Here Carrie ran upstairs, to put on her things preparatory to returning to her pupils.
Elma was now alone. The hour was three o'clock. At half-past four she was to meet Gwin Harley and the rest of the Tug-of-War girls. In the meantime she knew she could not possibly have any peace of mind until the seven sovereigns were discovered.
Mrs. Lewis had gone up as usual to her room to lie down. She had a headache and was in very low spirits. Elma glanced at her once or twice and determined not to worry her; but Maggie she considered her lawful prey. She had given Carrie no promise, and felt sure that Maggie and Carrie between them were at the bottom of the mystery. She determined to go into the kitchen and terrify Maggie into confession.
That young woman was busy giving sundry touches to the charming toque with which she intended to electrify her young man on the following Sunday.
"Maggie," said Elma, "I wish to speak to you."
"Oh lor! miss, how you startled me," cried Maggie. She jumped up as she spoke, dropping Kitty's violets to the floor. They were so natural, so beautiful, so exactly like the real flowers, that more than one girl had remarked upon them, and among these had been Elma. As they lay on the by-no-means-too-clean kitchen floor, she stooped now to pick them up.
"Where did you get these?" she asked in a sharp voice.
"Oh, Miss Helma, they're mine, and you have no right to 'em," was the quick reply.
"Where did you get them, Maggie? You're a bad girl; you must have stolen them."
"I steal 'em! I like that," said Maggie, turning first crimson and then very white. "They was give to me by the young Irish lady."
"By Miss Malone, Miss Kitty Malone?"
"Yes, miss; the prettiest young lady I ever clapped eyes on; she give 'em to me herself."
"Look here, Maggie," said Elma, "the violets don't matter. Let us talk of something else. Do you know anything about some money which I keep in my drawer upstairs? Now look me straight in the eyes. I miss that money, and you know I can call in the police and have your boxes searched. Do you know anything about it? If you'll tell me the truth I'll be merciful to you. Last night I had seven sovereigns in my drawer, but now they are gone. Did you touch them, Maggie? Tell me the truth and at once."
"I touch your money, miss! I didn't know you had any, that I didn't."
Poor Maggie's face was a study. Perplexity, despair, indignation swept over it in a sort of terror.
"Miss Helma, you're cruel to talk to me like that," she cried. "Me touch your money! No, that I didn't. Oh, miss, is it the money Miss Malone come about? Is it gone?"
A wild hope flashed through Elma's brain, to be discarded the next moment. Could Kitty have come to the house and visited her room and taken away her own money herself?
"What do you mean about Miss Malone?" she cried.
"She come here miss. Oh, Miss Helma, don't look at me so scornfully. She came here yesterday and asked for you and when I told her you was out she writ a letter, and said you was to have it the moment you come in, and that it was as important as the Bank of England. Yes, that she did—and she laid it on the blotter in the dining-room. She was the prettiest young lady I ever set eyes on, and she took them violets out of her cap and give them to me. She was in an awful way, and said she wanted to see you on a most important matter. I don't know what she wrote in the letter; but it may have been about the money, miss."
"Of course it was about the money," said Elma, who felt more and more uncomfortable each moment; "but where is the letter, Maggie? Why did I not get it?"
"You ask Miss Carrie that, miss. She come in, and—. Oh, but I mustn't tell any more."
"But you must and shall," said Elma. She took hold of Maggie fiercely by her arm, dragged her forward to the light, and looked her full in the eyes. "Now, tell me every single thing you know, or I'll summon the police this moment," she said.
Thus adjured, Maggie fell on her knees and made an ample confession.
Elma felt nearly driven to distraction. All her future depended on the character which she was able to maintain at school. She did not, and she knew it, belong to the best class of girls who attended Middleton School. Elma's father was a man of bad reputation. He had long ago disgraced his family, and had been obliged to go to Australia. Mrs. Lewis was better born than her husband; and when trouble came, a sister, who had been much shocked at her marrying Lewis, came to her aid. She did not do much for her; but she did something. This sister, a certain Mrs. Steward, the wife of a clergyman in Buckinghamshire, promised to look after Elma, who was the cleverest and most presentable of the two girls. Mrs. Lewis begged that Elma should not be taken away from her; and Mrs. Steward, angry with herself for what she termed her folly, had yet yielded to her sister's entreaties. She said she would give Elma what would be better than a fortune—namely, a first-class education; and if, when her education was finished, she showed intelligence, and, above all, a good, sterling, moral character, she would do what she could to place her in life. Her present intention was, after Elma had gone through a course of instruction at Middleton School, to send her to Girton, thus enabling her by and by to take a really good position as teacher.
All these things Elma knew well. She was an ambitious girl; she earnestly desired to secure a good position for herself in life. She hated her sister Carrie's ways, and detested the grumbling, weak sort of character which she could not but see that her mother possessed. All the same, she was not really scrupulous nor high-principled; it was only that the little mean ways and the petty shifts which went on in the small house in Constantine Road sorely fretted her. Her intercourse with girls like Gwin Harley and Bessie Challoner could not but raise her standard. Carrie's manners and ways disgusted her more and more each day.
Now, as she put on her hat and prepared to walk to Harley Grove, she could not help thinking, with great bitterness, of the unlooked-for calamity which had come upon her. She was naturally intensely selfish, and had no idea of sacrificing herself on this occasion. No matter to what subterfuge she must be obliged to stoop, she would never, never, let any of the Middleton girls know that she had broken the rule of the school, and borrowed money from Kitty. For a Middleton girl to borrow money at all was a black crime; but for any one to take advantage of Kitty's innocence, hernaïveté, her wild, daring, reckless ways would make the crime all the blacker. Elma, were such a sin to be discovered, would be, if not expelled from the school, which was extremely likely, at any rate tabooed on the spot by all the nice girls who went there. Above all things, she longed for and esteemed popularity. Such a course of treatment would be intolerable. As a matter of course, Mrs. Steward would be told of her niece's transaction. Mrs. Steward would say, "Like father, like daughter." She would cease to patronize Elma. The fees for her schooling would be withdrawn, and Elma herself must sink to the level which Carrie had long ago reached.
"It cannot be," she thought; "whatever happens, I must keep this miserable story from the ears of the girls and mistresses. At the present moment I am fairly safe. Wild and reckless as Kitty is, she would not dare to hold intercourse with any of the Middleton girls now. Alice is the only one allowed to speak to her, and Alice she will certainly not confide in, for she so cordially hates her. Yes, I know perfectly well what I am going to Harley Grove for. Gwin is full of sympathy for Kitty; so is Bessie Challoner. Romantic and silly they both are; but Alice at least will be on my side. I will oppose the petition which the Tug-of-war girls intend to send to Miss Sherrard. Kitty must not be set at liberty until I can return her the money. Carrie has it, beyond doubt. What she has done with it I don't know; but most likely I shall be able to give it back to Kitty to-morrow."
