A Very Naughty Girl

“But may I not come with you? Cannot I help you?”

“No, thank you; indeed I could not possibly have you. It is very good of you to offer, but I cannot have you, and I must not tell you why.”

“You do look so sad! Are you sure you cannot join the charades to-night?”

“Sure—certain,” said Sylvia, with a little gasp. “And I am not sad,” she added; “there never was any one more merry. Listen to me now; I am going to laugh the echoes up.”

They were standing where a defile of rocks stretched away to their left. The stream ran straight between the narrow opening. The girl slightly changed her position, raised her hand, and called out a clear “Hullo!” It was echoed back from many points, growing fainter and fainter as it died away.

“And now you say I am not merry!” she exclaimed. “Listen.”

She laughed a ringing laugh. There never was anything more musical than the way that laughter was taken up, as if there were a thousand sprites laughing too. Sylvia turned her white face and looked full at Arthur.

“Oh, I am such a merry girl!” she said, “and such a glad one! and such a thankful one! And I am rich—not poor—but I like simple things. Good-by, Arthur, for the present.”

“I will come and see you again. You are quite wonderful!” he said. “I wish mother knew you. And I wish my sister Moss were here; I wish she knew you.”

“Moss! What a curious name!” said Sylvia.

“We have always called her that. She is just like moss, so soft and yet so springy; so comfortable, and yet you dare not take too much liberty with her. She is fragile, too, and mother had to take great care of her. I should like you to see her; she would——”

“What would she do?” asked Sylvia.

“She would understand you; she would draw part at least of the trouble away.”

“Oh! don’t, Arthur—don’t, don’t read me like that,” said the girl.

The tears just dimmed her eyes. She dashed them away, laughed again merrily, and the next moment had turned the corner and was lost to view.

CHAPTER XI.—“I CANNOT ALTER MY PLANS.”

“And my part is very important,” interrupted Evelyn again.

“I am sorry,” said Lady Frances, “but Evelyn must come with me. Is there no one else to take the part, Audrey?”

“Yes, mother; Sophie could do it. She has a very small part, and she is a good actress, and Evelyn could easily do Sophie’s part; but, all the same, it will disappoint Eve.”

“I am sorry for that,” said Lady Frances; “but I cannot alter my plans. Give Sophie the part that Evelyn would have taken; Evelyn can take her part.—You will have plenty of time, Evelyn, when you return to coach for the small part.”

“Yes, you will, Evelyn; but I am sorry, all the same,” said Audrey, and she turned away.

Evelyn’s lips trembled. She stood motionless; then she slowly revolved round, intending to fire some very angry words into Lady Frances’s face; but, lo and behold! there was no Lady Frances there. She had gone up-stairs while Evelyn was lost in thought.

Very quietly the little girl went up to her own room. Jasper, her eyes almost swollen out of her head with crying, was there to wait on her.

“I have been packing up, Miss Evelyn,” she said. “I am to go this afternoon. Her ladyship has made all arrangements, and a cab is to come from the ‘Green Man’ in the village to fetch me and my luggage at half-past three. It is almost past belief, Miss Eve, that you and me should be parted like this.”

“You look horrid, Jasper, when you cry so hard!” said Evelyn. “Oh, of course I am awfully sorry; I do not know how I shall live without you.”

“You will miss me a good bit,” said the woman. “I am surprised, though, that you should take it as you do. If you raised your voice and started the whole place in an uproar you would be bound to have your own way. But as it is, you are mum as you please; never a word out of you either of sorrow or anything else, but off you go larking with those children and forgetting the one who has made you, mended you, and done everything on earth for you since long before your mother died.”

“Don’t remind me of mothery now,” said the girl, and her lips trembled; then she added in a changed voice: “I cannot help it, Jasper. I have been fighting ever since I came here, and I want to fight—oh, most badly, most desperately!—but somehow the courage has gone out of me. I am ever so sorry for you, Jasper, but I cannot help myself; I really cannot.”

Jasper was silent. After a time she said slowly:

“And your mother wrote a letter on her deathbed asking Lady Frances to let me stay with you whatever happened.”

“I know,” said Evelyn. “It is awful of her; it really is.”

