which, to be plain, none of you will ever succeed in doing, for I was not half nor a quarter as wild in Ireland. I was considered in some ways the steady one of the family; but here, why, I am provoked every minute of the day, and I—I can't stand it much longer."
"Well, sit down now and eat your breakfast," said Mrs. Denvers, "for we must soon hurry off to school. Miss Sherrard will want to see us immediately after prayers."
Kitty seated herself, but she had little appetite for her food.
"Why don't you eat?" said Fred, who sat next to her. "Let me help you to some of this porridge; it's jolly well done this morning, and you always like it, don't you?"
"Yes, yes; but I have got a lump in my throat and I can't swallow," answered Kitty. "Thank you all the same, Fred. There are some chocolates in my room if you like to steal up in the middle of the day in case I am locked up, as twenty to one I shall be for this misdemeanor. There are some chocolates and some rock and toffee. You'll find them in my left-hand drawer in the corner. I spent a whole sovereign on sweets, as I told you a few days ago."
"Oh, thanks. Kitty, you are a brick," whispered Fred back in return.
"You can take as many as you like, Fred, old boy, for you are a comfort to me. I'll tell Laurie about you when I go back to Ireland."
"Come, come, my dears, no whispering," said Mrs. Denvers. "Kitty, if you don't care for your breakfast, perhaps you will go up to your room and make yourself tidy for school."
"Oh, am I not tidy now?" asked Kitty, jumping up and running to the glass in the overmantel to survey herself. "By the way, do you like my frock? it is quite new. Don't you think this crimson cotton with the white sash very effective? It is cool, and yet it's gay. I belong to the Tug—Oh! I must not mention that. I never did know such a place for awful secrets as England. I am drawn up every minute by remembering that I must not mention something. But how do you like my dress, Mrs. Denvers?"
"Well, dear, I prefer quieter colors; but we will say nothing more about it just now. Get your hat, Kitty; put on your outdoor shoes and your gloves, and come down immediately, for it is time for us to start."
As soon as Kitty had left the room, Alice turned to her mother.
"Are you going to encourage her in all her follies?" she asked.
"My dear Alice, I don't encourage her in her follies; but there is no use in pulling the poor child up short every moment. She expresses herself quite correctly when she says that she is wild; she is not broken in. But to break in Kitty Malone too thoroughly might also break her heart, and that would never do."
"Break her heart! I don't believe she has got one," said Alice. "But, there, I can't talk any longer on the subject."
It occurred to her that if she started immediately for school she might call for Bessie Challoner, and tell her what had occurred. Bessie's sympathy would be very sweet, and Alice determined to secure it if possible. Accordingly she left the house, and at about a quarter to nine found herself at Bessie's house. Bessie was standing on the steps drawing on her gloves.
"Why, Alice, what has brought you?" she cried; "and where is Kitty?"
"Oh, don't mention Kitty, if you don't want to rile me beyond endurance," said Alice.
"I always do rile you when I mention her," answered Bessie; "but where is she all the same?"
"With mother—she is coming to school with mother."
"With your mother—to Middleton School! What do you mean?"
"Only that mother has to bring her. She has got into no end of a row."
"Has she? Oh, I am sorry," said Bessie.
"Come out, Bessie," said Alice. "It is a little early to get to school, but we may as well walk slowly, and I will tell you all about it as we go along."
This Alice did, enlarging much upon Kitty's dress, her crimson blouse, her bare arms, the college cap on her head, and her little shoes with the buckles and rosettes.
"She must have looked very pretty," said Bessie.
"Bessie! you really are enough to distract any one. Don't you see the impropriety of it? Don't you see that this will get all over the place? People will say that a Middleton girl dressed so unsuitably, so loudly, that—Oh, don't you see it?"
"I don't see anything in it except a silly, foolish, girlish act, uncommonly like Kitty Malone," said Bessie. "You are determined to make mountains out of molehills, Alice."
"No, I am not," said Alice. "Anyhow," she added in a tone of triumph, "Miss Sherrard thinks it disgraceful, and so does Miss Worrick. I suppose you will not go against the opinions of your own mistresses, will you, Bessie?"