Having made up her mind, Elma walked briskly forward. She would she felt certain, be very unpopular if she opposed the vote which, unless she did something to prevent it, would be carried by the majority in Kitty's favor. She was anxious to see some of the other Tug-of-war girls. It was all-important that a majority should be against Kitty, not for her.
When she arrived at the avenue which led to Harley Grove she met Alice, and a moment later two other girls of the names of Matilda and Jessie Forbes came pantingly up.
"Oh, do wait for us," they cried, seeing Elma and Alice linger for a moment at the gate.
"Alice," said Elma, "before they join us I want to speak to you. Are you for Kitty, or against her?"
"How do you mean?" asked Alice in some wonder.
"I mean, are you going to vote that this petition should be sent to MissSherrard or are you not?"
"I am going to vote against it, of course," said Alice, with a short laugh.
"Well, I am on your side; I wish to say so."
"You, Elma! I thought you would never oppose Gwin Harley. You are one of those people who know where their bread is buttered. Why do you take my part on this occasion?"
"Because," said Elma, flushing deeply, for, hardened little sinner as she was, she had not perfect control over her emotions—"because I think Kitty richly deserves what she has got. It would never do to have this sort of thing going on at the school. But look here, Alice, if the petition is not to be sent to Miss Sherrard, we must try and have a majority on our side. Why should we not secure Matilda and Jessie Forbes?"
"I never thought of that," said Alice; "but really, Elma, now I come to consider it, as far as I personally am concerned, I don't much care. It matters very little to me whether Kitty gets out of Coventry or not. I shall have to speak to her however the tide turns. You do seem strangely eager on the subject."
"When I join a certain side I don't wish it to be the losing one," said Elma, as calmly as she could. "Hullo, Matilda, how out of breath you are! You need not have run so fast; you could see that we were waiting for you."
"Well, you see," said Jessie Forbes, who was also panting as she came up, "we have never yet been to Harley Grove. Is it not a very grand place, Elma? Was it not kind of Gwin to ask us, and—Oh, of course, we are full of sympathy for that poor, dear Kitty Malone."
"Why do you pity her?" asked Elma coldly.
"Because the poor darling didn't know any better. Does it not seem silly to make such a fuss about such a trifle? I can't imagine why Miss Sherrard has been so very severe."
"I don't agree with you at all," said Elma. "I think Kitty richly deserves her punishment. Of course," she added, "I don't want to be really hard on her; but unless she is made to feel shame when she does anoutréand extraordinary thing like she did last night, she will go on doing similar deeds, and get the whole school into disgrace."
"Oh dear, yes," said Jessie, "that is perfectly true, and I should not like father to know that one of the Middleton girls had been spoken to by a rude boy in the street. I really believe he would take us both from the school."
"If you think so," said Elma, "you ought to oppose the petition."
"Are you going to, Elma?"
"Certainly."
"But you are a friend of hers, are you not?"
"Of course I am. I am very fond of her."
"And you oppose it for her good?"
"Undoubtedly; altogether for her good."
"And Miss Sherrard does know what is right," said Matilda, in a thoughtful voice. "Miss Sherrard was never a severe teacher. We all love her dearly."
"And she is very fond of Kitty," said Elma. "I know that for a fact."
"Yes, and so do I know it to my cost," said Alice shrugging her shoulders. She walked up the avenue as she spoke. Jessie ran after her.
"What side are you going to take Alice?" she asked.
"Miss Sherrard's," replied Alice shortly.
Meanwhile Elma had slipped her hand gently through Matilda's arm, and looking up into the face of the taller girl, said in her most insinuating voice:
"I do think, painful as it is, that we ought to take Miss Sherrard's side. Gwin is so enthusiastic, poor dear, and so is Bessie Challoner, that they are certain to be led away by their feelings. Now, Miss Sherrard is the most sympathetic and kindest of head-mistresses, she would not have given Kitty so severe a punishment without reason."
"That is true," said Matilda. "Only, of course, you see, Elma, I don't want to go against Gwin. I am so terribly anxious to become her friend. I admire her so immensely. I don't think there's any other girl in the school to equal her."
"I should think there isn't," said Elma with sudden warmth.
"I am sorry she has taken Kitty Malone's part—poor Kitty! We certainly all think her charming; but if father were to hear of it!"
"You would not like him to take you from the school now," said Elma, "just when you have such a good chance of the literature scholarship?"
"I should think not; it would be a dreadful blow. But he would be—oh, I cannot tell you how shocked he would be!"
"And he would be more shocked, would he not, if he heard that you had taken Kitty's part, and had signed the petition against Miss Sherrard?"
"Of course, I never thought of that. I declare Elma, you are clever. I will mention what you say to Jessie, and tell her that she must go against the petition."
Elma felt that she had won her point. There would be at least four girls against Gwin's motion, and probably others would follow their example.
When the girls arrived at the house, they were shown immediately into Gwin's pretty private study. Gwin was standing by the open window. She had a book in her hand, but was not reading it. She was looking anxiously out. There was a perplexed expression on her fine face, and her large deep gray eyes were full of emotion.
"I am so glad you have come," she said when she saw the girls. "I hope all the Tug-of-war girls will be present. The more I think of this affair the more certain I am that it will be the ruin of Kitty Malone."
Elma looked sympathizingly at her friend, Alice frowned, Matilda andJessie did not know where to look, nor what to say. If they had not metAlice and Elma they would have certainly gone heart and soul with Gwinin the matter.
"Sit down, won't you, girls?" said Gwin. "Tea will be ready in a moment—are you not thirsty?"
"Yes, it's a very hot day," said Jessie, somewhat timidly.
"And you had a long walk; but it was really kind of you to come. We won't do anything until some more of the Tug-of-war Society arrive. But perhaps my letters have not reached the others."
"Oh, I know the Hodgsons are coming," said Matilda Forbes, "because I met them."
"I am glad of that. Ah, and here is Bessie."
Bessie Challoner at this moment entered the room. She shook hands with the Forbes girls, whom she had not met before that day, nodded to Alice, and going up to Gwin began to whisper in her ear.
Gwin looked more anxious.
"All the same I am determined to do it," she said.
"I am certain Miss Sherrard will be very angry," said Bessie. "Had you really better, Gwin?"
"I certainly had better. I am not afraid of Miss Sherrard, nor twentyMiss Sherrards, when I think I have a righteous cause. She does not knowKitty as well as I know her. Ah, here you are," she said as, theHodgsons, two rather dowdy, but affectionate girls, came quickly intothe room.
"What's this Gwin?" cried Mary, the elder; "something wrong with thatIrish girl? What can be up?"
"I will explain everything to you after we have had tea. Ah, here it comes!"
Gwin walked to the table, where the footman now placed tea and cakes, and began to dispense the refreshments. The girls stood round her chatting, munching cake and drinking tea. The afternoon sun poured into the room. Outside it was cool and shady. Gwin went to the window and drew down the green venetian blinds.
