"It is all the worry and the misery3 she has undergone," thought Kitty to herself; "but now that my mind is at rest she will see what a good friend I can be to her." When they got to Saltbury she immediately ordered a cab, and desired the man to drive her to the nearest hotel.
"Oh, Kitty!" gasped5 poor Elma, "they won't take us in, because we have no luggage, you know."
"I'll manage it," said Kitty; "no luggage—what does that matter?"
She followed Elma into the cab, and a few moments later the girls found themselves at the door of a neat little inn facing the sea. Kitty jumped out and went straight to the bar.
"I want a nice, quiet bedroom," she said, "with two beds in it."
"Certainly, miss," said the woman, glancing into Kitty's bright face.
"It must be a very quiet room," continued Kitty, "for my companion is ill; she has a bad headache, and we must send for a doctor immediately."
"Yes, miss. I'll send the porter out to bring in your luggage."
"That's the annoying part," said Kitty; "we have no luggage."
The woman looked dubious6, and turned to glance at a man who approached.
"Two young ladies want a room," she said in a low voice. "One of them is ill, and—they have no luggage."
"Then in that case, miss, I am very sorry——" began the man.
But Kitty interrupted him.
"Don't say those words," she began. "I know exactly what you are going to say, but please don't. We have no luggage, for we—we have run away from school. There now, I have confided8 in you. Here's father's card. He will be responsible for us. Please show us to your very best room immediately."
As Kitty spoke9 she took a card out of her sealskin purse and handed it to the woman.
"Dennis Malone, Castle Malone, County Donegal," was inscribed11 on the small piece of pasteboard. It evidently had a good effect, but a still greater effect was produced by the sparkling and lovely eyes of the handsome girl who spoke in a tone of quiet assurance.
"Father will be so grateful to you for taking us in," she continued. "It would be terrible, you know, if you allowed us to wander about the streets. I am going to telegraph to him now, and he will arrive here, I have no doubt, within the next twenty-four hours. I have not much money with me," added Kitty frankly12, "but father will bring plenty—plenty when he arrives."
Again the man and woman whispered together, and now approving and interesting glances turned in Kitty's direction. The woman presently said:
"Very well, miss, we'll do our best for you. Will you follow me, miss?"
She took Kitty and Elma upstairs and showed them into the best room in the house. In a very short time poor Elma found herself in bed, with Kitty bending over her, kissing her now and then, and whispering kind words in her ears.
"I have managed beautifully with the people of the hotel," whispered Kitty. "And now, darling, you'll be made so comfortable. I am going to make up to you for—for what Carrie said I did."
"But you did nothing; it was I who was bad, very bad," cried Elma.
"Oh, don't begin to get remorseful13 now, while you are ill. Wait, at least until you are better. I have ordered some fruit and jelly and ice, and I have asked the landlady14—isn't she a dear—to send for the doctor."
"It seems like a dream," said Elma. "Is it possible that everything has changed so completely, and you—you, Kitty Malone—you to whom I have acted so badly, are good to me?"
"Yes, yes, I mean to be good to you; but don't begin to fret15 about your sins until you are better. Leave unpleasant things alone. Go to sleep, Elma; go to sleep."
Kitty went out of the room and stood and reflected for a few moments on the landing.
"Here's a state of things," Kitty said to herself; "but on the whole I rather like it. I knew I should be good in emergencies; I felt that it was in me. I am afraid poor Elma is going to be downright ill. I suppose I did wrong to run away—perhaps I did; but I am so relieved about Laurie that nothing else seems to matter now. I will telegraph immediately to the dear old dad and ask him to come right away here at once. When I see him and know that Laurie is really saved, I'll just tell him everything. Oh, yes, that is the only—only thing to do."
Kitty went straight to the nearest post office, and in an incredibly short space of time the following message was being carried across the wires to Castle Malone:
"AT THE SIGN OF THE RED DOE, SALTBURY.—You will be surprised, father; but I have run away from school. I will tell you everything when I see you. I am here with a sick girl who has also run away. We have very little money; and I, your Kitty, want you dreadfully. Come to me as quickly as you can.
"KITTY MALONE."
"Bless him," said the girl to herself. "He may be angry for a minute, but this message will bring him on the wings of the wind. Now that it has gone off I wonder ought I to let them know at Middleton?"