"No, no; only I am sorry," said Bessie.
At that moment the two girls reached the school. Gwin Harley was just driving up in her pony-chaise, and Elma, as usual, was hovering near.
"Come here, Elma," said Bessie. "We have something to tell you."
"What is it?" asked Elma eagerly.
"It is this," cried Alice. "Kitty Malone has got into the most awful scrape. She went out last night with Fred in her red blouse—you know that silk blouse she is so fond of wearing?"
"I know; it is sweetly pretty," said Elma.
"Oh, there you are, praising everything she does! Well, anyhow, she wore it, and her arms were bare to the elbow, and she stuck one of the college caps on her head. What will Dr. Butler say? She went with Fred to see you, by the way, Elma. She seemed in an awful hurry to find you. She was in trouble about her brother, and she said you could help her."
"Oh, nonsense!" said Elma. But she had an uncomfortable feeling as the words were said. Her thoughts naturally flew to the eight pounds which Kitty had lent her. Was it possible that Kitty wanted that lovely, that beautiful money back again? Elma had felt almost as if she were living in fairyland from the time that money had been in her possession. She would part with it whenever the day came with extreme reluctance.
"Well," she said, "I cannot imagine what she wanted with me; but what happened?"
"Some rough boys outside the 'Spotted Leopard' were rude to her, and she knocked one of them down; then Miss Worrick came up and took her back to our house; and Miss Sherrard has written this morning to say that mother is to bring Kitty up to school, and that she must have the whole thing explained. There's a nice state of things!"
At that moment the great gong was heard, and the girls were obliged to troop into the school. Prayers were conducted as usual in the great hall, and Elma, Gwin, Alice, and Bessie looked in every imaginable corner for a sight of Kitty Malone. She was not present, however, and they were obliged afterward to go to their class-rooms without having caught sight of her beaming and brilliant face.
Meanwhile Mrs. Denvers and Kitty were waiting for Miss Sherrard in the head-mistress' private sitting-room. Kitty went to the window and looked out.
"I like Miss Sherrard," she said, turning to Mrs. Denvers as she spoke. "I am really sorry to annoy her. It is about a fortnight ago since she spoke to me in this very room; she spoke so kindly, and told me that I had got talents. I was astonished, for I thought she meant cleverness, and I have always been told that I am a dunce; she said that she knew I had good abilities, and that besides I had plenty of other talents—nice dress, and good looks." Kitty colored and flashed a half-defiant, half-roguish glance at Mrs. Denvers. "She also spoke about my money as a talent. Oh, dear, I felt half-conceited, half-delighted when I left her, and I made up my mind that I would be good; but it seems useless, more than useless. Oh, my poor money, my poor money! I have got none of it left now, or at least scarcely any."
"My dear child, no money!" exclaimed Mrs. Denvers. "Impossible. When you spoke to me last you had about fifteen pounds. Kitty, my dear, it is wrong for you to squander money in that fashion."
"But I haven't squandered it, Mrs. Denvers, not really. I have not got it with me, it is true; but most of it is safe, only I must not talk about that. There's another secret for you. What an awful place England is! Oh, dear, dear! I am in a muddle about everything. I can't bear to stand in this room and remember Miss Sherrard's talk. Fancy her saying that even my dress was a talent! Now there's something in favor of my nice red cotton and my dear red silk blouse; and fancy her saying still more that my looks, my pretty face, was a talent! Mrs. Denvers, do you think me pretty, very, very, very pretty?"
"No, Kitty dear, not so wonderfully pretty as that; but you have an attractive face. Miss Sherrard is quite right; beauty is a gift, although it used to be my old-fashioned idea that the less girls were told about their looks the better."
"Oh, but that's all exploded, love," cried Kitty. "In these days girls are told when they are pretty just as much as they are told when they are clever. Now, I'm not clever, not a bit. I'm a dunce, an out and out dunce; but at any rate I've got a pretty face, and I promised that I would use my talents for—for the best—" Here she lowered her face and a thoughtful and beautiful expression came into the great big eyes. "But it's no use," she added. "I am bothered entirely every day of my life, and I am just going from bad to worse."