"Now, that is cooler," she said. "Have you all had enough?"
"Yes, thank you," answered one or two.
Gwin rang the bell, and the servant came to remove the tea equipage.
"And now to business," said Gwin. "What I briefly propose to do is this: Kitty Malone is in trouble. As a member of the Tug-of-war Society, the rest of the society is bound to support her. I am most anxious that she should get all the support in our power. She is not like any of us; she has been differently brought up. What she did last night was the result of impetuosity and overzeal. She was troubled about her brother, and for some extraordinary reason thought that Elma could help her. Elma, can you throw any light on the matter?"
"None whatever," answered Elma in a stout voice.
"She went out with the college cap on and without her jacket, and for that reason some rough, rude boys talked to her, and she knocked one of them down in trying to defend herself, and so got into a terrible scrape. Miss Worrick, it seems, witnessed the transaction, and she told Miss Sherrard. Miss Sherrard was very much annoyed, and has put Kitty into Coventry for a week. We are none of us allowed, on pain of instant dismissal, to speak to her. Now, my proposal is this; that we write a little petition, and each of us sign it, and then that I take it to Miss Sherrard. I want to ask Miss Sherrard to allow the members of the Tug-of-war Society to speak to Kitty. I want to ask her to allow us all to do our best during her week's punishment to show her that this wild and erratic way will not go down in England; I want her to allow us to do our utmost by kindness to overcome Kitty's wild nature. I have scarcely any doubt, girls, that Miss Sherrard will approve of our scheme."
"Well, I for one approve of it most heartily," said Bessie Challoner. "I believe severity would ruin a girl like Kitty. You cannot drive her; she must be led."
"Thank you, Bessie. I knew you would feel with me. And now, girls, I will put this thing to the vote. All who are in favor of the scheme hold up their hands."
The Forbes girls looked tremblingly, with flushed cheeks and glittering eyes, at Elma and Alice. Their hands went half up and then dropped again into their laps. It was the fear of their father's displeasure which prevented their going altogether with Gwin. The Hodson girls immediately held up their hands; but Alice, Elma, Matilda, and Jessie plainly showed that they did not mean to sign the petition.
"Is this possible?" said Gwin in a vexed voice. "I surely thought there was not—Elma, you must be at the head of this. What is your reason for not joining us?"
Alice looked as if she were about to speak; but Elma jumped at once to her feet.
"I don't join you because I do not agree with you, dear Gwin. I believe Miss Sherrard knows a great deal better than we do what is good for a girl. I am certain she will be much annoyed by our interfering; and for my part I think a week in Coventry will do Kitty Malone no harm."
"I am surprised and disappointed in you, Elma," said Gwin, "Alice, what is your feeling?"
"Oh, I absolutely agree with Elma," said Alice. "I think it would be a rare comfort to take any means to subdue and crush out of sight, even for one week, that most obnoxious person Kitty Malone. The unfortunate part is that I shall have to do with her even during her week in Coventry."
"But surely," said Gwin, in some astonishment, "you two Forbes girls can have nothing to say against Kitty. It cannot injure you in any way that we should plead for the mitigation of her punishment."
"Well, the fact is this," said Jessie, standing up as she spoke, and looking very miserable. "Father is most particular; he is almost faddy, you know, Gwin—and if he ever heard that a girl from the school did exactly what Kitty did last night—I mean that she went out so late against rules, and was dressed in such a queer way, and was obliged to knock down a rude boy in order to protect herself—why, I think he would take us from school. Then if father also heard that we had gone against Miss Sherrard's authority, we—Oh, I cannot say it exactly as I ought; but Gwin, I would rather not sign that paper."
"All right," answered Gwin in some vexation.
"Then my scheme falls through. Four against and four for. We have only one other member of the Tug-of-war except poor Kitty herself, and she, I am afraid, cannot come, as she is ill with a bad cold. Well, I shall see Miss Sherrard alone and must take my chance."
"Yes, if you please; that would be much the best plan," said Jessie, sinking down into her seat with a sigh of relief.
Soon afterward the little party at Gwin Harley's house separated. There was a feeling of restraint over them which Gwin's guests seldom experienced. They were not at one. It was impossible to talk any longer on the subject with which their hearts were full. Gwin was anxious to prepare the exact arguments she intended to use with Miss Sherrard. She looked relieved when Elma made the first move of departure. Alice jumped up also with alacrity.
"Good-by Gwin," she said. "I think you are doing wrong to interfered in this matter. A little punishment will do Kitty Malone no more harm than it does any other girl. Of course it's not pleasant; punishment never is. Good-by; take my advice and allow Kitty Malone to shift for herself."
Gwin made no reply at all to this. She gave Alice a cold nod, and the four girls who now formed the opposition left the house.
"Good-by to all chance of my friendship with Gwin," said Jessie Forbes rather miserably as they walked up the avenue.
"Oh, never mind, Jessie, you did the right thing," said Alice. "What is the good of toadying? I hate toadies. If you are ever to become a friend of Gwin Harley's you will see that she hates them also, although, perhaps I am wrong to say that." Here she glanced somewhat significantly at Elma. Elma colored and turned her head aside.
When they reached the top of the avenue the girls turned each to go their several ways. Elma hurried home as fast as she could.
"I must get that money by hook or by crook this evening," she said to herself. "I wonder where Carrie has hidden it. Bad as she is, she would certainly not steal it from me. Oh, it is safe of course, and I must get it and manage to convey it to Kitty to-night, and then as far as I am concerned I don't care how soon the poor thing gets out of Coventry."
When Elma reached home the first person she saw was Carrie. Carrie was standing on the steps of the shabby little villa in Constantine Road talking to a fiery-haired young man.
Elma never condescended to have anything to do with Raynes. Giving him a very cold nod now, she was about to enter the house when Carrie caught her arm and stopped her.
"Why don't you speak to Sam?" she said. "Sam, this is my sister, Elma."
"How do you do?" said Elma. "I am sorry I cannot wait now; I want to see mother."
"There's no use in your going in if it's mother you want," pursued Carrie. "She has gone out for the evening. Mrs. Duncan has asked her to tea. I am glad of it. A little change will do her good."
"I won't keep you now, Car," said Raynes, turning to Carrie and giving her a somewhat clumsy nod. He looked askance at Elma, and the next moment had clattered down the steps, and, turning the corner, was out of sight.
"What a creature!" said Elma. "I wonder you have anything to do with him, Carrie. I think, even for my sake, seeing that Aunt Charlotte is doing so much for me—"
"Now stop that," said Carrie; "I won't have a word of abuse against Sam. He suits me very well. I'm not a fine lady, and I never mean to be a fine lady. I shall be very comfortable as his wife some day, and I don't want you to abuse him. Whether you like him or not, he is going to be your brother-in-law and—Why, Elma, how tired you look!"
"I am tired and worried, and I want to speak to you," said Elma.
