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Wild Kitty, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 18. "I Cannot Help You" |
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_ CHAPTER XVIII. "I CANNOT HELP YOU." Elma scarcely slept that night. At an early hour on the following brilliant summer's morning she stole softly out of bed, glanced for a moment at Carrie, as she lay sleeping the sleep of the just, with her towzled hair tossed about the pillow, and then, getting deftly into her own clothes, left the room without arousing the sleeper. She had made up her mind very definitely what to do. Without even waiting to get any breakfast, she unfastened the hall door, opened it, and stepped out into the full radiance of the summer's morning. A quick walk brought her in a little over half an hour to Harley Grove. When she went up the ponderous flight of steps which led to the principal door of the mansion a clock far away struck the hour of seven. "It is terribly early," she said to herself, "terribly early to disturb her; but it is my only chance. I must have time; I cannot rush this thing. If she can help me I believe she will; and anyhow, I do no harm by what I intend to say to her." Elma rang the bell, but her early summons was not immediately attended to. Presently a servant girl, who looked as if she might be one of the under-housemaids, unbolted and unbarred the door, and opened it a few inches. "When she saw a neat-looking girl, in all probability a schoolgirl, standing outside she opened it a little further and her jaw dropped in some astonishment. "I have come here," said Elma to know if I can see, Miss Harley immediately on very special business." "I don't know, miss, I am sure," answered the girl, who was a stranger in those parts. "I can't say that you can see Miss Harley now, for I think she is fast asleep and in bed, miss." "It is of the utmost importance or I would not disturb her," said Elma. "I have brought a note with me; can you manage in some way to have it delivered to her? I can wait downstairs in any of the rooms until I get her answer." As Elma spoke she slipped a little three-cornered note into the girl's hand, at the same time placing in it one of her own most valuable and very few and far between shillings. "Can you manage it for me?" she said. "It is really of the utmost importance." A shilling was a small bribe; but the housemaid was young and tender-hearted. She looked again once or twice at Elma, who could wear a most pleasing expression when she chose, and then, ushering her into a small room to the left of the wide entrance hall, departed slowly upstairs on her errand. While she was away Elma fidgeted, walking from end to end of the little room into which she had been admitted. All depended, or so she imagined, on her note reaching its destination. She knew Gwin's kind heart; she was certain that if Gwin received the note, however tired and sleepy she was, she would at least see her for a few minutes. Elma had worded it craftily. "I am in great trouble," she had written. "It is connected with Kitty Malone. I see my way to helping Kitty if you, Gwin, can help me. But I must see you now at once. Let me come to your bedroom. I would not disturb you if it were not a matter of life or death." This note, sufficiently startling in its contents, was given by the under-housemaid to Gwin's own special maid. The girl, after some deliberation, said she would venture to give it to Gwin, early as the hour was. Accordingly she stole into the shaded bedroom, drew up one of the blinds, and when Gwin opened her sleepy eyes presented her with the little three-cornered note on a salver. "There's a young lady, a Miss Lewis, waiting downstairs. She brought this note and begged that it should be delivered to you at once, miss. I ventured under the circumstances to wake you, as the young lady seemed from all accounts to be in a desperate way." "What can it mean?" said Gwin. She sprang up in bed, tore open the note, and read the contents. "Is my cold bath in the room, Simpson?" she asked of her maid. "Yes, miss; in your dressing-room." "Well, I shall dress at once. Go down, please, to Miss Lewis and tell her that I'll be ready to see her in my study in twenty minutes." The maid departed on this errand, which brought much relief to poor Elma. In less than the time named she was summoned by Gwin's maid to come with her to Miss Harley's study. There a moment later she and Gwin were clasping each other's hands. Gwin was in a long white dressing-gown; her hair streaming over her shoulders. "Well, to be sure, Elma," she exclaimed, "you are an early bird. Now, what do you want with me? I am full of curiosity. You are in trouble, and it is something connected with Kitty Malone?" "Yes," said Elma. "I am desperate, and I have come on a desperate errand, Gwin. Can you manage, somehow or other, in some fashion, to let me have the use of eight pounds for--for say a fortnight?" Gwin Harley gasped; not only at the magnitude of the sum demanded, but also at Elma's audacity in asking for it. "You want eight pounds," She exclaimed. "But, Elma, you know the rule?" "Oh, yes, I know the rule; and it is because I am fairly desperate I apply to you. You might lend the money to my sister Carrie; or perhaps mother would be best. It might be managed so that I didn't appear to borrow it. I would not ask for it if--if the trouble were not terrible; and--and the secret belongs to another." "What do you mean?" "It belongs partly to Kitty Malone." "I cannot help you," said Gwin decidedly. "Why? Oh Gwin, I did not know you could be so cruel." "You don't understand, Elma. I am surprised that you should ask me. How could I break one of the strictest rules of the school?" "Oh, but you need not really break it; I mean it could be managed in this way: Would not your father lend mother the money? You need not do it at all; all you have to do is to ask him." "You must tell me everything, Elma. This is most mysterious. Why do you want money? Is it for yourself? You must tell me every single thing." "I cannot tell you, because the secret is not mine." "You say Kitty is mixed up with this?" "Yes, yes." "And you will not tell why?" "I cannot. I wish I could." "Then, Elma, I also must be firm. I cannot help you." "You will not ask your father?" "How could I? It would be a subterfuge--the