"Hush, Kitty, you must not talk in that way Hark! I think I hear Miss Sherrard's step." As Mrs. Denvers spoke the door was slowly opened and Miss Sherrard, accompanied by Miss Worrick, came in. Miss Sherrard was just about to speak; but before she could utter a word Kitty rushed to her.
"I have failed, darling; I have failed entirely," she gasped out, "I meant to do right, but I did wrong; I have become worse and worse, although I cannot see the wrong myself. But Miss Worrick has found it out. I want to give up the school, darling, and to go back to Old Ireland. They don't think so badly of me in Old Ireland, and they'll let me dress as I like and go out when I like; and—and, I am not fit for England, dear. Please write to dad and tell him so—tell him I am a failure as far as England is concerned. He'll understand, dear old man. He'll be sorry, but he'll understand. Let me go home again, please, Miss Sherrard—let me go home!"
"No, Kitty, I shall do nothing of the kind," answered Miss Sherrard. "You must not kiss me just now, my dear; no, I am not pleased at all. You did very wrong to go out as late as you did last night. You broke one of the strictest rules of the school, and have brought discredit upon us all. Miss Worrick, will you please relate exactly what occurred?"
Miss Worrick now stood up and made as much as she possibly could of poor Kitty's little escapade in front of the "Spotted Leopard." The story so described made anything but a pleasant picture. Miss Sherrard who was tenacious with regard to the school, and most anxious that each and all of her girls should bear the highest character for quiet and orderly behavior, was deeply annoyed.
"Kitty," she said, "I have always been strangely unwilling to punish you. I have never ceased to remember that you have not been brought up like most of the girls here—that you have enjoyed a freer, wilder life. On that account I have tried to be very patient with you, my dear; but I am sorry to say that I have no alternative now. I must punish you, and severely. For the next week you are to stay in during the morning recess, and after school is over will remain here day by day to learn different tasks which will be set you. Further, my dear—and this, I am sure, will be the most severe part of your punishment—your school companions are absolutely forbidden to speak to you, and you must give your word of honor that you will hold no communication with any of them until the week has expired."
This very severe sentence made poor Kitty quite collapse. She sat down on the nearest chair and her rosy face turned pale.
"Oh, I cannot give my word of honor," she gasped. "I must speak. I must at least speak to Elma Lewis."
"You are not to speak to any of your companions, with the exception of Alice Denvers, in whose house you live," said Miss Sherrard. "Kitty, if you disobey me, I shall have to expel you, and then indeed you will be disgraced for life. My dear you must bow to my authority—you are to speak to no girl in the school. I trust to your honor to obey me in this particular. If you are expelled—and it will certainly happen if I find that you are not keeping your word—you will be branded for life."
After parting with Kitty, Miss Sherrard went back to the school. As she did so, she said a few words to Miss Worrick. The result of this was that all the girls were summoned to appear in the great central hall. When there they were told very briefly—Miss Sherrard standing by her desk as she spoke—that Miss Malone was in disgrace.
"Miss Malone has done something which obliges me to put her into Coventry for a week," said the head-mistress. "Her schoolfellows are forbidden to have any intercourse with her. If she attempts to speak to any girl belonging to Middleton School, with the exception of Alice Denvers, in whose house she is living, that girl holds communication with her at her own peril. Such a girl stands a grave chance of being expelled from the school."
Miss Sherrard then descended from her platform, and the usual work of the morning went on.
It may easily be guessed that Kitty Malone, and Kitty Malone only, was the subject of conversation during recess. What had she done? Why was Miss Sherrard so very severe on her? It was not often that a Middleton girl was given such a very terrible punishment. Alice who knew all about it, and Bessie, who knew a little, were therefore in immense request. Girls came up to these two in groups to find out what was the matter; and when they heard from Alice the very glaring account of what Kitty had really done on the previous night, they listened with open mouths, giving vent to their feelings in different ways. The larger number pronounced Kitty's conduct to be the height of all that was disgraceful.