"To speak to me?" answered Carrie, a little alarm coming into her voice in spite of herself. "What for? Anything special? Are you prepared to make me a present of another dress; I could do with a white one now the weather is getting so very hot, and Sam would like me in white. White with pink ribbons would be a change, or mauve—mauve ribbons look so sweetly cool with white."
"I am not going to listen to any of your nonsense," said Elma. "I want to ask you a straight question. Where is my money?"
"Your money? What do you mean?"
"What I say. I have heard the whole story from Maggie, and I can bring her as a witness. You have put that money in hiding, and I want it at once. There, Carrie, like a dear old soul, do own up. Let me have the money without any more delay. Of course you have not stolen it. I know you have not; but you have hidden it. I wish you would give it back now. If I can't return it to its rightful owner to-night I shall get into worse trouble. Do let me have the money back."
Carrie's face also now became pale.
"I wish I could," she said in a frightened voice. "Do you mean to say that you really want it back?"
"Why, of course. You haven't spent it? Oh, if you have I am ruined—ruined for life."
"No, I have not spent it; but the fact is I—What a little wretch thatMaggie was to tell!"
"She couldn't help herself; I made her. Now, speak out, Carrie. Oh, we need not go indoors. Where is the money? Please, please, Carrie, let me have it at once."
Elma's troubled face, her trembling hands, the anxiety depicted all over her nervous little figure, could not but show Carrie that there was something serious in the wind.
"Well," she said, "I am awfully sorry. I—I just did it in a fit of mischief. I read that letter which Kitty Malone wrote to you, and it seemed to throw light on some of your actions which had puzzled me of late. I went to your drawer and found the money, and thought I would give it to Sam to keep for you."
"To Sam Raynes?" cried Elma, backing a few steps, her voice assuming a tone of terror.
"Yes. Do be careful, Elma, or you'll fall right down into the area. Why shouldn't I lend it to Sam Raynes?"
"Lend it?"
"Well, well, it's all the same; I asked him to keep it for me."
"I'll go to him at once and get it," said Elma, preparing to run down the steps.
Carrie caught her by the arm.
"I'm awfully sorry," she said, "but it's no use, he—he says we cannot have it for a week, perhaps a fortnight. He is doing a little deal with it, as he expresses it. He says perhaps we'll have it back doubled."
"What can you mean, Carrie?" Elma knew nothing whatever about speculation. That will-o'-the-wisp which leads so many astray had not yet entered into her life.
"You need not look so miserable. Won't you like to have it back again, not seven pounds but fourteen? and Sam says this will probably be the case in a week or a fortnight, or at any rate in a month from now."
Elma threw up her hand in despair.
"If I have to wait a month for the money," she said, "I may as well never have it. Oh Carrie, what have you done? You have ruined me, ruined me! Carrie, I cannot lead a low, common life like yours; I am not fit for it. Oh, Aunt Charlotte will never do anything more for me after this. Kitty wants the money, and I cannot give it to her. Oh, Carrie, to think that you should have ruined my life!"
Poor Elma covered her face with her trembling hands and went into the house. She entered the shabby little sitting-room and sank into the nearest chair. Carrie stood near her in real perplexity and agitation.
"What a pity you didn't confide in me when you brought it home," she said. "Of course I didn't really want to do you an ill turn, Elma; but you were so sly and secretive, and—and I thought I would have my joke. You don't know how precious dull my life is; and when I saw that letter and felt that you were keeping a nice little hoard of money, all private and without the knowledge of your sister, it was just too much for me, and I took it to Sam because I didn't know where to hide it safe in this house."
"The thing that matters," said Elma, "is the fact that I cannot get it back. But I must get it; I must see Sam Raynes at once."
"Tell me why it is so bad," said Carrie. "You must confide the whole thing to me now. There's no use in keeping secrets from your sister."
Thus adjured, and because she was almost distracted, poor Elma did tell. She described as well as she could the terrible position she would be in at Middleton School if the whole of this transaction were known. She managed to a certain extent to open Carrie's eyes.
"Although, I cannot see what they would be so angry about," said Carrie. "You were offered the money and you accepted it. You never wanted to keep it; you would have given it back some time; and even if you did keep that Irish girl out of it for a month, what would it have mattered? But there—I see you are in a state, and I am sure I don't want to ruin your life. You, with your high-faluting notions, must not have all your ambitions dashed to the ground. We'll go together to see Sam, and try to find out what can be done."
"Yes, let us go at once," said Elma in feverish haste. "I wanted to take the money to Kitty to-night. At present she cannot tell on me; but she is quite certain to do so if I don't return it to her at once. Let us go down to see Sam now."
"All right," answered Carrie; "come along. I dare say we'll find him at home. I hope we shall."
Five minutes later the girls were standing outside the door of theRaynes' very humble dwelling. It was opened by Florrie Raynes herself.
"Hullo, Carrie, what do you want now?" she cried. "Oh, andMissLewis," with a mocking emphasis on the word "Miss." "To what do we owe the honor of this visit?"
"I want to see your brother," said Elma brusquely. "He has got some money of mine, which I must ask him to have the goodness to return at once."
"Money?" said Florrie, opening her eyes rather wide. "Well, you can see him for yourselves; but if it's money that is lent to Sam, I—I rather pity the girl who wants to get it back from him again. Sam is a very whale on money. He always swallows it wholesale."
With these anything but encouraging words, Florrie threw open the door of the shabby little smoking-room, where Sam, with a pipe in his mouth, was lying at his ease. He started up when he saw the girls, removed his pipe, and going up to Carrie, laid his hand familiarly on her shoulder.
"Well, Car, so you could not do without me," he said with a smile.
"The fact is this," answered Elma, "my sister has told me that she gave you seven pounds a couple of nights ago to keep for her. That money happens to have been lent to me, and I want it back immediately. I have come for it. Will you give it to me, please?"
Sam drew in his breath preparatory to giving a long whistle.
"Highty! tighty!" he cried. "You have very grand airs, Miss Elma Lewis; but I didn't know that money was borrowed. Ho! ho! this puts a very unpleasant complexion on things. When dear old Car brought it to me I thought I might do what I liked with it. Did you not give me to understand as much Car?" Here he gave Carrie a perceptible wink. She was very much under his influence, and immmediately too her cue.
"Well, yes, Sam," she answered. "I did say you might speculate with it if you liked."
"Of course you did, my little girl, and I took the hint and did speculate with it, and a pretty little deal I made. So if you have patience, Miss Elma, you will get your money back doubled, then you will be able to return the principal and have a nice little nest-egg of your own. Now, what do you say to that? Aren't you awfully obliged to me?"
"I say," replied Elma, "that I want the money immediately. I cannot wait until you have doubled it, as you call it, whatever you mean by that. Please let me have it at once, Mr. Raynes. I must have it, I——"
"I am afraid you ask for the impossible," said Sam in a careless tone. "I have speculated with the money, and the returns will come in perhaps in a week, perhaps a fortnight, perhaps longer. I say again that you ought to be obliged to me. It is not every fellow who would take so much trouble."
