Girls New and Old

by L. T. Meade

"What is the matter with that girl?" thought the schoolmaster to himself; "she has a queer look in her eyes. She is a fine girl; yes, I'd consider her a fine specimen of young woman-hood if she didn't murder Homer in the way she does; but something has put her out. What is the matter with her?"

Kate, meanwhile, continued her stormy walk. By and by she reached the shore; the tide was out at present, but it was just beginning to turn. A wide expanse of wet sand and low-lying rocks lay to her left; to her right rose the high cliffs for which the place was famous. Kate hesitated for a moment which way to turn. At last she determined to go straight to the caves; the tide was well out, and there was not the slightest danger. She could go as far as one of the caves, take shelter there, watch the gale without being blown away herself, and think out the question which was tearing her proud heart to pieces.

To reach the caves she had to walk with the wind full in her face; the temptation, therefore, to go the other way and be blown along by the fierce gale was overpowering for a moment or two; she determined to resist it, and made for the caves. To reach them she had to walk a good deal over a mile. These caves could only be reached quite at low water, and the way to them lay on the soft, yielding sand. Kate found, as she struggled along, that she was by no means so strong as she used to be when she had lived in the cottage at home. In those happy days she had never known fatigue. To fight with nature, as she was now doing, only brought out her splendid physical powers; she rejoiced in the old days in conquering wind and weather. Her dangerous illness had weakened her far more than she had any idea of, and her legs trembled as she hurried forward. She was so spent when she reached the first cave that she literally could not walk another yard; she entered it, and sat down to rest. Out of the gale she had suddenly entered into a perfect haven of calm. The cave was a deep one; it went back far into the rock. At its farthest extremity was a shelf, on which lay two skeletons in a fair state of preservation. These skeletons had been found in the clay some years ago, and were left undisturbed in their resting place; the angry sea often nearly touched them, but not quite. At high tide, the rest of the cave was generally under water, but the sea had never yet been known to reach the spot where the skeletons of a woman and child, who may have died thousands of years ago, were still in a state of preservation. People from far and near used to come to see these relics of the past, but Kate had never visited the caves before. She sat now in the entrance, drawing a big stone forward and making a temporary seat of it. From here she could watch the angry sea, and even take pleasure in the wild sight which met her eyes. She was too tired at first even to think, but after a time she became more rested. She took off her hat, arranged her storm-tossed hair, twisted it up afresh, and drew it out of her eyes. She held her hat in her lap—it was soaked through; the rain had even penetrated her waterproof cloak; her stockings and shoes were sopping.

"I have got to fight a devil," she said suddenly aloud. "There is a demon here,"—pressing her hand to her breast,—"and he must be conquered, or he'll conquer me. I shall fight him here in this cave, and either he or I must die in the encounter. If he wins the victory, the noble part of me will have died, and I shall go straight to Redgarth and tell Miss Forester that I can't—I never will—accept her charity. If he dies, why, then, then, I shall return to the lodgings to-day, to the society of Molly and Cecil and the boys, a broken-hearted girl. Oh, I know beforehand that I shall not conquer in this fight. But here, alone with nature, the thing must be reasoned out. Now, then, to begin."

Kate clasped her hands round her knees and looked straight out at the angry sea; the waves were already mountains high; the spray was dashing straight into the cave and wetting her face; the tide had well turned now, and the sea was coming up in splendor. Kate never thought of this. It would take a very long time before the tide reached the cave, and meanwhile she had her battle to fight. There were few girls prouder than Kate O'Connor. Her pride had a great many noble elements in it; it scorned deceit and humbug of all kinds. She was not a scrap ashamed of those things which smaller-minded girls would have tried to conceal, would have smuggled out of sight, and buried deep in their own hearts.

The fact that her grandfather was poor, that her own early life had been spent in a small cottage by the sea, that she had not been waited on by servants, nor worn fine clothes, nor done the ordinary things of the ordinary young lady, never caused her a moment's regret. When she arrived at school she did not speak of her early life, not because she feared to do so, but because she did not consider one of her companions worthy to know the story of the beloved old grandfather, and the grand poem which he had lived. Kate's grandfather had been religious in the highest sense of the word; he had lived very simply, and according to the golden rule—he had done to others as he would wish others to do to him; he had thought well of his fellow-man; an unkind and uncharitable sentence had never been heard to pass his lips.

Kate had tried to live up to his standards but whereas his religion had been tested in the fire of a long life and many cruel circumstances which his grandchild knew nothing about, hers was simply the result of training, and had never been tested at all. He had taught her a good deal, and although she had never learned according to modern ideas, she was in many respects a very well-informed girl. Her imagination was of the highest order; there was a strong dash of mysticism and idealism in her character. In this prosaic world, she herself was a living embodiment of old romance; she delighted in poetry, in nature; there was not a scrap of the worldly spirit about her, but for all that she was proud. To eat the bread of charity would be indeed gall and wormwood to her. She thought, as she sat now in the mouth of the cave and looked out on the splendid scene which lay before her eyes, that she would rather be the poorest servant in a farmhouse at home than stoop to this.

"I can't do it!" she murmured; "it isn't in me. Grandfather left me money, not much, but enough to have me properly educated. I can't stoop to this. Miss Forester means well, but she doesn't know me—or, yes, she does know me; she knows that I, Kate O'Connor, poor, proud, peasant girl that I am, would never consent to this scheme; therefore she tries to hide it from me. It is good of her, and yet it is not good. It was Providence who put that letter in my way. Oh, it was shown to me in an ugly manner! Fancy my reading a letter which was not meant for me! But I didn't read it; Matilda read it aloud to me. How I detest Matilda! But if I stoop to this thing—if I consent to become a charity girl—I shall think myself almost at her level. No, I shall refuse. I'll go back to Redgarth to-morrow; I will tell Miss Forester the simple truth. Perhaps I know enough now to try and get a situation as nursery-governess to little children. Anyhow, I can make an effort in that direction. Oh, my dreams, my aspirations! I thought to do so much, and perhaps some day to write something lovely, and to make a name for myself and for the dear old man who would have been proud of me, were he alive. No, I can't accept charity. I'm sure grandfather would say I was right."

Kate paused here. In the midst of her wild thoughts she remembered a certain evening when she and the old man had been seated together, and she had read aloud out of the Book of Books to him.