Chapter 8 Wild Kitty by L. T. Meade
THE LITTLE HOUSE IN CONSTANTINE ROAD
Kitty stared at her companion for a moment, then she put her hand into her pocket and took out a very fat sealskin purse. She opened it and held it out to Elma.
"Help yourself," she said.
Elma looked into the purse—golden sovereigns lay there in delicious rows. There must have been at least fifteen sovereigns in the purse.
"Take as many as you like," said Kitty; "you are heartily welcome."
"You don't mean it; you can't," replied Elma, turning very pale.
"Why, what are you hesitating about? You said you wanted some money. Dear heart alive! everybody wants money in Ireland, we are always borrowing one from the other. Take as many of those yellow boys as you fancy, and say no more about it."
"I am obliged to you, Kitty," said Elma. "I think you are quite splendid; but can I—do you really mean it—can I take five?"
"Five, bless you! Take them all if you want them. I have only to write to the dear old man at home, and ask him to send me a fiver or a tenner, and he'll do it. You need have no qualms, and——"
"But when must I give them back?"
"Whenever you like."
"You don't really require them on Monday, do you?"
"I don't require them at any special date. Pay me when it is convenient.
Here, you may as well have ten."
"I could not; it is too much," said Elma. She put her hands behind her back, her teeth were chattering, and she was trembling all over. She was afraid that Kitty must read her through and through.
"Oh, what is the use of bothering?" cried Kitty Malone. "If you won't take ten, take eight. Let me see, that leaves me seven over. Seven sovereigns. I don't ever want to spend any money here. Of course I may require a new dress when the fashions change. I must keep strictly up to date now that I have joined the Tug-of-war; but in case I do, I'll just send a wire to Aunt Bridget in Dublin and she'll send me over a beauty. Ah, she's a dear old soul, Aunt Bridget is. There, Elma, do take the money and be quick about it."
Elma—feeling sick and low, hating herself as she had never hated herself before—dipped her greedy fingers into Kitty's sealskin purse, and soon extracted eight of the golden sovereigns. These she slipped into her pocket.
"I cannot tell you how grateful I am to you," she said.
"Not another word!" cried Kitty. "I have forgotten all about it already. Now shall we have a run? I want to catch up to Bessie; I have not had a word with her for the whole of the day."
Elma no longer required to keep Kitty Malone in the background. She had now gained her object. Hoping against hope to extract from half a sovereign to fifteen shillings from the generous-hearted Irish girl, she suddenly found herself the lucky possessor of eight whole sovereigns. Never in the whole course of her life had Elma possessed anything approaching such a sum. Her mother was very poor. She had only one sister, a daily governess. All Elma's people were hard up, as the expression goes, and Elma herself only attended Middleton School because an aunt paid her school fees. Hardly ever could the girl secure even half a crown for her own pleasure. She hated poverty, she detested the small privations which slender means involved. She was in no sense of the word a high, refined character; on the contrary, there was something small in her nature, something little about her. She had ever cringed to the wealthy. She had made friends with Gwin Harley, who was rich, high-spirited, and generous, but also very conscientious, and with abundance of common sense. A glance had told Elma that she could never ask Gwin to lend her money; but Kitty—innocent, frank, generous Kitty—had proved an all too easy prey.
At that moment Elma despised Kitty as much as she was grateful to her. The eight pounds, which she might return whenever she liked, lay lightly in her pocket; she almost danced in her excitement and sense of triumph. Of course Kitty would never tell—that went without saying; and in the meantime she was rich beyond her wildest dreams. The girls had joined forces when they came up to the stream which led across a wide field called the Willow Meadow. Kitty linked her hand inside Bessie's arm, and Elma and Alice walked side by side.
"Well," exclaimed Alice, "how did you get on with her, Elma?"
"With whom?" asked Elma.
"Oh, need you ask? That detestable Kitty Malone. I saw you sucking up to her, and wondered why."
"I wish you would not use such horrid, vulgar words, Alice," said Elma. "You know you are really breaking the rules of the Tug-of-war. We are requested not to make use of slang."
"I forgot," said Alice. "But if it comes to that," she continued, "I believe I shall have to leave the society if I can never express my feelings with regard to Kitty Malone."
"But do you really dislike her as much as ever?" asked Elma, who, shabby and mean as she was, in her poor little soul could scarcely bring herself to run down generous Kitty just then.
"Dislike her!" cried Alice. "I hate her—there! I suppose that's flat and plain enough."
"It certainly is."
"But you don't mean to say—it is impossible, Elma—that you see anything to like in her?"
"Well, of course," answered Elma—who wished to propitiate Alice, for her nature was to be all things to all men—"I can see at a glance that she is not your style; she has not got your cleverness and refinement, dear Alice."