Poor Elma gave him a despairing glance. There was evidently nothing more to be got out of him. She left the house without a word. Carrie followed her into the street.
"Oh Elma, don't look so miserable," said Carrie. "What is the good of sinking into despair?"
"Don't talk to me," said Elma, pushing her sister's hand away. "You have ruined me; that is the sort of sister you are. And I would have done anything for you, Carrie. When I rose myself and improved myself in the social scale, when I got my post as teacher, I would have done all in my power to aid you and mother; but now—now we must all sink together. Oh, Carrie, to think that I should be ruined by my own sister!"
It was a moonlit evening in the County Donegal, and there was a broad bar of silver shining in burnished splendor across the beautiful Lake Coulin. Two boys were standing on the edge of the lake. A prettily-trimmed little boat was lying at their feet. One, the taller of the two, was standing with his hand up to his ear, listening intently.
"Ah, then, Pat, can't you stop that shuffling?" he cried to his younger companion. "I can't listen if you keep whistling and moving your feet. It is about time for Daneen to appear. Kitty is sure to send the tinos, dear old girl. Father takes care to keep her well supplied."
"There, I hear Dan's horn; he is coming through the Gap," cried Pat, his face lighting up. "Stay there, Laurie, and I'll run to meet him. He'll just be at the other side of Haggart's Glen when I get up."
The younger boy put wings to his feet, and the next moment was out of sight. The older boy, thrusting both his hands deep into his pockets, stood staring straight before him into the silver light caused by a full moon. The white radiance lit up his young person, his pronounced features, and handsome face. There were gloomy depths in his big black eyes, although the slightest movement, the faintest play of expression would cause them to dance with vitality and fun; the petulant expression, round lips, curved and cut with the delicacy of a cameo, was very manifest. The lad was built in almost Herculean mould, so broad were his shoulders, so upright and tall his young figure. With his head thrown back, the listening attitude on his face, his black hair swept from his forehead, he looked almost like a young god—all wasverve, expectancy, eagerness in his attitude.
"If only Kitty is true it will be all right," he muttered. "Ah, then, what a fool I was when I allowed the other fellows to tempt me to play that practical joke on old Wheel-about. I don't think the governor minds anything else; but he cannot stand our making fun of that poor, old, half-witted chap. Never again will I do such a thing. I would not have father know this matter for all the world. Hullo! there comes Pat. I wonder if he has got my letter."
"Nothing, nothing, and worse than nothing," sang out Pat, extending two empty hands as he approached.
"No letter for me?" cried Laurie. He stepped out of the light, and striding up to his brother, laid one of his big hands on the boy's slighter shoulder. "No letter? But did you really meet Daneen?"
"Of course I did. Don't grip me so hard, old chap. He had only one letter in his pocket, and that was for Aunt Honora, two newspapers for father, and a heap of circulars—nothing else whatever."
"But are you certain sure? Surely Kitty would not fail a gossoon when he was in trouble."
"I tell you, Laurie, there was nothing from her, nor from any one, except that one letter for Aunt Honora; but perhaps you'll hear in the morning."
Laurie made no reply; his hands dropped to his sides. The next moment he dived into his trousers pocket and extracted a few coins.
"Have we enough for a telegram, I wonder?" he said. "Ah, to be sure—why, we can send one now for sixpence. And I have tenpence here. I'll wire at once. I say, Pat, we must go to the nearest post office, and to-night. We will start now; do you mind? We can row across the Coulin, and anchor the boat at the opposite side, and then it is only eight miles across the mountains to Ballyshannon."
"But James Dunovan will have shut up the office," exclaimed Pat; "and if we are absent from supper what will father say?"
"Old Jim knows us; he'll open fast enough when he hears that we two lads have come on business."
"But they can't send the telegram after the office is shut."
"Don't make difficulties, Pat. I tell you this is a serious business. You don't want to be banished from the country do you? We'll go to the post office at once, and see that the message is sent to Kitty the very first thing in the morning. Come, what are young lingering for?"
"Supper is waiting, and Aunt Bridget will make a fuss. You know we are not allowed to be out after ten at night."
"Bother!" cried Laurie. "Well, then, we must go home first. What a nuisance. We'll have a bite, and then slink out. The dad can think we have gone to bed. Why, Pat, old boy, I met Wheel-about to-day, and he was like a mad man. He told me he had collected all that money for his funeral. What apes we were to touch the coat!"
"Sure, it's unlike Kitty not to write," said Pat. "She is the last in the world to leave a fellow in the lurch."
"Don't I know that? Who's fault it is it isn't hers, poor old girl. Something has happened to the letter. Now, Pat, let us get supper over, for we have no time to lose."
As Laurie spoke he fastened the little boat securely by a rope to a stone near by, and then the lads turned their backs upon the silver-burnished lake, and strode into the darkness of a narrow mountain defile. The path was steep, and they had to scramble up, doing so with the agility of young ponies.
"It is the thought of Wheel-about that bothers me entirely," said Laurie, after a pause. "I don't want to have it lying on my soul—upon my honor I don't—that I turned the poor old chap's brain still crazier."
"Oh, the money will come along before Saturday," said Pat; "and you know you told him he must wait until Saturday. Don't you worry, Laurie. Come on, I tell ye; there's the gong sounding at the Castle."
The deep notes of a very sonorous old gong were distinctly borne on the breeze; the boys ran, hurrying and panting. A few moments later they had climbed an almost inaccessible rock, had tumbled over each other up a lawn, and entered a huge hall, where supper was spread. Squire Malone was seated at the head of the table; down both sides were crowded guests and different retainers—Squire Malone's cousins, all of them, some to the fifth or sixth removed. Miss Honora Malone was at the foot of the table, and Miss Bridget presided at the tea tray at one of the sides.
"Sit down, you lads," roared the squire when he saw his sons; "you have been keeping us waiting. Now take your places and fall to."
The boys dropped into the seats reserved for them without a word. They were hungry, and enjoyed the abundant fare provided. Miss Honora began to address them with a volley of words.
"Ah, then, boys," she said, "it is ashamed of you I am. Why should you come in to supper like that, without your hair brushed or your hand washed and looking as rough as a pair of young colts? Look at me, now, how neat I am—I have changed my dress for the evening." As she spoke she glanced at her thin arms, bare to the elbow, and touched the gold chain that encircled her scraggy throat. "You'll never get Dublin manners, you two," she continued, "and what will you do when you go into society? Ah, it is enough to break the heart to look at ye."
Laurie winked boldly at her; Pat laughed, and helped himself so some potatoes.
"Dennis," called out the lady, addressing her brother, "don't you agree with me that it is very bad manners on the part of the boys to come to supper without so much as washing their hands or brushing their hair? Ought they not to put on evening clothes now that they are almost assuming manhood's estate?"