"Is it true," said one, "that she really wore the college cap? Oh, what will Dr. Butler say if he finds it out? Alice, you cannot mean that she had bare arms, bare from the elbows? Oh, impossible!"
"But Alice," said another, "tell me, did she really, really, knock one of those horrid boys down?"
"Yes; like a ninepin, so Fred says," replied Alice. "Oh, it was disgraceful. Don't talk of it any more; my cheeks burn whenever I think of it."
"But after all, Alice"—said Gwin, who came up at that moment. Gwin's tone sounded quiet, stately, penetrating; it rose above the din which the other girls were making. "After all, Alice, don't you think that you were to blame too? Why did you not let Kitty get into your room and hers? If she wanted to go for a walk it was surely natural enough to ask for her hat and jacket; you refused to give them to her."
"Of course I refused," said Alice, who did not at all wish to share any of poor Kitty's blame. "Kitty knew perfectly well that she was breaking one of the school rules as well as one of our home rules by going out at such an hour—it was between nine and ten o'clock. As to her going without her hat and jacket, such an idea never entered my wildest dreams. No; bad as I thought Kitty, I did not think her bad enough for that. There is no excuse for her. She is well punished, and for my part I cannot but rejoice."
"For my part," said Gwin gravely, "I am extremely sorry. I like Kitty; I like her much. She has her faults of course; she is different from any of the rest of us; she is wild and daring and eccentric; but she is also the soul of honesty and candor. She is very affectionate and very generous. She has not been brought up in the least as we have been. Things we think wrong are not considered wrong by Kitty Malone. As she herself expresses it, she is a little bit wild. Oh, I am sorry for her, dreadfully sorry; and I think Miss Sherrard has been too severe. I wonder at Miss Sherrard. I thought she understood Kitty. She spoke to mother so kindly about her yesterday; she said there was a great deal of good in the Irish girl, as she called her; and also said that she was very glad that I was her friend. Although Miss Sherrard does not know any of the rules of the Tug-of-war Society, she naturally knows that we have formed it. She told me that she could not express how pleased she was at our having asked Kitty to become a member. Girls, I wish I could speak to Miss Sherrard. I think I will. It will break Kitty's heart to be kept in Coventry for a week."
"I doubt if she has a heart," said Alice. "It is all very fine to talk of her affectionate ways; for my part I call them nothing but impetuous. She is vain, conceited, and selfish; and provided she gets her own way does not care what prejudices she rides roughshod over. Oh, I have no patience with her."
"But," said Bessie Challoner, who was standing stolidly by, looking very determined and very quiet, "what did Kitty want out at that hour? Kitty with all her faults, would not break the rules unless she had a strong motive. What could have been the matter?"
"And why did she want to see you, Elma?" said Gwin. "Can you throw any light on the subject?"
Elma colored first and then turned pale. Several pairs of eyes were immediately fixed on her; one girl looked at the other, and a few nodded significantly. Elma observed the looks and turned away in hot fear.
"I don't know what she wanted with me," she muttered.
The rest of the school hours passed as usual, and just before dinner, when the great school broke up for the day, Kitty was still the subject for conversation. Gwin lingered a little behind the others, and Bessie stopped to ask why she was doing so.
"I have almost made up my mind," she said, "to plead with Miss Sherrard for Kitty."
"Oh Gwin; how noble of you. I respect you, I do from my heart; but I tell you what. Would it not be better for us to do something of this sort? Why should not all the Tug-of-war girls plead for her? That would seem more effective and stronger, would it not? Suppose we wrote a letter, a sort of round-robin, and sent it to Miss Sherrard, begging of her to forgive Kitty this time; and taking upon ourselves the responsibility of her future conduct. Oh, I say, Gwin, could we not do it?"
"It is a splendid thought," said Gwin; "much—much better than my talking to Miss Sherrard alone. Look here, Bessie; could we not manage to have a meeting of the Tug-of-war at my house this evening? Oh, there's Elma; I'll ask her at once. Elma come here."
Elma who was just shouldering her books preparatory to leaving the school, turned when she heard Gwin's voice.
"What is it, Gwin?" she asked; her manner was a little nervous.
