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Wild Kitty, a fiction by L. T. Meade |
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Chapter 23. Stars And Moon, And God Behind |
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_ CHAPTER XXIII. STARS AND MOON, AND GOD BEHIND During the long walk home to Constantine Road the elder and the younger lady maintained an absolute silence. As soon as they got to the house Mrs. Steward turned to Elma for the first time and spoke. "Find out immediately if your mother is in. If she is tell her I wish to see her. Go; don't stare at me." Elma went without a word. Her mother was in, and so was Carrie. "Mother," said Elma, "Aunt Charlotte wants to see you." "Why, my dear Elma, what is the matter? How queer you look!" "Don't mind about me, mother, pray; the expression of my face is not worth considering. Aunt Charlotte is waiting for you in the dining-room." Mrs. Lewis gave a profound sigh. "How very unreasonable of Charlotte!" she said; "she will doubtless be expecting more tea and cream and fresh eggs, and other impossibilities." "Oh, go mother, and stop talking," said Elma. Mrs. Lewis dragged herself up from the sofa on which she was reclining. "I really don't know what the world is coming to," she said. "Even my own children are turning out quite disagreeable to me. Dear! dear! what it is to be a mother! How little those who are fortunate in not possessing children understand the burden!" She went, downstairs slowly, and Elma turned to Carrie. Carrie was standing with her back to her; she was making up something in tissue-paper. "Well, Elma," she said, looking up at her sister, "what is up?" "Everything is up," said Elma. "What do you mean?" "Everything is up and everything is over. What are you doing with that paper, Carrie?" "I am folding up the money I have just got for Kitty Malone?" "The money you have got for Kitty Malone! Has--has Sam Raynes returned the sovereigns?" "Bless you, poor Sam can't do impossibilities. No; this money has nothing whatever to do with Sam. I am folding it up, and giving her a little account with it. We got exactly eleven pounds eleven shillings for the clothes and the watch and chain. She can redeem them all within a month if she likes. Here is the pawnbroker's receipt; tell her to keep it until she does. She can redeem them whenever she cares to pay back eleven pounds eleven shillings with interest. My commission at ten per cent, is one pound three shillings and tenpence--that leaves a balance of ten pounds seven shilling and twopence; it will doubtless get her nicely out of her difficulty. She ought to be thankful to me to her dying day. Look here, Elma, if you are worried about things--and I can guess what is the matter pretty well; for I happen to know that Kitty Malone made a clean breast of your secret not long ago--you will be glad to get out of the house. Here, take this money to her, and be off, can't you?" Elma still did not speak. That cold, stunned feeling was pressing round her heart. She did not much care whether she was in the house or not. Just at that moment, however, a loud slam of the front door caused both the girls to run to the window. Mrs. Steward had sailed down the steps. Mrs. Steward with her long train streaming behind her, was walking up Constantine Road. The next instant Mrs. Lewis burst into the room. "Well, Elma," she cried, "this is a pretty state of things. Your aunt has told me everything. What a miserable woman I am!" "Please, don't scold me," said Elma. "I have had enough scolding during the last hour to last me my life. Say what you like to me to-morrow." "But your aunt says she washes her hands of you. How are you to be educated? How are you to live? How are you to support yourself?" "I don't know. I don't think it much matters." "Don't talk in that silly way, Elma; of course it matters. She says too that you are to be publicly exposed at Middleton School to-morrow, and your conduct--I must say I could not make out what she was talking about; I don't see that you did anything very wrong--but your conduct is to be proclaimed to the school, and that you are to be, if not expelled, something like it. Elma, this is enough to take all my senses away!" "Never mind, now, mother; we can talk it all over presently," said Elma. "Give me the money, Carrie, and let me go." Carrie handed her sister the little parcel without a word. Elma walked slowly out of the room. A moment later she found herself on the dusty road. She reached the top of the ugly street, and then paused to look around her. To her right lay the peaceful valley in which Middleton School was situated. A little further away was the open country, beautiful, verdant, full of summer splendor. Gwin Harley's house could be seen in the distance. "If only Gwin had been my friend this morning, all these terrible things need not have happened," thought Elma. "I have nothing to thank Gwin for; I have nothing to thank Kitty for. I am a