“And do you think,” continued the woman, “I am going to submit?”

“Why, you must, Jasper. You cannot stay if they do not wish for you. And you have got all your wages, have you not?”

“I have, my dear; I have. Yes,” continued the woman; “she thinks, of course, that I am satisfied, and that I am going as mum as a mouse and as quiet as the grave, but she is fine and mistook; I ain’t doing nothing of the sort. Go I must, but not far. I have a plan in my head. It may come to nothing; but if it does come to something, as I hope to goodness it will, then you will hear of me again, my pet, and I won’t be far off to protect you if the time should come that you need me. And now, what do you want of me, my little lamb, for your face is piteous to see?”

“I am a miserable girl,” said Evelyn. “I could cry for hours, but there is no time. Dress me, then, for the last time, Jasper. Oh, Jasper darling, I am fond of you!”

Evelyn’s stoical, hard sort of nature seemed to give way at this juncture; she flung her arms round her maid’s neck and kissed her many times passionately. The woman kissed her, too, in a hungry sort of way.

“You are really not going far away, Jasper?” said Evelyn when, dressed in her coat and hat, she was ready to start.

“My plans are laid but not made yet,” said the woman. “You will hear from me likely to-morrow, my love. And now, good-by. I have packed all your things in the trunks they came in, and the wardrobe is empty. Oh, my pet, my pet, good-by! Who will look after you to-night, and who will sleep in the little white bed alongside of you? Oh, my darling, the spirit of your Jasper is broke, that it is!”

“Evelyn!” called her aunt, who was passing her room at that moment, “the carriage is at the door. Come at once.”

Evelyn ran down-stairs. She wore a showy, unsuitable hat and a showy, unsuitable jacket. She got quickly into the carriage, and flopped down by the side of the stately Lady Frances.

Lady Frances was a very judicious woman in her way. She reprimanded whenever in her opinion it was necessary to reprimand, but she never nagged. It needed but a glance to show her that Evelyn required to be educated in every form of good-breeding, and that education the good woman fully intended to take in hand without a moment’s delay, but she did not intend to find fault moment by moment. She said nothing, therefore, either in praise or blame to the small, awkward, conceited little girl by her side; but she gave orders to stop at Simpson’s in the High Street, and the carriage started briskly forward. Wynford Castle was within half a mile of the village which was called after it, and five miles away from a large and very important cathedral town—the cathedral town of Easterly. During the drive Lady Frances chatted in the sort of tone she would use to a small girl, and Evelyn gave short and sulky replies. Finding that her conversation was not interesting to her small guest, the good lady became silent and wrapped up in her own thoughts. Presently they arrived at Simpson’s, and there the lady and the child got out and entered the shop. Evelyn was absolutely bewildered by the amount of things which her aunt ordered for her. It is true that she had had, as Jasper expressed it, quite a small trousseau when in Paris; but during her mother’s lifetime her dresses had come to her slowly and with long intervals between. Mrs. Wynford had been a showy but by no means a good dresser; she loved the gayest, most bizarre colors, and she delighted in adorning her child with bits of feathers, scraps of shabby lace, beads, and such-like decorations. After her mother’s death, when Evelyn, considered herself rich, she and Jasper purchased the same sort of things, only using better materials. Thus the thin silk was exchanged for thick silk, cotton-back satin for the real article, velveteen for velvet, cheap lace for real lace, and the gaily colored beads for gold chains and strings of pearls. Nothing in Evelyn’s opinion and nothing in Jasper’s opinion could be more exquisitely beautiful than the toilet which Evelyn brought to Castle Wynford; but Lady Frances evidently thought otherwise. She ordered a dark-blue serge, with a jacket to match, to be put in hand immediately for the little girl; she bought a dark-gray dress, ready made, which was to be sent home that same evening. She got a neat black hat to wear with the dress, and a thick black pilot-cloth jacket to cover the small person of the heiress. As to her evening-dresses, she chose them of fine, soft white silk and fine, soft muslin; and then, having added a large store of underclothing, all of the best quality, and one or two pale-pink and pale-blue evening-frocks, all severely plain, she got once more into her carriage, and, accompanied by Evelyn, drove home. On the seat in front of the pair reposed a box which contained a very simple white muslin frock for Evelyn to wear that evening.