Gwin hastily repeated Bessie's daring suggestion.
"Oh, I'll come of course," said Elma; but there was a certain amount of apathy in her tone.
"And I will secure Alice; I am getting quite to dislike Alice, though," said Bessie.
Gwin promised to write to the other girls at once, and it was finally arranged that a meeting should be held at Harley Grove that evening between four and five o'clock.
Elma walked home alone, musing much over the aspect of affairs.
"I wonder what Kitty did want with me," she said to herself. "Doubtless it had something to do with that money. Kitty was in despair, so it seems. Oh, there's Fred Denvers; perhaps he can tell me something? Hullo, Fred!"
Elma stopped; Fred was on his way from college; he was whistling a gay air, and did not see Elma until he had almost reached her side.
"Hullo, Elma," he answered; "how are you?"
"Oh, I am very well, Fred, thank you; but have you heard about KittyMalone?"
"How everybody does cry out Kitty Malone; it will soon be sung by the birds in the air," said Fred; "Kitty Malone! Kitty Malone! What's the matter with her now?"
"Oh, she has got into the most awful scrape; of course you know what occurred last night?"
"Rather!" said Fred. "I was with her. I say, Elma, she is about the pluckiest girl I ever met. Didn't she hit out straight from the shoulder; and didn't that fellow go down like a ninepin! I don't believe he is able to see out of his eye to-day. Why, that little hand of hers is as hard as iron. Who taught her the art of boxing like that? She's a born fencer! She's a splendid girl. I never met any one like her."
Elma did not feel so much annoyed at this praise of Kitty as Alice would have been; but all the same it was scarcely gratifying to her. After reflecting for a moment, during which Fred was preparing to continue his swinging pace toward his home, she said suddenly: "But where was she going, Fred?"
Fred's big blue eyes lit up with a sudden light of intelligence.
"What a fool I am!" he said. "You perhaps can throw light on this mystery. She wanted to see you, Elma. I cannot imagine what about. You know how fond she is of her brother Laurie? Well, it seems that Laurie got into some sort of scrape; and Kitty, poor girl, she was in a way about it; fretting like any thing, and she said no one could help her but you. Can you tell me what she wanted with you? She was in a rare hurry to get to your house."
"Of course I cannot tell," answered Elma. "Who could be responsible for the vagaries of Kitty Malone? I thought I would ask you. I thought perhaps you would know. Of course they are talking about it at school, and they are wondering what I can have to do with it. It is anything but pleasant for me I can tell you."
"Oh, you'll manage well enough; you'll fight your own battles. Well, what have they done with her at the school? You look quite mysterious."
"I forgot I had never mentioned it to you. They have sent her to Coventry; Miss Sherrard has done it. We are none of us to speak to her for a week."
"Whew!" said Fred, rounding his lips for a prolonged whistle. "Well, that won't bother Kitty much; I don't suppose talking to you would be much of a loss to her."
"But you don't understand, Fred. It's the disgrace, and Gwin Harley thinks it will break her heart; and—But I must not tell you any more; I must hurry home."
"Poor Kitty! Anyhow, there's no embargo put on my talking to her," saidFred to himself. "Poor old Kit, poor old girl; I'll make it up to her ifI can."
Fred ran home as fast as he could, and Elma continued her way.
"There's no doubt of it," she said to herself; "she wants that money. She will manage, Coventry or not, to ask for it. She promised me faithfully that she would never tell that I borrowed it from her; but, being an Irish girl, she is scarcely likely to keep her word. Now that she is in trouble for some unknown cause, she is certain to blab it out. Did she not say herself that she could never keep a secret? Oh dear, what an awful mess I have got into. If it gets to be known that I borrowed eight pounds from Kitty I shall be expelled. If there is a rule that the Middleton governors are strict about, it is that by which the girls are forbidden to borrow money from one another; and eight pounds is such a large, large sum. All my future will be ruined if this is known. I had better give her back all the money that is left, and at once. It would be the safest plan. I can at any rate let her have seven sovereigns; and perhaps if she has that, she will not say anything whatever about the matter. How miserable I shall feel without it; but anything, anything is better than the dreadful fact getting to Miss Sherrard's ears that I broke one of the strictest rules of the school, and borrowed eight pounds from Kitty. The Tug-of-war Society would never again have anything to do with me. I should have the poorest chance of remaining in the school. It would get to Aunt Charlotte's ears. Yes, yes; all my future depends on keeping this thing dark. I must get rid of that dreadful money as quickly as possible. I thought my luck was going to turn; but it is far too good to be true that I might keep such a large sum of money safely. Poor Kitty! yes of course, I'm sorry for her; but she is certain to tell on me. She would think nothing of getting me into the most terrible scrape. I—I am bound to think of myself first."
