Wild Kitty by L. T. Meade (fun to read .TXT) 📖

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