Home > Authors Index > L. T. Meade > Wild Kitty > This page
Wild Kitty, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
||
Chapter 19. Kitty Tells The Truth |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XIX. KITTY TELLS THE TRUTH Early the next morning Kitty received her telegram. It certainly was not at all calculated to soothe her. She was restless and miserable before; now her hands shook so violently that she could scarcely eat her breakfast. Alice acted somewhat the part of a jailer; she had to convey the disgraced girl to Middleton School. "I am ill; I won't go," said Kitty, bursting into tears. "You had much better come, Kitty," said Alice, speaking almost kindly for the first time in her life; she really pitied poor Kitty at that moment. "If you will only take your punishment patiently it will soon be over, and I know for a fact," she continued, "that many of the girls are only too anxious to make it up to you by and by." "Oh, it's not that," said Kitty; "it is because I am so wretched. I have a great trouble at home; but there, there's no use in talking to you about it, Alice." "So you always say," answered Alice. "Whenever I want to be the least bit good to you, you put me off; but never mind, I am sure I can do without your friendship. Anyhow, I think you must come to school unless you are so ill that mother will be obliged to send for the doctor." "Oh, I don't want that," said Kitty, "I never had a doctor in my life. If you'll wait for me, Alice, I'll go upstairs and put on my hat." She rushed to her room, flung herself on her knees for a moment by her bedside, and uttered a frantic prayer to Heaven. "Oh! God, in your mercy, keep Laurie from doing anything desperate," cried the unhappy girl. She then joined Alice downstairs. Her face was white; there were heavy black lines under her eyes; she had never looked prettier, more pathetic, more likely to win sympathy from the other girls. At prayers that morning all eyes were directed to Kitty Malone. She was not allowed to sit with the others, but was given, a place on the bench with the teachers. Here she faced the rest of the school. It would have been a cruel position for another girl; but it did not matter to Kitty, for she saw no one present. Her eyes, with that queer inward look in them, were gazing straight, not at the scene before her, but at the old home in Ireland. The squire, whom she so passionately loved, roused to the last extremity of anger; the boy, whose heart was hers, crushed, trapped, imprisoned, his liberty taken from him. Kitty trembled from head to foot; she could scarcely restrain her terrible emotion. After school she accompanied the others to the classroom, but in absolute silence. She was given her usual lessons to do, but at a table by herself. Her punishment was to be carried out in all its fullness; but, dreadful as it would seem to most, it did not touch her at all to-day. Her head ached, her eyes felt dim. Laurie's telegram, which lay in her pocket, seemed to scorch into the very depths of her heart. She had not even been allowed to answer it; the whole weight of her trouble lay unrelieved upon her. The poor child was unaccustomed to such anguish, and her self-control was in danger moment by moment of giving way. As she strove to get that dull piece of English history into her head, as she endeavored to follow the rules of syntax, as the knowledge that she never, never to the longest day of her life, would understand what was meant by the possessive case, alongside with these feeble little efforts to follow her lessons, ran the dark thought of how, by what possible means, she could help Laurie. And more and more as the time went on she felt that she could not keep her promise to Elma. Elma had been cruel to her; she had borrowed her money when she knew she had not the most remote chance of paying it back; she had spent it according to her own saying in the most frivolous way. Now, for the first time, Kitty learned to despise dress. How could Elma spend the money which was to save Laurie in anything so contemptible as ribbons and finery? Kitty looked down at her own neatly-appointed clothes; her perfect little shoes peeped out from beneath the frill of her dress. Notwithstanding her misery she was as neat as usual in her attire; but now she had no heart to appreciate gay clothes, good looks, pretty ribbons--any of the things which usually delighted her. Laurie seemed to cry to her; she fancied she could hear his voice coming across the waters to her ears--Laurie, who had always trusted to her, who, strong as he was, was not quite so strong as Kitty when scrapes and troubles were about. Oh! if only she could go to him! If only she might relieve her feelings and tell the exact truth to Miss Sherrard! What kept her back? Nothing whatever but the thought of Elma. She had given Elma a promise, and, tempted as she was, she must not break it. As this thought came to her she remembered that she had only promised Elma to keep the secret until after morning school. That