“I suppose Jasper will have gone when I get back?” said the little girl to Lady Frances.

“Certainly,” said Lady Frances. “I ordered her to be out of the house by half-past three; it is now past five o’clock.”

“What am I to do for a maid?”

“My servant Read shall wait on you to-night and every evening and morning until our guests have gone; then Audrey’s maid Louisa will attend on you.”

“But I want a maid all to myself.”

“You cannot have one. Louisa will give you what assistance is necessary. I presume you do not want to be absolutely dependent; you would like to be able to do things for yourself.”

“In mother’s time I did everything for myself, but now it is different. I am a very, very rich girl now.”

Lady Frances was silent when Evelyn made this remark.

“I am rich, am I not, Aunt Frances?” said the little heiress almost timidly.

“I cannot see where the riches come in, Evelyn. At the present moment you depend on your uncle for every penny that is spent upon you.”

“But I am the heiress!”

“Let the future take care of itself. You are a little girl—small, insignificant, and ignorant. You require to be trained and looked after, and to have your character moulded, and for all these things you depend on the kindness of your relations. The fact is this, Evelyn: at present you have not the slightest idea of your true position. When you find your level I shall have hopes of you—not before.”

Evelyn leant back hopelessly in the carriage and began to sob. After a time she said:

“I wish you would let me keep Jasper.”

Lady Frances was silent.

“Why won’t you let me keep Jasper?”

“I do not consider it good for you.”

“But mothery asked you to.”

“It gives me pain, Evelyn, under the circumstances to refuse your mother’s request; but I have consulted your uncle, and we both feel that the steps I have taken are the only ones to take.”

“Who will sleep in my room to-night?”

“Are you such a baby as to need anybody?”

“I never slept alone in my life. I am quite terrified. I suppose your big, ancient house is haunted?”

“Oh, what a silly child you are! Very well, for a night or two I will humor you, and Read shall sleep in the room; but now clearly understand I allow no bedroom suppers and no gossip—but Read will see to that. Now, make up your mind to be happy and contented—in short, to submit to the life which Providence has ordered for you. Think first of others and last of yourself and you may be happy. Consult Audrey and Miss Sinclair and you will gain wisdom. Obey me whether you like it or not, or you will certainly be a very wretched girl. Ah! and here we are. You would like to go to the schoolroom; they are having tea there, I believe. Run off, dear; that will do for the present.”

When Evelyn reached the schoolroom she found a busy and animated group all seated about in different parts of it. They were eagerly discussing the charade, and when Evelyn arrived she was welcomed.

“I am ever so sorry, Evelyn,” said Audrey, “that you cannot have the part you wanted; but we mean to get up some other charades later on in the week, and then you shall help us and have a very good part. You do not mind our arrangement for to-night, do you?”

Evelyn replied somewhat sulkily. Audrey determined to take no notice. She sat down by her little cousin, told Sophie to fetch some hot tea, and soon coaxed Evelyn into a fairly good-humor. The small part she was to undertake was read over to her, and she was obliged to get certain words by heart. She had little or no idea of acting, but there was a certain calm assurance about her which would carry her through many difficulties. The children, incited by Audrey’s example, were determined to pet her and make the best of her; and when she did leave the schoolroom she felt almost as happy and important as she thought she ought to be.

“What a horrid girl she is!” said Sophie as soon as the door had closed behind Evelyn.

“I wish you would not say that,” remarked Audrey; and a look of distress visited her pretty face.

“Oh, we do not mind for ourselves,” remarked Juliet; “it is on your account, Audrey. You know what great friends we have always been, and now to have you associated every day, and all day long with a girl of that sort—it really seems almost past bearing.”

“I shall get used to it,” said Audrey. “And remember that I pity her, and am sorry—very sorry—for her. I dare say we shall win her over by being kind.”

“Well,” said Henrietta, rising as she spoke and slowly crossing the room, “I have promised to be civil to her for your sake for a day or two, but I vow it will not last long if she gives herself such ridiculous airs. The idea of her ever having a place like this!”

