Peggy from Kerry

by L. T. Meade

“There’s something nice about that child,” she said to herself. “I wonder why it is that Paul doesn’t seem really to take to her. I can’t understand it. She is worth fifty of Peggy, and yet he does nothing but praise Peggy, and whenever I speak of Kitty he runs her down; but there, whatever he may say to the contrary, Peggy would not have given up her pleasure in decorating the church to-day to come back and sit with a lonely old woman.”

Kitty, meanwhile, finished a most luxurious and tasty lunch, and then went up to her bedroom. Here a fire blazed all day; here was every imaginable comfort. She sat down in an easy-chair, took off her cap and coat, and stared into the blaze.

Yes, she had done right; she had been really very clever. There was no doubt the Dodds were angry; the Dodds would not be as nice as usual at the beginning of term; but she’d soon bring them round, and there was that affair of the stockings. Yes, it wasn’t such a great thing, after all; but if Mr. Dodd knew it! She sat and thought.

“I mustn’t tell him; I promised faithfully I wouldn’t,” she said to herself. “There is something about me that I think is, after all, quite straight, for I could get an invitation to Hillside if I said what I know; but there, I have promised. If I told it would shatter our friendship for ever. Here’s a brilliant thought. Why did I never think of it before? I’ll work it during the holidays. I’ll put it into Grace’s head and into Anne’s that they should ask their father for an allowance; thus they could buy their own dresses, or, rather, they could buy my dresses without anybody knowing anything about it. Let me see, now, how much ought they to ask—how much could I do with? That’s the question. I have taken the school by storm with my handsome dresses, and it would not do to come down a peg—never, never! I wonder if auntie would help me? I might write to her; there’s one good thing about Aunt Gloriana; she’s nearly as fond of clothes as I am. I might write to her. I wonder, too, if Mrs. Wyndham would help me. I might confide in Mrs. Wyndham to-day. I know they’re not coming in to tea; they won’t be home until it’s time to dress for late dinner. No, not one of them will be home sooner, and afterwards we’ve got to rehearse. How sick I am of those charades! But I might tell Mrs. Wyndham how dreadfully ill-off I am just now for money. I don’t want fine clothes; I’ve plenty for the present; but I do want money. It gives a girl such power! Then, if I only could get Mr. Dodd to invite me to Hillside! I wish I could. I must think of a way. I’m generally rather clever at that sort of thing; but it was so unlucky his seeing me that day! Oh I could have bitten my tongue out! Oh it was dreadful, dreadful!”

Kitty sat back in the easy-chair. The day in question rose before her mental vision. What a favourite she had been then! How Mr. Dodd—“Old Daddy Doddy,” as she called him under her breath—how fond he was of her! How often she made him laugh, how liberal he was with his presents to her, as well as to his own girls! And then, then there came the blow! It happened on the very day before she left. She had had her pleasant visit, and she had just gone too far. She wanted some money very badly; when did not Kitty Merrydew want money? She wanted to send two pounds to a girl from whom she had borrowed it. The girl had been plaguing her with letters on the subject, and when several letters came from the same person it was the rule of the school that the letters were brought to Mrs. Fleming in order that she might see what they were about. She never interfered with a letter from a mother, a father, an aunt, or an uncle. But other letters, the silly letters that schoolgirls might write, letters from strangers—she did not want to be overprying, but when letters came over and over in the same handwriting she always insisted at last on seeing such letters.

Now Kitty had received a letter from a girl whose friendship she had made during the last holidays, which she had spent with Aunt Gloriana. The girl had lent her two pounds; Kitty had promised to return the money in a week, then in a fortnight, then in a month, then in two months. But time went on and there was no sign of the money being returned, for the simple reason that Kitty had not got it to send back. Whenever Kitty received money it seemed to fly; it had a process of melting through her fingers, of disappearing. She might go out with a couple of pounds, but she invariably came in again with nothing. This was the case, and on the present occasion, just at the end of the summer holidays, she had got a frantic letter from Miriam Dobell, the girl to whom she owed the money. This girl had threatened to write to Mrs. Fleming on the subject if it were not paid to her before school began. Kitty was in an agony. She wrote a frantic letter, imploring and imploring of Miriam to have mercy, and then she suddenly found that she wanted an envelope to put her letter into. She ran quickly downstairs and entered Mr. Dodd’s study. She had no intention when she went into the room of touching any of his money, but lying on the table was a great pile of gold and of notes. In one swift, flashing minute the deed was done. Kitty had secured two of those precious sovereigns, had thrust them into her pocket, and had left the room. As she was leaving the room she came face to face with Mr. Dodd, who was entering.

Oh why had she coloured? If she could only have looked calm! But she had coloured up crimson, crimson, and he had glanced at her in some wonder, and then he had looked at the money on the table; but, even so, his voice was kind and pleasant.

“Did you want anything, Kitty?” he said.

“I wanted an envelope,” she answered. He asked her no more questions and she left the room. He said to himself, “It is impossible, but what a queer colour she got! Then he began to count the money; it was money he had just drawn from the bank to pay the different servants in the house and outside as well. There were two sovereigns missing!”

He did not say a word to any one, not to a soul, but he knew just as distinctly as if he had seen her take the gold that Kitty was the culprit. She had taken the money. He made up his mind not to tell any one, although his first furious thought was to denounce her. But there was something about the expression of her eyes, something about her little face, which made him refrain from ruining her.