time would soon be up. "Once Miss Sherrard knows I am certain she will help me," thought Kitty, "though I don't want to excuse myself; yet I know that a great deal of the blame of my proceedings will be lifted from my shoulders to Elma's. Why should I go through all the suffering, and Elma sit there looking so calm, and quiet, and still?" As these thoughts rushed through Kitty's mind she glanced up for the first time, and calmly surveyed the great room full of her fellow-students. As if with one impulse all the girls raised their eyes and looked back at her. There was pity on most of the faces, amusement on a few, curiosity on a few others; but on Elma's face alone was an expression of intense anxiety and misery. Kitty had the kindest heart in the world. The moment she saw this expression the idea of betraying Elma melted from her mind. "She does look wretched," she said to herself. "I must not speak to her; I dare not, and yet--yet--I should like her to know that I am not going to be hard on her." Kitty tore off a piece of her exercise book and managed, when she thought no one would see, to write a little note to Elma. In this she said, "Don't be afraid, Elma; I have made up my mind not to tell." This note she twisted up, and, as the girls were going to the playground for recess, managed to flash an intelligent glance toward Elma. Elma approached close to her table, Kitty stretched out her hand, and Elma's fingers were just about to close over the note, when, by an unlucky chance, there came a breeze through the window, and the note, for some inconceivable reason, fluttered from Kitty's hand to the floor. In an instant Miss Worrick had seen it. She was just stepping forward when Elma like a flash caught it up and tore it into fragments. She would not for the world have the note seen. Miss Worrick, filled with anger, came up to Kitty. "You are a bad girl, the worst girl I know," she said. "You are not even honorable. Did you not give your parole that you would not hold communication with another girl in the school, and yet you have been trying to communicate with Elma Lewis by means of writing?" "Writing is not speaking," said Kitty, now standing up very erect and proud, and replying to Miss Worrick as pertly as she could. "Don't answer me, miss; you grow worse and worse. Elma Lewis, do you know anything about that note?" Kitty looked full at Elma. If she was going to be true to Elma, would Elma be equally true to her?" "I know nothing about it," said Elma promptly. Kitty's eyes filled with withering scorn; an expression of disdain curled her pretty lips. "You are quite certain, Elma? Kitty Malone seems to have a great anxiety to communicate with you. Can you throw any light on the scrape she has got into?" "I know nothing whatever about her secrets; I--I have nothing to do with them," said Elma in an agitated voice, which she endeavored in vain to render calm. Gwin Harley, who had stopped on her way out of the classroom, paused to listen to Elma's words. Kitty's face was now white as death. She did not glance at Elma; she was looking the other way. "Leave us, girls," said Miss Worrick. The next moment the great classroom was empty, with the exception of Miss Worrick and Kitty Malone. Kitty was standing upright as a dart. "Take me to Miss Sherrard; I want to speak to her," she said. "I am certainly going to take you to her. You are a very, very wicked girl. I doubt not you will be expelled." "Oh, I hope I shall," said Kitty. "I should like nothing in all the world better." "You would? You are quite incorrigible. Do you know, you wretched girl, what it means?" "No," answered Kitty; "I wait for you to tell me. What does it mean, Miss Worrick?" "That you are tainted for life, disgraced for life. Wherever you go it will be always remembered to you that your conduct was so bad at school that you were obliged to be expelled." "But that won't matter in old Ireland," said Kitty with a hollow, forced laugh. "Yes, it will; it will break your father's heart. There are no people so proud as the Irish. They can stand a good deal; but any cloud on their honor----" "Ah, you are right," cried Kitty, standing still, and a queer change coming over her face. "Our honor--no one ever touched that yet." "It will have a nice blow when you are dismissed from Middleton School," said Miss Worrick, glad to find a point in Kitty's hitherto invulnerable armor. "Come with me at once, you bad girl. I must explain your conduct to Miss Sherrard." "I have something on my own account to say to Miss Sherrard," answered Kitty in a proud voice; "something which will explain a good deal." "I am glad to hear it; but I scarcely think any words of yours can remove the stigma on your character. But come; I have no time to argue with you further." Miss Worrick now led the way into Miss Sherrard's little sitting-room. Miss Sherrard was standing near the window; she turned quickly when she saw Miss Worrick, and a displeased and withal a troubled glance filled her eyes as they rested upon Kitty." "Anything