She said the last words below her breath, and Audrey did not hear them. Presently her mother called her, and the young girl ran off. The others looked at each other.

“Well, Arthur, and what is filling your mind?” said his sister Henrietta, looking into the face of the handsome boy.

“I am thinking of Sylvia,” he answered. “I wish she were here instead of Evelyn. Don’t you like her very much, Hennie? Don’t you think she is a very handsome and very interesting girl?”

“I hardly spoke to her,” replied Henrietta. “I saw you were taken with her.”

“She was mysterious; that is one reason why I like her,” he replied. Then he added abruptly: “I wish you would make friends with her, Henrietta. I wish you, and Juliet too, could be specially kind to her; she looks so very sad.”

“I never saw a merrier girl,” was Juliet’s reply. “But then, I don’t see people with your eyes; you are always a good one at guessing people’s secrets.”

“I take after Moss in that,” he replied.

“There never was any one like her,” said Juliet. “Well, I am going to dress now. I hope the charade will go off well. What a blessing Lady Frances came to the rescue and delivered us from Evelyn’s spoiling everything by taking a good part!”

Meanwhile Evelyn had gone up to her room. It was neat and in perfect order once more. Jasper’s brief reign had passed and left no sign. The fire burned brightly on the carefully swept-up hearth; the electric light made the room bright as day. A neat, grave-looking woman was standing by the fire, and when Evelyn appeared she came forward to meet her.

“My name is Mrs. Read,” she said. “I am my mistress’s own special maid, but she has asked me to see to your toilet this evening, Miss Wynford; and this, I understand, is the dress her ladyship wishes you to wear.”

Evelyn pouted; then she tossed off her hat and looked full up at Read. Her lips quivered, and a troubled, pathetic light for the first time filled her brown eyes.

“Where is Jasper?” she asked abruptly.

“Miss Jasper has left, my dear young lady.”

“Then I hate you, and I don’t want you to dress me. You can go away,” said Evelyn.

“I am sorry, Miss Wynford, but her ladyship’s orders are that I am to attend to your wardrobe. Perhaps you will allow me to do your hair and put on your dress at once, as her ladyship wants me to go to her a little later.”

“You will do nothing of the kind. I will dress myself now that Jasper has gone.”

“And a good thing too, miss. Young ladies ought always to make themselves useful. The more you know, the better off you will be; that is my opinion.”

Evelyn looked full up at Read. Read had a kindly face, calm blue eyes, a firm, imperturbable sort of mouth. She wore her hair very neatly banded on each side of her head. Her dress was perfectly immaculate. There was nothing out of place; she looked, in short, like the very soul of order.

“Do you know who I am?” was Evelyn’s remark.

“Certainly I do, Miss Wynford.”

“Please tell me.”

The glimmer of a smile flitted across Read’s calm mouth.

“You are a young lady from Tasmania, niece to the Squire, and you have come over here to be educated with Miss Audrey—bless her!”

“Is that all you know!” said Evelyn. “Then I will tell you more. There will come a day when your Miss Audrey will have nothing to do with the Castle, and when I shall have everything to do with it. I am to be mistress here any day, whenever my uncle dies.”

“My dear Miss Wynford, don’t speak like that! The Squire is safe to live, Providence permitting, for many a long year.”

Evelyn sat down again.

“I think my aunt, Lady Frances, one of the cruellest women in the world,” she continued. “Now you know what I think, and you can tell her, you nasty cross-patch. You can go away and tell her at once. I longed to say so to her face when I was out driving to-day, but she has got the upper hand of me, although she is not going to keep it. I don’t want you to help me; I hate you nearly as much as I hate her!”

Read looked as though she did not hear a single remark that Evelyn made. She crossed the room, and presently returned with a can of hot water and poured some into a basin.

“Now, miss,” she said, “if you will wash your face and hands, I will arrange your hair.”

There was something in her tone which reduced Evelyn to silence.

“Did you not hear what I said?” she remarked after a minute.