"Oh, leave 'em alone, Honor," was the reply. "Boys will be boys, and Castle Malone is Liberty Hall. Time enough a few years hence to put on that high-faluting style. I like 'em as they are: rough diamonds no doubt, but diamonds all the same."
The old man looked fondly at his sons. He was a picturesque-looking figure, with snow-white hair.
"What will you do, lads, when I send you to England to school?" he said.
"England, father?" said Pat, turning pale. "It would kill me to leave the soil on which I was born. Ah, now, father, I could not live through it; and as to Laurie, why he would—Laurie, you know what you would do."
"Oh, father's joking," said Laurie, but his face went a little white, and as he drained off a great glass of ice-cold water his hand trembled a trifle.
"It would not be for the making of our happiness, father," he said, just glancing at his father. "Pat is right—it would about kill us both."
"You young beggars, kill you, indeed!" cried the squire. "Well, I have not made my plans yet. I am thinking of it, and you may as well know it. I have sent the girleen away, and if you can't stand what she can, why, I don't think you have much grit in you. As to Pat, when he's a little older he'll have to prepare for the army."
"Ay, and that's a fine polishing up," said Aunt Bridget, bridling as she spoke, and arranging the set of her very fashionable sleeve. "My jewel of a lad, you'll know what life is like then. You'll think a deal of your clothes, and of the sort of thing that will kill the girls then. Why, if you know how to manage, and with my help I dare say I can contrive it for you, you'll get easily into the very height of Dublin society, and be petted, and spoiled, and coaxed no end. I wonder, now, how that girleen is conducting herself. Sometimes, Dennis when I look at you and think how your heart is wrapped up in her and how she is so to speak the jewel of your eye and the core of your heart I wonder how you had the courage to let her go."
"Don't you worry me about it," cried the squire. "I did it for her good.Laurie, where are you off to?"
"I have had about enough supper," answered Laurie. Pat also scrambled to his feet.
"You are as ill-mannered a pair of young cubs as I ever came across," cried Miss Honora, now really angry. "Why, the syllabub is coming on soon, and the trifle, and the cream that I whipped myself. Well, Pat, you'll have to mend your manners when you get into the army; and as to you Laurie, you'll never be as good a squire as your father, try hard as you may."
A loud laugh at the head of the table interrupted the good lady's flow of words.
"Honora, my woman, you are talking to the air," called out the squire. "The boys are out of earshot. Bless 'em can't you let 'em be? They are hearty lads, and I don't think I'll send either of them out of the country unless they happen to displease me."
Meanwhile the lads had gone down to the lake, unshipped the little boat, and were by this time half across the Coulin. They soon reached the opposite shore, jumped to land, pulled up the boat, fastened it, and started along a long narrow and mountainous path which was the shortest cut to Ballyshannon. They walked so quickly and the hill was so steep that they had little or no time for words. Nor were they boys who talked much when they were alone. Laurie was given to his own meditations. Pat was always planning some scheme which should circumvent Aunt Honora, who lived with them, and annoy Aunt Bridget, who nearly lived with them, although not quite. Aunt Bridget was the most fashionable member of the family; her real home was in Dublin. She was the one who had worked upon the squire's feelings until he had decided to send Kitty to an English school. Pat was not fond of either of his aunts, but he disliked Aunt Bridget the most. After an hour-and-a-half's brisk walking they reached Ballyshannon, knocked up the postmaster, who had gone to bed, asked him to let them in, and confided to him what they wanted. He was a hearty-looking Irishman, and was soon as much interested in the telegram which Laurie was to send as the boy was himself.
"You have heard what a scrape I have got into?" said Laurie.
"About that poor, mad fellow?" said James Dunovan.
"Yes; some other fellows and I stole his coat away in a fit of frolic that day when we were out in the crazy boat on the Coulin. A sudden breeze got up and the boat upset; and the coat—bad luck to it—sank to the bottom like a stone. We have tried to get it up, but it is all no go; it has got right into the mud, and not all the boys in Ireland could move it. If the squire heard we had played a trick on Wheel-about he would just do what I don't want him to."
"And what may that be, Master Laurie?"
"Why, Jim, he would banish me to England. You think of that!"
"Ah, to be sure, sir; and it would be a hard punishment entirely, and all for a boy's freak. But how can you circumvent him, sir? that's the puzzle, for old Wheel-about is as sly a fellow as walks. He knows his power with the squire—there's a story about, but I have not got the rights of it. Anyhow, the squire is always trying to help him. If he cannot get his coat in which he has hidden all his money he will go raving mad about the country, and the squire will soon get at the bottom of the mischief."
"Oh, that's all right," answered Laurie. I saw there was no help for it, and I took Wheel-about into my confidence. He promised if I gave him ten pounds by Saturday next to let the matter of the coat slip by. He said he would never tell."
"I wonder now if the craychur is to be trusted," muttered Jim, in a thoughtful tone.
"Oh, yes, he is, Jim; don't you meet trouble halfway. If once he gets the money everything will be as right as possible. But this 'gram must go off, and you must see to it for me."
"I'll do that, sir, and welcome, the very moment the office opens its doors in the morning."
"How soon do you think it will reach my sister?"
"Well, to be sure, I expect in about half an hour or an hour at the most. I often think I'd like to see them messages a-tumbling along the wires. Do you believe as they go by the wires sir?"
"Oh, I suppose so; I don't bother my head about it. Now, then, Jim, hand us a form and we'll fill it in. What do you think we had best say, Pat?"
"Make it strong," said Pat.
"Yes, I know that." Laurie stood biting the end of his pencil and considering the blank form which Jimmy had provided him with.
"We must make it powerful strong," he said after a pause. "If dad hears this, we two are about done, Pat. He's the easiest old boy in the world, but when once he takes the bit between his teeth he is just like Slieve Loon, our new mare. But I must not keep you up Jim; you are wanting to get back to your bed."
"It don't matter, sir; don't you hurry yourself. I told the wife it was two of the young gentlemen from Castle Malone, and she said I wasn't to mind how much time I spent with you; it was only proper respect to the family."
"All right Jim. Now, then, Pat, what shall I say?"
"Hurry up," said Pat; "if you're not sleepy I am, and the whole house will be locked up if we are not quick."
"I cracked a pane of glass in our window on purpose this morning," saidLaurie. "I thought it might turn out convenient."
Pat laughed. Laurie, his face flushed, bent over the telegraph form. After a time, during which beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, the following message was transcribed:
"Miss Kitty Malone, care of Mrs. Denvers, Franklin Avenue, Middleton,London, S.E.—Wake up, old girleen; hurry with the tin.—Laurie."
"That's the time of day," he said. "You read it, Jim. Can you make out the address plain?"
"Yes, to be sure," answered Jim. "Very well, sir; this shall go. I am sorry you're in trouble, sir; but I know the squire sends a lot of money to Miss Kitty, for he is always coming here for postal orders."