Kitty reflected earnestly over this problem. She quickly, however, made up her mind to keep her secret to herself.
"A little suspense16 will be rather good for Alice than otherwise," she thought; "and although Mr and Mrs. Denvers may be anxious about me, they can but telegraph to father; and as he will know my address already it won't put him into a taking. Miss Sherrard too can bear it; and as to Carrie, I am really sorry for poor old Carrie, and I should not much mind having her here; but I think until father comes I will look after Elma my lone10 self, as they say in Ireland."
Having made up her mind, Kitty went back to the hotel and asked the landlady, with whom she was now great friends, to send for the best doctor in the neighborhood.
Dr. Marchand arrived in the course of the morning, and pronounced Elma to be ill, but not alarmingly so.
"Your young friend is suffering from considerable shock," he said, "and has evidently also taken a severe cold; but with care and nursing she will in all probability soon get relief—that is, if the strain from which she is suffering is taken off her mind."
"Oh, I think I can manage that," answered Kitty, nodding to the doctor in a very bright and frank way. Her dark-blue eyes were shining like stars; the color in her cheeks, the set of her beautiful head on her lovely neck, the very arrangement of her clothes fairly bewitched that good man. He had seldom seen such sparkling eyes nor such a beautiful dimpled mouth. Kitty's manner completely won Dr. Marchand over to her side, as it had already done the good people at the hotel.
After getting innumerable directions from the doctor, she went downstairs to consult with her land lady.
"Now, Mrs. Stacey," she said, "I must buy lots of things, and I wonder if you can help me. I have telegraphed to father to come here; but until he does I have only this much;" here she opened her purse and tumbled the contents on to the landlady's palm.
Mrs. Stacey started back in some astonishment17. Really this was a very fascinating young lady; but she had never met anybody quite so—so out of the common.
"You can reckon it up if you like," said Kitty; "you will see that it does not come to two pounds. Now, do you know of a shop that would trust me—give me credit, I mean—for some things?"
"What sort of things, miss?"
"Oh, clothes, and a couple of trunks. You see, we are not respectable without trunks, are we?"
"Oh, yes, Miss Malone, you are."
"But do you know of such a shop? Please think very hard, Mrs. Stacey."
"Williamson's round the corner will oblige you to any extent, miss, if you mention my name."
"Then I'll go there immediately. Thank you; how very nice you are!" said
Kitty.
"Of course I ought not to be nice to you, miss, for it ain't right—no, that it ain't—to encourage runaways18."
"When you know our story you will be quite glad you encouraged us," laughed Kitty.
"Then perhaps you'll confide7 in me, miss."
Kitty colored and thought for a moment.
"I think father must know it first," she said. "And now I must rush away to get the things that poor Elma requires."
During the course of that day it could scarcely be said that Kitty
Malone was without luggage; for two new trunks presently made their
appearance, full to the brim with all sorts of dainty clothing both for
Elma and herself.
"Elma," she cried, dancing into the sick-room, "I have got two of the most charming hats you ever laid eyes on. Mine is sweetly becoming to me, and I am sure yours will suit you equally well; they are both big white leghorns, with great bunches of black feathers in front. Won't they look sweet with our new muslin dresses? Mine is pink, but I thought blue would suit you best. I expect dad to-morrow evening at the latest; and I am going to meet him at the station in my new hat and dress. There will be no doubt about his forgiving me when he sees me in them."
Just then there was a tap at the door, and Kitty, rushing to open it, found a telegram awaiting her. She tore it open and read the following words:
"Starting from Dublin by the night-boat, with you to-morrow.—DENNIS
MALONE."
"There, didn't I say he was a darling—the best, best darling in the world?" cried the excited girl. "Oh, won't he have a caed mille afaltha; won't he? Elma, I am almost beside myself."
"I don't know what you are talking about," said Elma. "What do you mean by those queer words?"
"Caed mille afaltha? Oh, they are the Irish for a hundred thousand welcomes. We put them over our arches and everything when people are coming home. Oh, they don't speak a half nor a quarter of what our hearts are full of. Oh father, father, the joy—the joy your poor little Kitty feels at the thought of seeing your darling face again!"