“No, miss; it may be more truthful to say I did not. When young ladies talk silly, naughty words I have a ’abit of shutting up my ears; so it ain’t no manner of use to talk on to me, miss, for I don’t hear, and I won’t hear, and that is flat. If you will come now, like a good little lady, and allow yourself to be dressed, I have a bit of a surprise for you; but you will not know about it before your toilet is complete.”

“A bit of a surprise!” said Evelyn, who was intensely curious. “What in the world can it be?”

“I will tell you when you are dressed, miss; and I must ask you to hurry, for my mistress is waiting for me.”

If Evelyn had one overweening failing more than another, it was inordinate curiosity. She rose, therefore, and submitted with a very bad grace to Read’s manipulations. Her face and hands were washed, and Read proceeded to brush out the scanty flaxen locks.

“Are you not going to pile my hair on the top of my head?” asked the little girl.

“Oh dear, no, Miss Wynford; that ain’t at all the way little ladies of your age wear their hair.”

“I always wore it like that when I was in Tasmania with mothery!”

“Tasmania is not England, miss. It would not suit her ladyship for you to wear your hair so.”

“Then I won’t wear it any other way.”

“As you please, miss. I can put on your dress, and you can arrange your hair yourself, but I won’t give you what will be a bit of a surprise to you.”

“Oh, do it as you please,” said Evelyn.

Her hair, very pretty in itself, although far too thin to make much show, was accordingly arranged in childish fashion; and when Evelyn presently found herself arrayed in her high-bodied and long-sleeved white muslin dress, with white silk stockings and little silk shoes to match, and a white sash round her waist, she gazed at herself in the glass in puzzled wonder.

Read stood for a moment watching her face.

“I am pretty, am I not?” said Evelyn, turning and looking full at her maid.

“It is best not to think of looks, and it is downright sinful to talk of them,” was Read’s somewhat severe answer.

Evelyn’s eyes twinkled.

“I feel like a very good, pretty little girl,” she said. “Last night I was a charming grown-up young lady. Very soon again I shall be a charming grown-up young lady, and whether Aunt Frances likes it or not, I shall be much, much better-looking than Audrey. Now, please, I have been good, and I want what you said you had for me.”

“It is a letter from Jasper,” replied Read. “She told me I was to give it to you. Now, please, miss, don’t make yourself untidy. You look very nice and suitable. When the gong rings you can go down-stairs, or sooner if your fancy takes you. I am going off now to attend to my mistress.”

When alone, Evelyn tore open the letter which Jasper had left for her. It was short, and ran as follows:

My darling, precious Lamb,—The best friends must part, but, oh, it is a black, black heart that makes it necessary! My heart is bleeding to think that you won’t have me to make your chocolate, and to lie down in the little white bed by your side this evening. Yes, it is bleeding, and bleeding badly, and there will be no blessing on her who has tried to part us. But, Miss Evelyn, my dear, don’t you fret, for though I am away I do not mean to be far away, and when you want me I will still be there. I have a plan in my head, and I will let you know about it when it is properly laid. No more at present, but if you think of me every minute to-night, so will I think of you, my dear little white Eve; and don’t forget, darling, that whatever they may do to you, the time will come when they will all, the Squire excepted, be under your thumb.

—Your loving

“Jasper.”

The morsel of content and satisfaction which Evelyn had felt when she saw herself looking like a nice, ordinary little girl, and when she had sat in the schoolroom surrounded by all the gay young folks of her cousin’s station in life, vanished completely as she read Jasper’s injudicious words. Tears flowed from her eyes; she clenched her hands. She danced passionately about the room. She longed to tear from her locks the white ribbons which Read had arranged there; she longed to get into the white satin dress which she had worn on the previous occasion; she longed to do anything on earth to defy Lady Frances; but, alack and alas! what good were longings when the means of yielding to them were denied?—for all that precious and fascinating wardrobe had been put into Evelyn’s traveling-trunks, and those trunks had been conveyed from the blue-and-silver bedroom. The little girl found that she had to submit.

“Well, I do—I do,” she thought—“but only outwardly. Oh, she will never break me in! Mothery darling, she will never break me in. I am going to be naughty always, always, because she is so cruel, and because I hate her, and because she has parted me from Jasper—your friend, my darling mothery, your friend!”