"Oh, I am safe to have it," said Laurie. "Well, good-night Jim, and long life to you."
The boys left the office and retraced their steps across the mountain. They had gone about halfway home when they were interrupted by a curious sort of sound, something between a croon and a chant. It came nearer and nearer, and the next moment a grotesque figure showed clearly in the moonlight. This was no other than Paddy Wheel-about himself. He was a tall man, with a long shaggy beard, penthouse eyebrows, and eyes which were lit now with a fitful and uncertain gleam. He was dressed in rags, his hat was pushed far back on his head, his hair streamed over his shoulders. The savage and yet pathetic-looking creature stopped now before the two boys.
"I say, Paddy, it is all right," said Laurie, going up to him and laying his hand on his shoulder. "You'll get the tin I promised either to-morrow morning or the day after. I have just sent a telegram to the girleen in England. Why, Kitty wouldn't let you suffer; no, not if it were to break her heart."
A wild and yet softened look came into the man's eyes.
"It is because of the girleen I'm fretting," he said. "Listen, you two, I feel fit to die sometimes when I think the coat is lost, and it is all on account of the girleen herself. Why, it was she put in the last patch and a bit of gold was hidden in it; yes, and she sewed it round with her own pretty hands, the darling."
"We'll get back the coat some day, see if we don't," said Laurie. "And meanwhile Paddy, you are safe to have your money on Saturday."
"All right if I do," said Paddy; "if not it is all wrong. I go to Squire Malone. Yes, I go to Squire Malone; but I'll wait until Saturday. I promise that much, and I'll keep my word."
"You'll keep your word for Kitty's sake?" said Laurie.
The man nodded; again his eyes softened and changed in expression, the next moment he had turned on his heel and was out of sight.
"I do believe the only person he cares for in the world is Kitty," said Laurie. "Do you remember when he was so ill he would only allow Kitty to visit him? I say, Pat, we must get back that coat somehow; but in the meantime the ten pounds will keep matters quiet."
Gwin had explained all her points, and Miss Sherrard had listened to her with indulgence, sympathy, and comprehension. They were seated together in Miss Sherrard's charming little sitting-room.
"I am glad you take such an interest in Kitty," she said when the girl had stopped speaking.
"I do. She is uncommon; she is unlike anybody else," said Gwin Harley. "I hope," she added, looking anxiously at the head-mistress, "that you will feel it right so far to mitigate her punishment as to allow the Tug-of-war girls to talk to her. This seems just the time for a society of this sort to help its members.
"There's a great deal in what you say, Gwin; but all the same, to my regret, I am obliged distinctly to refuse your request."
Gwin's face, which had been slightly flushed, now turned pale. She rose to her feet.
"Don't be hurt with me, dear," said the mistress in a gentle voice. "I admire you for your kindness, Gwin, and I can also see the thing from your point of view; but all the same Middleton School is a very important one; there are from six to seven hundred girls here. Most of these girls have got parents; all have got guardians and friends. It would not do for them to know that such a wild and reckless act as Kitty Malone has perpetrated should be passed over without a severe punishment. Kitty will live through this week of isolation and be all the better for it. At the end of that time you Tug-of-war girls can do all in your power to help her. For this one week I must insist on her living in Coventry. She will do her lessons, of course, for it would not be at all wise to give her a holiday; but no girl belonging to the school with the exception of Alice must speak to her."
"I am sorry; and you will forgive me for saying, without any disrespect to you, that I think you are wrong," answered Gwin. She now held out her hand to Miss Sherrard. Miss Sherrard took it and pressed it gently.
"You are a very good girl, Gwin; and I wish with all my heart and soul that I could grant your request."
Meanwhile Kitty had returned to the Denvers' house in a whirl of passionate protest and indignation. She could not understand why she had been punished. The sin she had committed did not seem to be any sin at all to her. What did it matter how she dressed or when she went out? The fact that she had broken a very strict rule of Middleton School did not affect her. She was now seriously unhappy—the fetters with which she was surrounded tortured her. How could she live through the terrible week of isolation? And what made her more wretched than anything else was the fact that she could not see Elma in order to get the money from her to send to Laurie.
Kitty and Laurie had always been more than ordinary friends. The thoughts of each were known to the heart of the other. If there was one person in the wide world whom Kitty loved with passion, almost with idolatry, it was her handsome brother Laurie. The bare idea that Laurie should plead to Kitty to help him, and that Kitty would be obliged to turn a deaf ear to his entreaties was enough to madden the reckless girl.
The whole of that afternoon she spent in her bedroom, pacing up and down like a young caged tiger. Mrs. Denvers went to talk to her, but Kitty would not speak. She would pour out her troubles to no one. Her proud Irish heart felt as if it would burst from misery; but she would not stoop to the sympathy of those who, she felt, could not possibly understand her.
Of all the Denver family, she liked Fred the best; and when he ventured to knock at her door in the course of the evening she did not refuse to open it to him.
"Come along downstairs at once, Kitty," said Fred, holding out his hand to her.
"I would rather stay where I am, Fred, asthore."
"I say it's a beastly shame to have you treated like this."
"Oh, don't begin to sympathize with me," said Kitty; "if you do, I'll cry the ocean full of tears. I am holding them back hard now. You don't know what a thing it is when an Irish girl fairly gives way."
"Well, they're beastly hard on you; but I'm sure I would not cry if I were you," said Fred. I'd just be too proud. But come downstairs to my den, Kitty; I have made it awfully comfortable."
"Your den?" said Kitty, her eyes lighting up; "have you got one?"
"Yes; it's not in the house; it's in the garden, at the further end. It's a shed; but I have made it waterproof, and I have got a little lamp, an oil one; and we can sit there and have a jolly talk."
For a moment Kitty's eyes sparkled with renewed hope. "And I have still got some chocolates in my drawer," she exclaimed. "We might eat them together and have a real good time. But oh, that money! it's the money that's bothering me entirely. Oh dear! dear! I'll let the whole thing out if I talk any more to you Fred. Fred, it's the true comfort you are to me, and I'll never forget it to the longest day I live; but I can't go to that shed with you, gossoon asthore, for if I did I'd let out everything."
"But why shouldn't you let out everything?" said Fred. "There's something bothering you, and you're keeping it all to yourself."
"But I promised I wouldn't tell, and I don't want to break my word. I said when she asked me, 'No; I can't keep secrets;' but then it was put in such a way that I must keep it. I can't go with you Fred; pray don't ask me again. Good-by to you, and thank you, thank you."
Kitty ran into her room, shut the door, locked it, and retreated to the window, to be as far as possible from Fred's insinuating voice and ways.
Mr. and Mrs. Denvers were out again that night, and the time dragged terribly. Kitty wondered how she was to live through a whole week of this torture.