whole thing would be a subterfuge. I must have nothing to do with it. I am sorry, Elma, for I see you are in great trouble; but I am powerless." "Then I am ruined," said Elma. She covered her face with her hands, and the tears trickled slowly between her fingers. "I wish I could help you," said Gwin kindly. "Is there any other way?" "No other way. I want eight pounds for a fortnight--I want it desperately. You could manage to let me have it without breaking the rules of the school, but you will not." "I am truly sorry, but--I will not." "Oh, Gwin, if you would only trust me. We were always friends, were we not?" "Yes," answered Gwin slowly. "I have always liked you, Elma." "We were friends," continued Elma, wiping the tears passionately from her cheeks; "and I did think last night, when I was in such trouble, that perhaps you could come to my aid. I thought you would trust me without my telling you everything." "I cannot, Elma," said Gwin again. "Why?" Elma now looked steadily into Gwin's face. Gwin looked gravely into hers. After a time Gwin spoke slowly: "Because," she said--"forgive me, Elma--you are not trustworthy." "Oh!" said Elma. She turned first pale and then red. "There is no use in my staying," she said, after a pause. "I am sorry I got you up so early." "Oh, that does not matter," said Gwin, in an altered tone. "I would do what I could to help you; but I cannot do the impossible." "I see that I was mistaken in you." "Not at all," replied Gwin. "You found me what I have always been. I am naturally careful. I never jump to wild conclusions; I am not impulsive. I have liked you, and I shall go on liking you in the future." "Even though I am not trustworthy?" "Yes; I shall like you for what you are. You have always been nice to me, and I wish to be nice to you. Please understand that this will make no difference." "And you won't tell what I came about?" "No, I shall never mention it. Now, must you go?" "I must," said Elma. The full morning light fell upon her face as she spoke, and Gwin noticed that it looked small, pinched, and thin. "You must have some breakfast first," she said. She walked across the room and sounded the bell. The servant appeared in a moment. "Order breakfast to be served here this morning," said Miss Harley, "for two, please." The maid withdrew. Gwin opened the window and looked out. "I am very sorry for Kitty," she said, after a pause. Elma did not reply. After a time she said slowly: "Did you see Miss Sherrard last night?" "I did; but it was useless. She won't retract her mandate." A sigh of relief came from Elma's lips. The servant again appeared with breakfast. Gwin poured out tea for her friend. Elma drank a cup, her throat felt dry. She saw no way out of her difficulty. She could scarcely bring herself to eat. A few moments later she was on her way back from Harley Grove. She hesitated whether to go straight to the school and wait there until nine o'clock or to return to Constantine Road. After a little reflection she decided on the latter course. She reached home hot and weary between eight and nine o'clock. Carrie was seated at the breakfast table; a letter lay on Elma's plate. "Why, Elma, what have you been doing out and about at this unearthly hour?" said Carrie, as she cracked the shell of an egg by no means fresh. "Where is mother?" remarked Elma, as she seated herself at the table. "She has a bad headache. I have sent up her breakfast. Are you going to see her?" "No, I think not. I shall just have time to eat something--not that I am specially hungry--and then start for school." "There's a letter on your plate. Why don't you read it?" "I know; it's from Aunt Charlotte." "Well, well, and you are interested in Aunt Charlotte more than I am," said Carrie. "Do read your letter." Elma somewhat languidly tore open the envelope. The next moment she uttered an exclamation, and her face went first red and then pale. "Aunt Charlotte writes to say she is coming here to-day." "To-day! Good gracious!" said Carrie. "She doesn't want me to stay in, does she?" "Oh, no; but this is terribly awkward." "Why so, Elma? Why shouldn't you ask her to lend you the money?" "Ask Aunt Charlotte! I may as well put my hand into the fire." "Well, suppose I were to help you," said Carrie, after a time. "You, Carrie; how could you?" "But suppose I were to--I am not the sort of person who does anything for nothing. What would you give me if I got you out of this?" "But how could you get me out of it?" "Why, I suppose by giving Kitty the money." "Carrie, you talk nonsense. Unless, indeed, you were to persuade Sam Raynes----" "Oh, it's useless to worry poor Sam. He has speculated with that money, and if he doubles it we shall have it back. I think when that time comes the very least you ought to do, Elma is to give me half of the balance over and above what you borrowed. That would be three pounds ten, for me quite a nice little sum. It would keep me in ribbons, gloves, and boots for a bit. I get such a very small salary." "Well, the money has not been doubled; it's time enough to talk of our chickens when they are hatched," said Elma. She rose from her seat, looking despairingly at the open letter which she held in her hand. "After all, I may as well take this up to mother," she said. "One moment before you go, Elma. Would you like me to help you, or would you not?" "If you could help me, Carrie, of course I should be obliged." "And what is the punishment they have inflicted upon that Irish lass?" "Oh, dear me, Carrie, I told you all about that yesterday; she is in Coventry--we are none of us allowed to speak to her." "All the same, you did speak to her last night, don't forget." "Yes, I could not help myself; but if it was found out it would go hard with us both." "Then I am the one to interfere," said Carrie _sotto voce._ "I'll do my best, Elma, and trust to you to make it up to me when I have got you out of this scrape." "I wish you would do something, Carrie; but I don't suppose you can. It's awful to think of Aunt Charlotte coming now. If I can't help Kitty, Kitty is sure to tell, and then it will be all over the school. They won't blame her so much as they'll blame me. Oh dear, dear! if you would do something!" "Well, I promise that I just will," said Carrie. "Now go off to school with an easy mind." _ |
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