That night again Kitty lay awake, although Elma slept. Strange thoughts, strange and new, were coursing through the young girl's brain. Everything had been a failure, and yet she felt bright and happy and like her old self once more.
"It is the thought of seeing father," she said to herself. "I was never fit for England. England and its ways will never suit me, never, never; but when I see father I shall be all right. Oh, to think that he is really coming, and that Laurie is saved! I must, of course, tell father everything; but he won't be angry with Laurie when I tell him the story in my own way."
Accordingly early the next morning Kitty dressed herself in the fascinating leghorn hat and slipped on the pink muslin dress, and, with a bunch of roses at her belt, sallied forth19 to the railway station. She soon found the right platform, and paced up and down in a fever of impatience20 waiting for the train. As she was doing so, flaunting21 her pretty little person in a somewhat aggressive way and causing some prim-looking ladies to gaze at her with anything but approval, a hand was laid on her arm, and turning she saw, to her amazement22, the extremely indignant faces of Miss Sherrard and Miss Worrick.
"Well, Kitty, after this!" said Miss Sherrard,
"Oh, please don't scold me just now!" said Kitty, with a little gasp4; "wait until he comes."
"Until who comes?"
"Father. I am expecting him by this train."
"I am relieved at that," said Miss Sherrard. "I shall have a painful tale to tell him."
"So you may, Miss Sherrard. You may tell him everything; but please let me tell him my story first. You must, you shall; I insist."
The girl's eyes were flashing; she was trembling all over. Just when her happiness seemed to be at its height, for Miss Sherrard and Miss Worrick to appear!
"Oh, and there's the train!" she cried. "He will be here in a minute; let me see him first. Oh, the train, is stopping, and there he is; I see him at the very end; there he is with his white hair and—let me go, let me go!"
She rushed from Miss Sherrard's retaining arm and flew up the platform, and a moment later the owner of the pink dress and leghorn hat was being clasped tightly, tightly to the breast of the magnificent-looking old gentleman, almost a king in his way, who had suddenly stepped on to the platform.
"Father, you'll protect me—they have come, they have followed me. You will let me tell you my story first? Father! father! oh, feel how my heart is beating!"
"Why, Kitty, asthore; Kitty, Kitty, my own. What is it, Kit1? I say, Kit, what is wrong?"
"Nothing, nothing now that you have come; but let me tell you my story first."
"Your story first—why, of course, Kit."
"They are there; speak to them; tell them you will see them afterward23. We are staying at the Sign of the Red Doe; tell them that you will see me first and then you will see them."
"Introduce me to them, Kitty, and calm yourself. Come, Kitty, come."
"Yes, father, yes; it is all right."
Kitty's terrible excitement subsided24; leaning on her father's arm, she approached the platform where Miss Sherrard and Miss Worrick, both looking rather confused, were standing25.
"This is my father, Miss Sherrard," said Kitty, introducing Dennis
Malone, who took off his hat with a grand sweep.
"I am relieved to see you," began Miss Sherrard.
"Pardon me one moment, madam," said Malone; "but Kitty here would like to tell me her story first. You are her school-mistress, the lady with whom I have had the pleasure of corresponding?"
"I am, and I have a very, very painful tale to tell you."
"You shall tell me your story afterward."
Here the owner of Castle Malone caught sight of Miss Worrick, and gave her a bow even more deferential26 than he had bestowed27 upon the head-mistress.
"I am sorry to put you off even for a few moments, ladies," he said; "but you see this little girl, she—she must come first. However badly she has behaved, she—she is my only girl, you understand, and I—I must hear her story first. Will you meet us both within an hour at the Sign of the Red Doe? Then everything can be explained."
"I wonder if that dreadful girl is to go unpunished in the end," said Miss Worrick to Miss Sherrard, as they both slowly went to the nearest hotel to wait until the time arranged to meet Kitty and her father at the Sign of the Red Doe."
"It seems like it," said Miss Sherrard. "But what a splendid old man! Perhaps after all it may be the best thing for Kitty Malone not to punish her, Miss Worrick."
"Oh, Miss Sherrard! I cannot approve of your very lax opinions. Surely punishment for such terrible wrong-doing—"
"Yes, she behaved badly, but not so badly as Elma, I think we must wait to hear the whole story explained; at present we are more or less in the dark."