"I promised Elma that I would not tell about her asking me for that money," she said to herself. "I wish I hadn't said so now; but she seemed so earnest, and I really thought nothing of it at the time. Oh dear, dear! I wonder she does not bring it to me. She must be the meanest of the mean. I never liked her; but now I hate her. Poor, poor, dear old Wheel-about! Don't I know what he is feeling, and what Laurie is feeling, my broth of a boy, my Laurie, asthore! Oh, to think that he is in trouble, and I can't help him! How I wish I was back in Ireland now! This will break my heart—it will break my heart."
Tears filled her eyes; but she was too proud to let them roll over.
"I will keep them back if I die for it," she said to herself. "I am Kitty Malone, and they will break my heart if this goes on; but I won't cry. No, that I won't."
While these thoughts were coursing through the poor girl's brain, there came another knock at the door; an insistent and somewhat fierce one this time. The handle was sharply turned, and the clear voice of Alice was heard.
"Open the door at once, please, Kitty," she said.
Kitty crossed the room, turned the key in the lock, and allowed Alice to enter.
"I must beg of you, Kitty," said Alice, "not to lock the door again."
"And why not, pray? You locked it last night. It was on account of thatI am now in all this trouble."
"Really, Kitty, you are quite too ridiculous; as if I were the cause of your trouble. You are in trouble because you disobeyed a strict rule; and my locking the door or not had nothing whatever to do with it. You are quite the most tiresome, inconsistent girl I ever came across."
"Well, it is nothing to you what I am," said Kitty. She sank down on a chair by the side of her little bed as she spoke; her expression was so woe-begone, her face so pale, the droop of her eyes so pathetic, that Alice was slightly touched in spite of herself.
"I am going to see Bessie Challoner," she said. "If you were different I would not leave you."
"Oh, never mind me, pray."
"All the same, I would not leave you, Kitty; for remember I am the only girl belonging to the school who may speak to you for the next week; but, really, your ways are so unpleasant——"
"And I so infinitely prefer your absence to your company," retortedKitty. "So you may go with quite an easy mind."
"Thanks awfully," replied Alice, with a sneer. Her momentary good-nature had dried up like the dew. She put on her hat, wrapped a shawl round her shoulders and left the room.
Kitty returned to her place by the window. It was now between eight and nine o'clock. She had refused both dinner and tea, and was in consequence feeling weak and faint. There was a giddy sensation in her head to which she was not accustomed. She did not connect it with the fact that she was starving, and wondered what was the matter with her. She was too excited and wretched to feel her ordinary appetite. She had gone through a great deal, and her nerves were reminding her of the cruel trick she was playing on them. It was very dull in her room; the gas jet shed a hideous glare over the place. The room in itself was by no means pretty, for the paper was the worse for wear, and the paint was nearly worn through to the woodwork. The hangings to the windows and to the two little beds were of an ugly drab color; and the view out of these windows only revealed a narrow street. At Kitty's own home she had a bedroom in the Castle end; the paper hung in ribbons, the door was draughty, the bedstead rickety and old; but what a view there was from the windows! A view of Lake Coulin and the mountains in the distance, and the park lying verdant and green between the lake and the house. What a breeze blew in at those windows!
"Oh, I should never be dull if I were locked up in the dear old bedroom at home," thought the girl. "But here! here it is enough to madden one; and yet I must stay here, for I cannot talk to the others. I will not allow Fred to guess my secret. Oh, what a miserable, unhappy, wretched girl I am! I am a prisoner. Oh, if only Laurie saw me! Dear Laurie; the darling, the treasure that he is! It would break his heart if he knew what I am suffering."
There were no books at all interesting to Kitty in the room, so she could not while away the lagging hours with a novel. As a rule the arranging of her wardrobe, the trying on of her many dresses, gave her pleasant occupation; but she was in no humor to make herself smart that evening.
"I suppose the love of dress is a sin," she said to herself; "although it is one of the rules of the Tug-of-war Society that the girls are to be fashionably dressed. Anyhow, it seems to have been my undoing, for if I had only gone out in somber ugly attire last night I might have the money now for my darling Laurie; and this heavy, heavy weight would be off my mind, and I should not be in disgrace at Middleton School—not that that much matters."
She went to the window, flung it open, and looked out. It was a clear, starlit night. She could see the sky from between the long rows of houses. She looked up at it, and then put in her head again.
"I shall suffocate if I stay any longer in this room," she said to herself. "After all, why should I obey Miss Sherrard? She spoke about my word of honor; but I have not given it. I was silent—I was silent on purpose. If I could only see Elma and get my money back all would be right, and I could really bear the rest of this terrible week. I have a great mind to risk it and go to her."
No sooner had the thought entered the head of the wayward girl than she proceeded to act upon it. She put on a long cloak which reached nearly to her feet, a little cap of blue cloth was secured over her mass of curling hair, and then going cautiously across the room, she took the key out of the lock, unfastened the door, shut it behind her, locked it from the outside, put the key in her pocket, and ran downstairs.
"If the servants or Alice come up they will think I have gone to bed. What fun if I keep Alice out of her bed for an hour or two!" laughed Kitty. She was now once more in high excitement and pleasure. It never took long to raise her volatile spirits. "I hope Fred won't be about. I don't want to get the poor darling into mischief," she said to herself. There was no one in sight, however. The younger children were away in another part of the house, Mr. and Mrs. Denvers were out, the servants were in the kitchen, Alice was with Bessie Challoner, and Fred was down in his shed mourning the absence of Kitty, whose bright ways were fascinating him more and more.
"It's all right," thought the girl. She left the house, and a few moments later was walking at a rapid pace in the direction of Constantine Road. The thought of her disobedience, of the daring of her own act, but added zest and pleasure to her walk.
"How happy I shall be when I get the money," she said to herself. "I'll coax Fred or Mrs. Denvers to get me a postal order to-morrow, and I'll send it to Laurie at once. Oh, what a weight will be off my mind! Why, I'll almost feel inclined to turn good again!"
The walk to Constantine Road was a long one, and Kitty on this occasion was determined to avoid the neighborhood of the "Spotted Leopard." In preference she took the short cut across the common. It was very lonely here, but she had no fear of ghosts or bogies. She walked with her upright, young carriage, her quick, alert, dancing step. It was ten o'clock however, before she reached Constantine Road. She ran up the steps of No. 14, and rang the bell. The door was opened to her by the servant, Maggie.
"Oh, Miss Malone," cried that young woman, "is that yourself, miss? I has got into the most terrible trouble."
Maggie's face was flushed and blistered with crying.
"They has took away my wiolets, miss, and I call it a bitter, cruel shame."
"Never mind that now, Maggie," answered Kitty, "I want to see Miss Elma.Is she in?"
"That she is, miss, and she shan't escape you this time. Come right into the parlor, and I'll send her down to you."
Kitty danced into the house. As far as her appearance now went she had never known a sorrow nor a care in her life. She stood in the center of the room, waiting impatiently for Elma to appear.