miserable, forlorn, forsaken girl. There is nothing before me but the most wretched life. Shall I go to see Kitty? Does Kitty deserve anything at my hands? I have got ten pounds seven shillings and twopence in my pocket. Why should I not go right away with the money? I don't think Kitty would prosecute me; and if she did would it matter? I am so hopeless that I don't think anything much worse could happen to me. I know I could not stand being publicly exposed to-morrow at the school. I cannot have those hundreds of eyes fixed on me; I, who have always been looked up to, respected, who belonged to the Tug-of-war Society. I cannot, cannot bear it. Why should Kitty have this money? She has treated me badly. She promised not to tell. She had no right to break her word. I cannot see her at present; no, I cannot." Elma walked down the road. She longed beyond words to get into a fresh place, to be where there was no chance of meeting a Middleton girl. She walked faster and faster. Presently she found herself at the little station; she had not an idea where to go nor what to do. She had no luggage with her. It would look queer her going away without even a handbag. It would look very much as if she were running away. All the girls belonging to Middleton School had to wear a badge on their hats, and Elma would therefore be known. She would be recognized as one of the pupils. Nevertheless she thought she would risk it, for the longing to go away got stronger and stronger. The railway station happened to be rather empty at this time. She looked around her hastily, saw no one that she knew about, and went into the booking-office. She hastily made up her mind to take a ticket for a large seaport town a few miles distant. She asked for a third-class single ticket to Saltbury, inquired when the next train came up, and a few moments later found herself on the right platform waiting for it. It came in within a quarter of an hour, and Elma took her seat in a third-class compartment. She was relieved to find that she was in the company of a good-natured-looking, middle-aged woman who was just returning to her own home from doing some marketing at Middleton. She did not take any notice of Elma, who crouched up in the opposite corner, and sat looking out at the country. The woman left the carriage at the next station, and Elma continued her journey for the rest of the way alone. She got to Saltbury within an hour, and stepped out on to the platform. She had been at Saltbury before with her mother and Carrie. They had once spent a never-to-be-forgotten week there when Mrs. Lewis had a ten-pound note in her pocket which she resolved to devote to a treat at the seaside. Elma wondered if she might venture to go to the little cottage in the suburbs of Saltbury where she had spent this week. After reflection, however, she thought that it would not be wise to venture, for if she were missed it would be very easy to trace her to Saltbury, and then this cottage would be the first to seek for her in. Accordingly she went into the more thronged and populous part of the town. The expensive season had not yet begun, and she presently went into a neat little house with "Apartments" written on a card in the window. She asked for a bed for the night. The landlady, a ruddy-faced young woman, immediately said she could accommodate her, and took Elma upstairs to the top of the house to show her a neat little bedroom. "You can have this for half a crown a night, miss," she said. "Are you likely to make a long stay?" "I don't know," answered Elma; "I can't be sure. I want the room for one night, and then I'll let you know." "Very well, miss, that's quite satisfactory, and I can get in anything you like in the way of food. If you happened to wish for a sitting-room, miss--" "Oh, no, a bedroom will be enough," answered Elma. "I do not care to go to the expense of a sitting-room." "You left your luggage I suppose, miss, at the railway station?" Elma colored and then turned pale. "No," she said; "I have not brought any luggage with me." The woman stared, opening her eyes very wide, now giving Elma a full and particular attention which she had not hitherto vouchsafed to her. She said nothing further, and Elma went downstairs. "I'll go down to the beach for a little," she said. "You might have some tea ready for me when I come back. I am very tired, and should like some tea and toast." "And a hegg, miss, or anything of that sort?" "No, thank you; just tea and toast, please. Nothing more." The woman stared after her as she went down the street. Elma got as far as the beach; she then sat down on a bench and gazed out at the waves. The tide was coming in. The beach at Saltbury was celebrated, and children were playing about, amusing themselves gathering shells, making sand-castles, and otherwise disporting themselves after the manner of their kind. A little boy was wading far out. Elma watched him with lack-luster eyes. She wondered vaguely how long he