"Oh, bother!" cried Alice. But all the same she was pleased, and when Elma tucked her small hand inside of her arm Alice did not shake her off.
"Any one can see that," continued Elma Lewis; "but I don't think she is quite so bad as you paint her, Alice."
Alice's private opinion of Elma was that she was a little toad, and she now managed to extricate herself from the smaller girl's clasp.
"I shall never like her," she said. "There is no good in your praising her to me. If you mean to be her friend you must do so from a double motive."
"How uncharitable of you!" cried Elma, coloring crimson as she spoke.
"Oh, I can guess it very well, my dear," pursued Alice. "But for you she would not be a member of the Tug-of-war. What would have been a delightful society, a pleasure to the best girls at Middleton School, will be nothing whatever but a ridiculous farce, a scene of high comedy, something contemptible, now that Kitty Malone has joined it. But for you she would never have been asked to join. Why did you do it, Elma?"
"For no reason in particular," answered Elma.
"That is certainly not true, and you know it."
"I cannot think why you speak to me in that tone," said Elma. "What have
I done to you that you should think so badly of me?"
"Oh, I don't think badly of you, Elma, not specially; but I have always seen that whatever you did, you did with a reason. In your own way you are clever, you are extremely worldly wise. There are certain people who would commend you; but you are not like the rest of us. You are not like Gwin for instance, nor like Bessie, nor like me. Yes, I will frankly say so, I am better than you, Elma. I have not got your double motives for everything. You are only a girl now; I don't know what you will be when you are a woman!"
The thought of the eight sovereigns so comfortably reposing in her pocket made Elma able to bear this very direct attack. She determined to take it good-humoredly; there was no use whatever in quarreling with Alice. Accordingly she said cheerfully:
"You may think what you like of me, Ally, but I hope in the course of years that you will find I am not so bad as you paint me."
Shortly afterward the girls parted, and each went on her way to her special home. Bessie ran briskly up the short avenue which led to her house, waving farewells to her companions as she did so. Alice and Kitty were obliged to content themselves one with the other; and Elma, in the highest good-humor, her heart bubbling over with bliss, departed in the direction of her own humbler residence. She had to walk quite a mile and a half, and at the end of that time she found herself in a much poorer part of the large suburb where Middleton School was situated. The houses here were of a humble description—not even semidetached, but standing in long, dismal rows, a good many of them backing on to a railway-cutting. These houses boasted of no small gardens, but ran flush with the road. They were built of the universal yellow brick, and were about as ugly as they could well be.
Elma paused at No. 124 Constantine Road. As she did so, a high, rasping, and fretful voice screamed to her from an upper window:
"You are later than ever to-day, Elma, and mother has been fretting herself into hysterics. Do come in at once and be quick about it."
Elma mounted the two or three steps which led to the hall door, and pulled the bell with considerably more energy than was her wont. The sovereigns were in her pocket; they made all the difference to her between misery and happiness. She entered the house in high good-humor.
"What is it, Carrie?" she called to the fretful voice, which was now approaching nearer.
The next moment a slatternly-looking girl appeared at the head of the stairs.
"It's very easy for you to ask what is it," cried its owner, speaking in high dudgeon. "You promised to be in between five and six, and it is now between seven and eight. Here is all my chance of an evening's fun knocked on the head. It's just like you, Elma; that it is."
"Oh, never mind now; please don't scold me," said Elma. "What is it—about mother; has she been bad again?"
"Oh, it's the usual thing; she has had one of those dismal letters from father. I can't imagine why she thinks anything about them. It came just when we were all sitting down to dinner, and she began to cry in that feeble sort of fashion."
"Oh, don't, Carrie; she will hear you," said Elma. "Pray go back to your room, and I'll be with you in a minute. I have something to tell you. You won't be quite so miserable when you hear my news."
Carrie stared at Elma, and then slowly backed until she reached a very minute bedroom which she and Elma shared together.
Elma ran briskly upstairs. Turning to her right, she knocked at a certain door; waited for an answer, but none came; then turned the handle and went in. The Venetian blinds were down here, and the form of a woman was seen lying in the center of a big bed.
"Is that you, Elma?" said a voice; and then the head was buried once more in the pillows, and no further notice whatever was taken.
"Yes, mother, I am here," answered Elma. "I was thinking you might like something nice for your supper—a crab or a lobster, or something of that sort. Which would be your preference, mother?"
"A crab or a lobster!" muttered Mrs. Lewis. "You might as well ask me if I should like a bottle of champagne, or some caviare. One is about as likely to be forthcoming as the other."
"I tell you you may choose," said Elma. "I have my hat still on, and I'll go as far as the fishmonger's, and bring in either a lobster or a crab."
Mrs. Lewis raised herself on her elbow as Elma spoke.
"What are you dreaming about?" she said. "Where have you got the money?"
"Never mind. I have got the money. Which Would be your preference?"
