Wild Kitty, L. T. Meade [namjoon book recommendations TXT] 📗

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," said
Fred to himself. "Poor old Kit, poor old girl; I'll make it up to her if
I 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."

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.

CHAPTER XV. GWIN HARLEY'S SCHEME.

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