would be allowed to wade, and how deep he might go. He got as far as his knees, and then turned back. As he was going back he fell, wetting himself and crying out lustily. Elma continued to gaze at him with eyes which scarcely saw. "He thinks he is hurt," she said to herself, "that he has had a terrible misfortune. How little he knows what real pain means, and what real misfortune is! Here am I with money in my pocket which does not belong to me, having run away from home, disgraced for life, miserable for life. Oh! what shall I do?" It had been a very hot day, but the evening was chilly, and Elma shivered as she went back to her lodgings in South Street. She had brought away no wraps with her, and her thin cotton dress was not sufficient to keep out the chill of the sea breezes. She thought she would be glad to get under shelter, to go to bed, to wrap herself up and cover her face and court sleep. When she got to the door, however, the young landlady, who was evidently waiting for her, came out on to the steps. "If you please, miss," she said, "I am really very sorry, but my husband thinks----" "What?" said Elma. "That as you have no luggage, miss (you know it ain't customary for us to take in ladies without luggage)----" "Then you mean--" said Elma, turning very white and pale. "Yes, miss, I'm ever so sorry." "You can't give me the room even for one night?" "We can't really, miss." "But I can pay in advance," said Elma eagerly. "I'm ever so sorry, miss; but another lady came just as you left, and she had a box and a handbag, and everything proper, and as she wanted the room very badly and as we had her before, we have let it to her, miss. I am sure I am very sorry not to oblige; but I dare say--There are a great many other apartments down this road, miss." "Thank you," said Elma; "it does not matter at all." She spoke with a voice of ice; pride, a remnant of pride, came to her aid. She would not let the woman see how distressed she was. "Good-evening, miss," said the young landlady. "I'm real sorry not to oblige." "Oh, it doesn't matter," said Elma; "I dare say I can manage." She walked down South Street, knowing that the landlady was watching her as she disappeared. She soon came to a corner where four roads met. Where should she go? What could she do? Where was she to have shelter for the night? It occurred to her that after all there was nothing now left to her but to return to Middleton. She hurried up to the railway station, and asked when the next train would start. A porter, who was standing just inside the station informed her that the last train for Middleton had left five minutes ago. "The next will be at seven to-morrow morning," he said. "Thank you," answered Elma. She would not allow any of the dismay on her face to appear. "After all, it is too absurd that I can't have shelter," she said to herself, "when I have over ten pounds in my pocket. What can the landlady have meant? Surely, if I pay my way that is all that is necessary." But, all the same, she did not like to go and inquire at any other lodging. She could not stand meeting once again the stony stare of a landlady when she explained that she had no luggage, none at all. It occurred to her that she might go into a shop and buy some night-gear and a small handbag, but she rejected the idea almost as quickly as it came to her. "It would only waste the money," she said to herself, "and where is the use? I suppose I can manage to spend the night somewhere. Thank goodness, it is a fine summer's night; I might do worse than spend it in the open air." She wandered away, and presently passing a small restaurant, went in and ordered a cup of tea for herself, and some bread and butter. She drank the tea, but found that to eat choked her. The outlook before her was more miserable moment by moment. She was driven to such despair that it seemed of very little consequence to her whether she succeeded in getting away from Middleton School, from the censorious eyes of the whole of her world, or not. Everything was up with her. She kept repeating that moodily, drearily under her breath. Everything was up; she had not a friend in the wide, wide world. Having finished her meager meal, she went out again into South Street. She was horrified when she saw the name at one end of the street. She did not want to pass by that neat little house which contained that snug little bedroom where she had hoped to cover her eyes from the light, and court sleep, in order to get rid of her misery for a few hours. She had now reached the neighborhood of the shore. The tide was nearly full in; the great, broad expanse of beach was covered. The children had all gone home to supper and to bed. The stars were coming out in the sky; a full moon was riding in majesty across the heavens. It seemed to Elma, fine as the night was, that the sea moaned in an unreasonable and very dreadful manner. She had to press her hands to her ears to shut away the sound of that moaning