"And now, Kit, what is it?" said the squire28, when he and his daughter were ensconced in the little sitting-room29 at the Sign of the Red Doe.
"Do you mind if I give you one of my real big hugs first?" said Kitty.
"To be sure not, alanna—oh, acushla macree! it is like flowers in May to see you again."
"There! I am better now," said Kitty, after she had bestowed one of her most violent hugs upon her father. "Let me sit on your knee and I will tell you everything."
At the best it was a sad story, a story full of wrong-doing, full of impulse, full of passion; and although Kitty tried hard to make Elma's part of it as light as possible, the squire's eyes blazed and a thundering note came into his voice as he listened.
"That's a bad girl, Kitty," he cried; "and you ought to have nothing to do with her."
"But that's exactly it, father—that's what I am coming to. If you won't let me have anything to do with Elma, why—why, you must punish me terribly. I want you to let me—to let me make Elma my real friend."
"That sort of girl your friend? Not if I know it," said the squire.
"But, please, father, do let me plead for her. I have done her injury, and she—she has never had advantages like the rest of us."
Then Kitty began to coax30, and few, very few people could coax like this Irish girl. Not only with her voice, but with her eyes, with a smile here and a frown there, she set herself to bring old Squire Malone to her way of thinking. And as always from the time she was a tiny child she had been able to twist this old lion round her little finger, so she twisted him now.
"You have got to do it, father," she said at last. "You have got to forgive Laurie, and you have got to forgive Elma, and——"
"Bless the boy, it was just like his recklessness, Why didn't he come and tell me? He wasn't afraid of his old father, was he?"
"Well, father, you know you are very fierce when you like."
"Tut! tut! Kitty, don't you begin to scold."
"No; I won't—not if you yield to me. Full and free forgiveness for the whole three of us; for your Kit——"
"Bless you, child, I have forgiven you already."
"Ay, didn't I know it—didn't I say he was a dear old thing? Now,
Laurie—you won't say a word to him?"
"I'll give him a right good scolding."
"Why, then, dad, your scolding never did anybody any harm; your bark is worse than your bite, you know; but there will be no school in England for him, that's what I mean."
"Well, it doesn't seem to have succeeded with you, asthore."
"No more it did. Why, it was breaking the heart in me entirely31."
"So you want to come back with me again?"
"That I do, and never, never be a polished lady with manners to the longest day of my life."
"You want to be Wild Kitty still?"
"Wild, wild, the wildest of Kittys to the end of the chapter."
"And what will your aunts say?"
"Never mind; what you say is the important thing."
"It shall be as you please, Kit. I am sure I have missed you sore, very sore."
"And now, what about Elma?"
"Yes; what do you want me to do for her?"
"I want her to come back with me to Castle Malone for the rest of the summer."
"Oh, heart alive! child; but I don't think I could take to that sort of girl."
"Yes, you will, if I take to her. Now, dad, must I begin it all over again?"
"No, no; anything to please you, Kit."
"And at the end of the summer, as you have plenty of money, and as I am sure she has repented32 most bitterly will you send her to Girton?"
"Oh, come, come; I make no promises."
"But I know it is all right, and I am going to rush up to her and tell her everything. Oh, and here come Miss Sherrard and Miss Worrick. You shall see them without me."
"I declare, upon my word, Kitty, you are the most extraordinary creature. How am I to face the good ladies?"
"Here they are, father. Please, Miss Sherrard, come in; father will see you, and Miss Worrick too."
Kitty flung open the door, and the head-mistress of Middleton School and her subordinate found it closed behind them. They had a short interview with Squire Malone—very short. It ended by Miss Sherrard and the squire shaking hands most heartily33.
"You did your best for her, and I am awfully34 obliged to you," said the squire. "But, after all, she is too wild for England; she had better stay in her own land."
"I believe you are right," said Miss Sherrard.
The End
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1
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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5
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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7
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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9
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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10
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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11
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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12
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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13
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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15
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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16
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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18
runaways
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| （轻而易举的）胜利( runaway的名词复数 ) | |
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19
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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21
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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deferential
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| adj. 敬意的，恭敬的 | |
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27
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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30
coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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31
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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32
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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