"Oh, crab, dear; crab. I like it when it's well dressed; but then Maggie never can do anything properly."
"I'll dress it on this occasion," said Elma. "You shall have a good supper—crab and salad, and—There mother, do keep up heart again; you give way too much."
"Ah, child," said poor Mrs. Lewis, "I have had another terrible letter. He says he is starving; he cannot get work. I made the greatest possible mistake in allowing him to leave the country."
"You could do nothing else," said Elma, with a little stamp of her foot. "You know he would not help you in any way; he had to leave. But there, mother, you shall tell me the dismal news after tea. You will feel ever so much better when you have partaken of the dainty meal I mean to get for you."
Mrs. Lewis did not say anything further. Elma bent down, touched her parent on her brow with the lightest possible caress, and then stepped on tiptoe out of the room.
"Poor mother!" she muttered. "It is surprising the kind of things that comfort one; she is soothed at the thought of crab for supper with salad. Well, that is all right; she will be as amiable and petting to me as possible for the rest of the day. Now, then, for Carrie. A loose, untidy, badly, hung together girl like Carrie is a trial to any sister. However, I know the sort of thing that pleases her. I must be very careful of my treasure-trove. I shall not spend it lightly; but in giving my family small unexpected surprises it will be doing me an immensely good turn."
Elma now entered the room where Carrie was fuming up and down.
"Well, what have you to say for yourself, miss?" she cried, when her younger sister put in an appearance.
"Only that I am very sorry, Carrie; but to be honest with you, I quite forgot that you wanted to go out this afternoon. Did I not tell you that I was engaged to tea at Gwin Harley's?"
"You are forever with that odious girl," said Carrie.
"Gwin Harley an odious girl! What in the world do you mean?"
"What I say. Oh, of course I have seen her, and I know she's pretty, or some people would think her so; in my opinion she's vastly too stuck up; and so Sam Raynes says. Sam saw her last Sunday in church, and he said she wasn't a bit his style."
"Oh, pray, don't quote Sam Raynes to me," said Elma. "Well, Carrie, of course I had tea with Gwin, and of course she's about the nicest girl in the world; and Kitty Malone was there, that scamp of an Irish girl. Oh, she's not so bad when you get to know her better. And Alice Denvers was there, and Bessie Challoner. We had quite a nice time. Of course I told you about that society that I have joined. Well, there are about ten girls members now, quite the elite of the school. I believe we shall do a vast lot of good."
"What does it matter to me," said Carrie, stamping her foot. "I have lost my pleasant afternoon with Sam. He and his sister promised to meet me. I was to go with them to the Crystal Palace. Oh, it's too provoking."
Carrie still fumed up and down the room.
"And I have such a dull time," she continued; "those children are quite past bearing. They wear the very life out of me. See what that little imp of a Claude did to my dress this afternoon."
As Carrie spoke she held up a decidedly shabby dress, which bore a huge rent at one side.
"He caught it in his nasty little boot," said the girl. "He was scrambling up on my knee, and made such a fuss, and there happened to be a tiny hole, and then he wriggled and wriggled, and made it worse and worse. The skirt is not fit to wear. I don't know what I shall do. I really have not a blessed farthing to buy myself another new thing."
Elma made a careful calculation.
"How much was that stuff a yard?" she asked suddenly.
"What does it matter, Elma? It's worn out now, and there's an end of it.
You cannot buy me another gown; so where's the good of talking."
"But perhaps I can," said Elma dubiously.
"My dear Elma what do you mean?"
"Well, I am not quite certain, of course," said Elma; "and it would have to be very cheap—very cheap indeed. But what color would you like, Carrie?"
"Oh, blue," said Carrie, "rather light in shade. I love blue; and Sam says I look sweet in it."
"If you begin to quote Sam again I don't think I'll give you sixpence for anything. You know perfectly well that I loathe and detest him."
"Oh, that's your way," said Carrie. "You think it is very fine to detest all the young men in our set; but I tell you Sam is a right good fellow, and he has his ideas as much as anybody. He is going to get a raise, too, at Christmas, and—"
"Are you engaged to him, Carrie?" asked Elma suddenly.
"Not yet. Oh, we don't think of any such thing; but I like to go with him. He is great fun, and so is Florrie. Florrie doesn't mind a bit how often she acts gooseberry."
Elma went and stood by the window. She looked gloomily out. How shabby and sordid her home was; how miserable everything seemed! Carrie was really a trial to any sister. Elma wondered if in the future she would have to tolerate Sam Raynes as her brother-in-law. A sick feeling crept over her. She was not a particularly refined girl; but in her school life she associated with girls of a totally different caliber from poor Carrie, and a shudder ran through her frame as she thought over her sister.
