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

but that book."

"It is such a chance," answered Bessie, "and I wanted to find out for myself all about that wonderful magnetic iron ore. You know it never loses its power, it is potent for hundreds and hundreds of years, and—"

"Oh, don't tell me any more, or I'll lose my senses. Dear Bessie, what does magnetic iron ore matter. Bessie, I'm awfully unhappy. Every one is so unkind to me. Promise you'll be my friend, won't you?"

Bessie looked up, and then she saw something so touching in Kitty's face that she closed her book with a reluctant sigh, to devote herself the next moment with all the sympathy she possessed to her companion.

"I am sure you are suffering, Kitty, and I am sorry for you," she said.
"I'll fetch my hat and we'll go out for a little."

"Oh, what a darling you are!" answered Kitty.

A moment or two later the girls were walking across the beautifully-kept garden; they soon reached a shady path at the further end.

"And now, Kitty," said Bessie, "I mean to lecture you a little."

"Anything in the world you like, darling. I'm quite agreeable. Aunt Honora and Aunt Bridget lecture me, and so does the dear old dad sometimes; but I always say when they have finished that it is like water on a duck's back—it rolls off without making the least bit of impression, and then they laugh and say that I am the queerest mixture they ever came across, and that they had best leave me to nature. But perhaps I'll listen to you, Bessie."

"I wish you would," said Bessie. "I am sure," she added, speaking with great earnestness, "that you are a very nice girl, Kitty; but at the same time you are wild."

"Oh, I pride myself on that," said Kitty in her frankest of voices.

"But I wish you would not, Kitty, for it really isn't nice."

"Not nice! Now what may you be meaning by that, aroon?"

"Well, there is a sort of dignity which I think a really well brought-up girl ought to possess."

"Oh, my! dignity is it?" said Kitty. She stepped away from her companion, drew down her face to a ridiculous length, nearly closed her eyes, and folded her hands demurely across her breast.

"Is that pleasing you, mavourneen?" she said. "Is it dignified and sober enough poor Kitty Malone looks now?"

"Oh, Kitty, you will joke about everything."

Kitty immediately changed her mood.

"No, I won't," she said. "I am really awfully obliged to you. You don't know what all this has been to me. Father said I was growing too wild—yes, the darling dad did; he agrees with you down to the core of his heart, and he said I must go to England and be taught manners. But, bless you, they'll have a job. I told him so when I was going. I said, 'Dad, it's the hearts of the teachers I'll be breaking;' and dad said, 'Oh, no, you won't, Kitty, aroon. You'll be a good girl, and you'll try to please your old dad and you'll come back a beautiful, perfect lady!' He said it with tears in his eyes, he did, the darling; and I promised, and down on my knees I went and asked God to help me. But, dear, it's like the froth of the sea-foam inside me, the fun and the mischief and the nonsense and the ways that you think queer; but, all the same, those ways delight the good folk at home. Must I really give them up, Bessie—must I?"

"To a certain extent," said Bessie, "or you will have a lot of enemies here, Kitty, and you won't be at all happy."

"How I wish I lived with you, Bessie Challoner. You're a broth of a girl, that you are. You have not taken a dislike to me just because of the fun bubbling up in my heart?"

"No, dear; on the contrary, I like you extremely."

"Ah, you precious duck of a darling! It is a good squeeze you would like, if I gave it to you?"

"Well, I am not very fond of being kissed; but if you must, Kitty."

"I must, dear, I must, for the heart in me is full to the brim. Now then, stand still, and I'll catch you up close to my heart. There! isn't that better?"

Poor Bessie gave some long-drawn breaths, for the firmness, in fact the ferocity, of Kitty's embrace quite hurt her for a moment.

"There," said Kitty, "that's the way we hug in Old Ireland. Now I'm a sight better, and I'll let go. So you do like me, Bessie?"

"Yes, very much indeed, Kitty, only—please don't do it again."

"I won't to-night, I won't really, but it's wonderful that you don't like it. I wish you could see Aunt Honora and Aunt Bridget hug one another. Why, it's the noise they make when they get together, and the way they kiss! Oh, dear, I hope some day you'll come to Ireland."

"You don't tempt me by these descriptions," replied Bessie. "But now, Kitty, will you promise just to be a little quieter, to keep in all those irrepressible and—really I must say it, dear, at the risk of hurting you—those silly words."

"But then I'm silly myself," said Kitty. "Can you expect wisdom out of nonsense? I am pure and simple nonsense from first to last."

"But you do want to be something better? You do want to lead a good life?"

"A good life! I never thought there was anything bad in me."

"You want to learn for instance?"

"No; that I don't, darling."

"You don't want to learn, Kitty? Then what is the good of coming to
Middleton School?"

"Listen," said Kitty. "I'll do anything for father. Father said I was to learn, and that I was to get manners. Now I think your manners are perfect. I'll model myself on you, dear; that I will. Will you teach me your manners, Bessie Challoner?"

"I'll do all I can to help you, Kitty."