At this point in her meditations Elma reached the house in Constantine Road. She ran up the steps, let herself in with a latchkey, and went straight to her room. She opened the drawer where she kept Kitty's precious sovereigns and put in her hand to take out the little paper parcel. More than once since she had possessed this money had Elma examined that little packet, getting up early in the morning to gloat over it, looking at it the last thing at night; but always taking care that Carrie should be sound asleep. It gave her comfort, the comfort almost of a miser to gaze at her gold. She used to forget at these supreme moments that the gold was in reality not hers at all. She used to forget everything but the delightful sense of possession. She felt as if she could never spend the money, as if she must hoard it and hoard it just for the mere pleasure of looking at it. She knew the exact corner of the drawer where she kept it; no one ever dared to meddle with Elma's drawers. She kept the rest of the family more or less in awe of her. As to Maggie, she was honest as the day. But what was the matter? Search as she would she could not find the precious little packet. She looked frantically here, there, and everywhere. Soon she had removed the drawer from its case and had tumbled all the contents on her bed. Nowhere was the money to be found. Elma's face turned white as a sheet. She trembled from head to foot. In the midst of her meditations Carrie entered the room.
"My dear Elma, what is the matter?" she cried.
A glance had shown her what was really wrong. A smile crossed her face.She walked deliberately across the room and flung herself on her bed.
"How hot it is," she said with a pant.
"Dear me, Carrie, why are you so incorrigibly lazy?" said Elma. "Not that I care—I am in dreadful trouble I———"
"You look like it," said Carrie. "What is the matter?"
"I am looking for some money."
"Money? What money are you likely to have?"
"Well, it so happens that I have some—a good deal. Carrie have you seen it?"
"Have I seen what?" asked Carrie in a provokingly drawling voice.
"Why, my money. How did you think I got that dress, that dress which you are racking through at such a furious pace?"
Carrie was attired in the pale blue nun's-veiling. It was Carrie's way to have a dress and to wear it morning, noon, and night, destroying all its freshness. The nun's-veiling was already dirty and draggled-looking.
"How do you think I got that dress that you made such a fuss about if I had not money to pay for it?"
"I am sure I couldn't tell, and what's more, I didn't care," said Carrie. "What is vexing you now, Elma? Oh! what a commotion you are making in your poor drawer!"
"I have just lost seven sovereigns and—Carrie, I see by your face that you do know something about it. Is it possible that you stole the money?"
"How dare you accuse me of such a thing?" said Carrie, flaring up in apparently most righteous indignation—- in reality she was enjoying herself immensely. She had made up her mind not to tell Elma the truth at present. By and by she would tell, after she had well frightened her sister, but certainly not yet.
"I know nothing whatever about it," she said, caring little for the lie which she was telling. "I am sorry you have lost it; but how did you get it?"
Elma was silent, shutting up her lips tightly. The dinner-gong sounded, and the girls went down to their midday meal.
Carrie soon perceived that Elma was in real trouble. With all her low, idle, careless, and unprincipled ways, at the bottom of her heart she was fond of her sister. She made up her mind to visit Sam Raynes that evening and get him to return the money.
"Poor old Elma," she said to herself. "I don't want to be too hard on her. It is not the fun I expected when she looks at me with such miserable eyes. It would certainly not do for her to get talking to Maggie."
"You leave the matter to me. I may have a clue," she said, when dinner was over. "But rest assured on one point, Maggie has nothing to do with it, nor has mother."