sea. She determined to go inland. There was plenty of time, plenty. She could get back to the station by seven in the morning, wait for the first train which returned to Middleton, and reach the school after all in time for her exposure. She turned her steps now countrywise, and after walking for a mile or two found that she was too weary to go any further. She crept inside a narrow opening in a hedge, and got into a field. Here she was absolutely alone; not a human being was in sight. As far as she could tell there was not a living creature near. She felt the grass; it was heavy with dew. She had always heard that it was very dangerous to sit down on grass soaked with dew, but danger now was of no moment to her. "It would be rather nice to be ill; it would be rather nice to die." She had nothing left to live for. Her whole life had been a mistake. She had tried hard to get away from her own set, the set in which she was born. She had made a mess of it; she had failed. Her own set--the narrow-minded, the vulgar, the low--were the only ones who could claim her, who could touch her, who could have anything in common with her. How terribly shocked Miss Sherrard had been at what she had done. How disgusted, how coldly, terribly cruel Aunt Charlotte had been; but her mother had thought very little about it, and Carrie would love her just as much after her disgraceful conduct as she had done before. "I belong to them, and they belong to me," thought poor Elma. "My ambitions were wrong; I shall sink now, and become a second Carrie. No, I shall never marry a Sam Raynes, but I shall become a sour old maid. Perhaps I shall do charring some day, there is no saying. I did wrong to try to raise myself. I----" She never saw where her fault lay. She was not really repentant for her wrong-doing. The consequences were terrible, but the sin did not trouble her. After a time, terribly exhausted and weary, she lay down just as she was on the soaking wet grass and fell asleep. She had been chilled and tired before she slept; but when in the very middle of the night she awoke she had never known anything like the bitter cold which she experienced. She could not at first remember where she was; but all too soon memory with a flash returned to her. She remembered all the events of yesterday. She knew that she was a runaway, that she had stolen money in her pocket. She might be arrested and put in prison; there was no saying what awful fate lay before her. In the dead of night lying there she became really frightened; she almost felt as if she could scream aloud in her terror. How empty the world seemed, how hollow! She wished the stars overhead would not blink at her; she wished the moon would go behind a cloud; she felt as if God Himself was looking at her through the face of the moon, and she did not like it. She covered her face with her cold and trembling hands, and tried to shut away what she felt might be the face of God Himself. "I have been a very wicked girl," she moaned, and now, for the first time, she thought not so much of the consequences as of the sin. Tears rained from her eyes; she sat up and covered her face. "God help me! Please, God, don't be too angry, with me; I am the most miserable girl in the world," she faltered. After that frightened cry or prayer she felt more comfortable; and now, staggering to her feet, she saw, standing about ten yards away, and looking at her fixedly out of its large and luminous eyes, a brown cow. There were several more cows in the field, and this one had come up, and was gazing inquiringly at her. The motherly creature could not imagine what desolate and queer young thing this was, up and awake in the middle of the night. Such creatures as Elma, in the cow's experience, were not to be seen at these inclement hours. It lashed its long tail slowly from side to side, and kept gazing at her; and Elma looked at it, and her nervous terrors grew worse. The cow had horns; suppose it came near, and tried to horn her. She was not a country girl, and did not understand country creatures. A bitter cry of abject terror rose from her lips. She darted past the animal, rushed out by the way she had come into the field, and found herself once more on the highroad. The cow, its curiosity very faintly tickled by the appearance of Elma on the scene, placidly resumed its feeding, and the terrified girl ran as if she had wings to her feet up the highroad. In after days she was never able to tell how she spent the remainder of that night; but the longest hours only herald in the dawn, and at last the sun arose and the worst of her fears were over. The sun warmed her, and took away the dreadful feeling of chill which she was experiencing. She wandered about, sitting down now and then, too feeble, too tired, too utterly depressed to have room even for active fears, and at last the time came when she might again present herself at the station. _ |
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