"And you'll be my real faithful friend?"

"Yes, only please not—"

"I won't, dear, I won't to-night; but when I meet you to-morrow you'll allow me just once?"

"Well, if it will break you in."

"It will, it will. It will enable me to bear Alice. I am not the sort to hate people; but I'll soon get to hate her. It's an awful affliction that I have got to live with the Denvers; not that Mrs. Denvers is bad, nor Mr. Denvers, poor dear, nor Fred, but Alice! I'd like to get Alice over to Ireland, to Castle Malone. I could punish her a bit if I put her into Laurie's hands. But there!"

"Well, Kitty, time is going," said Bessie. "It is a bargain that I help you to learn some of our English ways, and that you, in order to pay me, try to be gentle yourself, and to restrain some of your wild words."

"I'll try. I'll do my very, very best. You'll see when I get to
Middleton School what a proper, respectable sort of girl I'll become."

"And you'll work hard too, won't you, Kitty? For I know it will do you a great deal of good, and I am sure you are very intelligent."

"Well, I can take in most things; only it's no end of a bother."

"I am certain you will succeed if you try," said Bessie. "Then it's a bargain, isn't it? You'll try to learn a great deal, and you will do your best to get better mannered?"

"Why, of course I will. I hate learning, and I don't want to be bothered with lessons: but there's nothing under the sun I wouldn't do for those I love; and I love father and I love you too, Bessie Challoner."

"They are calling us. We must go into the house," said Bessie.

"Do yield to me on one point," cried Kitty.

"What is that?"

"Let us go back to the house with our arms round each other's waists. It will show Alice that we have come to an understanding. I don't care twopence about Miss Harley nor about that other girl—I don't remember her name; but I want Alice to see us. Why, it's mad with jealousy she'll be. Come along, aroon. Here's my arm firm round your waist; now let us dance up to the house."

"Oh Kitty, Kitty, you are incorrigible!" cried poor Bessie, and a feeling of despair certainly visited her at that moment.

CHAPTER VI. THE TUG-OF-WAR.

A few days after the events related in the last chapter Alice Denvers, Bessie Challoner, Elma Lewis, and Gwin Harley met once more at Gwin's pretty home, to discuss the rules of a little society which they were drawing up among themselves. The nicest girls in their set were to be invited to join; but the important subject of the rules was first to be discussed. Gwin £ad drawn up a plan which she now submitted to her eager companions.

"The most important thing of all is the name," she said. "I thought of calling it 'The Early Rising, Devoted to Study Society.'"

"Oh, twice too long," said Bessie. "Who could be bothered saying all these words? You know when we are in the rush of school-life we cannot be bothered talking of the 'Early Rising, Devoted to Study;' it would never, never do. We must express what we mean in a single word if necessary."

"Then let us get one," said Gwin. "You have not the least idea what a headache I had last night searching in the dictionary and cudgelling my brains; but a sensible word which would express all our meaning I could not get."

"Let us think what our meaning clearly is," said Elma.

"Don't you know that yet?" exclaimed Bessie. "The society is to be formed as an incentive to make us work extra hard. You know," she added "I always think the motives of school-life are quite wrong."

"Oh, do listen to the words of Miss Wisdom," said Elma, in a very mocking tone.

Bessie's big gray eyes flashed for a moment with indignation; but she soon recovered her usual calm.

"I think the motives of school are wrong," she repeated; "there are prizes offered, and there is a lot of emulation—"

"And how could we live without emulation?" cried Alice. "Why, it is the very breath of life."

"But the desire of each to excel the other is not surely why we are sent to school," continued Bessie. "We are sent to school because our parents want us to learn something. They don't want us specially to get prizes, although they are glad when we do, because they suppose that we have accomplished some of the objects of our school life; but their real wish is that we should know English history, and history generally, that we should be well acquainted with geography, that we should speak French fluently, and understand German so as to be able to converse in that tongue, and to read the literature."

"Oh, do listen to the bookworm," cried Elma.

"In short," continued Bessie; "that we should become accomplished women—that is undoubtedly the real object of school."

"Well, we are not gainsaying it," said Gwin. "We all know, dear Bessie, what you feel about learning; it is the breath of life to you."

"It is, I rejoice in it," said Bessie. "A good vigorous tussle with a tough subject is the keenest pleasure which I can possibly have."

"But the rest of us are not made the same way," continued Gwin. "Now I like my studies very much—that is, in moderation. When I am learning and mastering French, and getting through my music creditably, and, in short, going through the usual curriculum of work, I feel interested; but I also have a delightful sense that if I work for so many hours I am entitled to play for so many hours."

"Oh, bother the play," interrupted Bessie.

"You see, Bessie Challoner, that is the difference between us. I like work just to form part of my life, but not the whole; you want work to form the whole of your life."

"Yes; that I do," said Bessie.

"But now to return to the society," interrupted Elma. "We all know that it won't be the slightest effort to Bessie to join; but she will be a good incentive to the rest of us. She will always be at the top of the tree, at the head of