"If you mean anything by that talk about a new frock, you had better speak out plainly," said Carrie. "If you can really give me money to get the stuff, something pretty and cheap, I could buy it to-night; there is still plenty of time."
"Put on your hat and we'll go out at once," said Elma.
Carrie rushed to her wardrobe, took down her frowzy, over-trimmed hat, stuck it on her towzled head, drew a pair of gloves up her arms, and announced herself ready. The two girls ran briskly downstairs. Mrs. Lewis called from her bedroom after them:
"Where are you two going?" she said. "Am I to be left alone in the house?"
"No, Maggie is in the kitchen," called out Carrie.
"Oh, I am sick of being by myself, and I want my supper."
"I must go out to choose the crab, mother," said Elma.
"Oh, the crab," replied Mrs. Lewis in a mollified tone. "If you are going really to get one, Elma, be sure you see that it has plenty of coral in it, and choose nice, crisp lettuce. I care nothing for crab without lettuce."
"All right mother; I'll manage," said Elma.
The girls found themselves in the street.
"So you are going to get mother crab and lettuce for supper," cried Carrie. "Then I suppose after all you don't mean to give me money to buy stuff for a new dress?"
"Yes, I do, Carrie, if you'll only have patience. I said I would, and there's an end of it."
"But how have you got the money?"
"Never you mind; I have got it."
Carrie walked on, her spirits rose, and she began to talk in her high staccato voice, allowing each person who passed to hear what she was saying.
"This is Thursday," she said. "I shall get up at daylight to-morrow morning, and I shall cut out the dress and put it in hand. I am always home between four and five in the afternoon, so I can work at it again until late at night. Then on Saturday, thank goodness! there's a whole holiday. Oh, I shall manage to get it done by the evening, and Sam and I can have a jolly time together in the park on Sunday."
"We will buy the crab first," said Elma, "and then we can call at
Macpherson's on our way home."
"They have sweet things at Macpherson's," said Carrie. "You really are a very good-natured old thing, Elma."
"I am glad you think so," said Elma, her lips parted in a slightly satirical smile.
Carrie, now beaming all over with good-humor, assisted in the choosing of the crab; she further volunteered to carry this luxury home, and suggested that radishes would be a great addition to the lettuce.
"Is there anything else you think mother would like?" asked Elma.
"Oh, a bottle of really good Guinness' stout," said Carrie.
"Capital, Carrie! Why, you are getting quite a head for housekeeping. We'll give mother such a good supper, and it will do her a world of good."
"Poor old dear, so it will," said jubilant Carrie.
Having purchased the materials for an appetizing meal, the girls now entered a large establishment which, being supported by people of extremely slender means, could only afford to indulge in the cheapest articles. Carrie desired the shopman to exhibit cheap materials in different shades of blue. She finally selected one, turquoise in color, and wonderfully pretty, which cost the large sum of sevenpence three-farthings per yard. She ordered the required length to be cut, and Elma took out her purse to pay for it.
She did not at all want her sister to see how many sovereigns that purse contained, and turned her back slightly as she laid one on the counter.
"Well, how you got it baffles me!" cried Carrie.
"Pray, don't speak so loud," said Elma; "they really will think that I stole it if you go on giving me those sort of staccato rises of your eyebrows. It's all the better for you; that sovereign has got you a new dress."
"So it has, and you are an old darling," said Carrie. "I'll tell Sam all about you on Sunday, Elma. By the way, what a good idea; wouldn't you like to come with us? There's Sam's cousin, Maurice, a capital fellow—Maurice Jones."
"Oh, no; don't speak of him," said Elma. She gave a shudder, and turned her head aside.
The materials for the dress were purchased, even down to the linings and buttons; and Carrie, holding her parcel tucked comfortably under her arm, started home, Elma accompanying her. Carrie was so excited and delighted with her dress that she had no time even to think of the wonderful problem as to how Elma had got the money.
When they reached the house Elma ran into the kitchen and prepared to dress the crab. She did so well, and when the dainty little meal was upon the table, ran upstairs to bring her mother down.
"Now, mother, get up at once," she said.
"Get up. Oh. I can't," said Mrs. Lewis; "I have got such a splitting headache."
"But the crab is downstairs, and I have dressed it myself, just in the way you like best. I have brought in a little cayenne pepper, too, for I know you don't care for crab without it; and the lettuce is wonderfully crisp and fresh, and there are some radishes. Oh, and Carrie reminded me that you would not care for crab without your stout."
"I know," said Mrs. Lewis in a plaintive voice; "your father would never allow me to touch crab or lobster without stout. Ah, but those good old days are gone!"
"Not quite mother, for there is a bottle of Guinness's waiting at your disposal."
"Oh, is there?" said Mrs. Lewis. She raised herself on her elbow. "Then
I think I'll go down," she said.
"Well, make yourself smart, mother. I shall be waiting for you, and so will Carrie."