fresh?" she said, turning to the teacher with a weary expression in her voice. "Only just what I expected," said Miss Worrick with bitterness. "Kitty Malone is not to be trusted. Yesterday she gave her word of honor----" "I didn't," interrupted Kitty. "Kitty my dear, allow your teacher to speak." "She gave her word of honor, or equivalent to it, that she would submit to the punishment which you rightly inflicted upon her. Well, I found her just now in the act of smuggling a note into Elma Lewis' hand." "Oh, but this is very bad, Kitty," said Miss Sherrard. "Did you not know what your word of honor meant?" "I never promised anything," replied Kitty. "You spoke; but I was silent." "Pardon me, my dear; that is begging the question. You were told that you were not to communicate with any of your fellow-pupils. Your silence signified consent. Kitty, I am ashamed of you." "As you know so much you may as well know all," said Kitty, desperation in her tone. "I did far worse than you think. Last night I went out again after dark by myself to see Elma Lewis. I had an interview with her. I talked to her, and she talked to me. That was not exactly her fault; for I forced her to speak. Now, you know how very bad I am. Expel me if you wish. I know you will after this. I am in dreadful disgrace. I only wish I were dead." "Leave us, Miss Worrick," said Miss Sherrard. The door was closed behind the governess; and the head-mistress, taking one of Kitty's cold hands, led her to a seat near herself on the sofa. "There is more behind," she said. "Kitty, you must tell me the truth." "I long to tell you," answered Kitty. "A short time back I had made up my mind to conceal it because the telling would make another girl miserable--miserable for life. Now my feelings are changed." "I am glad that you are at last willing to confide in me," said Miss Sherrard in a kinder tone. "Tell me everything, Kitty, and as quickly as you can." Thus counseled, Kitty's reserve absolutely gave way. The whole miserable story was quickly revealed: Elma Lewis' request for money; Kitty's generous response; Laurie's passionate and anguished letter; Kitty's desire to help him; her reasons, which had almost driven her mad, for seeking Elma; her desperate resolve at last to go to her late at night; then Elma's passionate beseeching of her to keep the secret; Kitty's promise that she would do so until after morning school that day; then her further resolve, when she saw the look of misery on Elma's face, to keep it altogether even at the cost of breaking Laurie's heart; then Elma's conduct when the note was discovered. "I scorn her now," said Kitty. "I don't regard any promise I ever made to her. I am glad to tell. She is false, cowardly, and I scorn her. Miss Sherrard, you know everything; expel me if you must." "Yes, I know everything," replied Miss Sherrard. She sat still for a few moments, lost in anxious thought. She blamed Kitty still, but she also deeply pitied her. Her feelings toward Elma were so strong that she could scarcely trust herself to speak of them at the present moment. "My honor is gone, and my heart is broken," continued Kitty. "Of course you will expel me after this; and, indeed, I want to go home. Please, Miss Sherrard, let me go home; I cannot stay any longer at school." "My dear Kitty," said Miss Sherrard, "I am very sorry for you. I am certainly glad at last to know the truth. You, poor child, have been more sinned against than sinning. I cannot tell you what I think about Elma. Such a girl does more mischief in a school than twenty like you. Stay, my dear; stop crying. Kitty, Kitty, what is it?" "I feel nearly mad--Laurie is in such trouble. May I not at least answer his telegram?" "Yes, here is a telegraph form. Fill in what you like; I will send it at once to the post office." "Miss Sherrard, would it be possible for you to lend me the money?" Miss Sherrard shook her head. "I could not do it, Kitty; nor would it be right. Your brother has done distinctly wrong; and if you telegraph to him now I hope you will counsel him to go straight to your father and confess everything. There is never the least use in concealment where wrong-doing is concerned, my dear." But Kitty's eyes had now blazed again with renewed passion. "You are not a Malone nor an Irishwoman," she cried. "You do not know Ireland, or you would not speak in that tone. I counsel Laurie to tell father what he did to poor Paddy Wheel-about! I counsel him to say that he took the old man's coat--stole it from him! Miss Sherrard, you don't know father. Laurie did it, it is true, in a fit of bravado; but father would never understand. He would be furious, wild; Le would punish him severely. Oh, I must get that money somehow, in some fashion!" "Kitty, you are speaking disrespectfully," said Miss Sherrard, "and I cannot allow it. I am sorry for you, my dear; you are dreadfully overcome at present. Go home now; I will see you again in the afternoon." Poor Kitty left the room without even bidding her teacher good-by. _ |
||