CHAPTER XII.—HUNGER.

When Jasper was conveyed from Wynford Castle she drove to the “Green Man” in the village. There she asked the landlady if she could give her a small bedroom for the night. The landlady, a certain Mrs. Simpson, was quite willing to oblige Miss Jasper. She was accommodated with a bedroom, and having seen her boxes deposited there, wandered about the village. She took the bearings of the place, which was small and unimportant, and altogether devoted to the interests of the great folks at Castle Wynford. Wynford village lived, indeed, for the Castle; without the big house, as they called it, the villagers would have little or no existence. The village received its patronage from the Squire and his family. Every house in the village belonged to Squire Wynford. The inhabitants regarded him as if he were their feudal lord. He was kindly to all, sympathetic in sorrow, ready to rejoice when bright moments visited each or any of his tenants. Lady Frances was an admirable almoner of the different charities which came from the great house. There was not a poor woman in the length and breadth of Wynford village who was not perfectly well aware that her ladyship knew all about her, even to her little sins and her small transgressions; all about her struggles as well as her falls, her temptations as well as her moments of victory. Lady Frances was loved and feared; the Squire was loved and respected; Audrey was loved in the sort of passionate way in which people will regard the girl who always has been to them more or less a little princess. Therefore now, as Jasper walked slowly through the village with the fading light falling all over her, she knew she was a person of interest. Beyond doubt that was the case; but although the villagers were interested in her, and peeped outside their houses to watch her (even the grocer, who did a roaring trade, and took the tenor solo on Sunday in the church choir, peered round his doorstep with the others), she knew that she was favored with no admiring looks, and that the villagers one and all were prepared to fight her. That was indeed the case, for secrets are no secrets where a great family are concerned, and the villagers knew that Jasper had come over from the other side of the world with the real heiress.

“A dowdy, ill-favored girl,” they said one to the other; “but nevertheless, when the Squire—bless him!—is gathered to his fathers, she will reign in his stead, and sweet, darling, beautiful Miss Audrey will be nowhere.”

They said this, repeating the disagreeable news one to the other, and vowing each and all that they would never care for the Australian girl, and never give her a welcome.

As Jasper slowly walked she was conscious of the feeling of hostility which surrounded her.

“It won’t do,” she said to herself. “I meant to take up my abode at the ‘Green Man,’ and I meant that no one in the place should turn me out, but I do not believe I shall be able to continue there; and yet, to go far away from my sweet little Eve is not to be thought of. I have money of my own. Her mother was a wise woman when she said to me, ‘Jasper, the time may come when you will need it; and although it belongs to Eve, you must spend it as you think best in her service.’

“It ain’t much,” thought Jasper to herself, “but it is sixty pounds, and I have it in gold sovereigns, scattered here and there in my big black trunk, and I mean to spend it in watching over the dear angel lamb. Mrs. Simpson of the ‘Green Man’ would be the better of it, but she sha’n’t have much of it—of that I am resolved.”

So Jasper presently left the village and began strolling in the direction where the river Earn flows between dark rocks until it loses itself in a narrow stream among the peaceful hills. In that direction lay The Priory, with its thick yew hedge and its shut-in appearance.

As Jasper continued her walk she knew nothing of the near neighborhood of The Priory, and no one in all the world was farther from her thoughts than the pretty, tall slip of a girl who lived there.

Now, it so happened that Sylvia was taking her walks abroad also in the hour of dusk. It was one of her peculiarities never to spend an hour that she could help indoors. She had to sleep indoors, and she had to take what food she could manage to secure also under the roof which she so hated; but, come rain or shine, storm or calm, every scrap of the rest of her time was spent wandering about. To the amount of fresh air which she breathed she owed her health and a good deal of her beauty. She was out now as usual, her big mastiff, Pilot, bearing her company. She was never afraid where she wandered with this protection, for Pilot was a dog of sagacity, and would soon make matters too hot for any one who meant harm to his young mistress.

Sylvia walked slowly. She was thinking hard. “What a delightful time she was having twenty-four hours ago! What a good dinner she was about to eat! How pleasant it was to wear Audrey’s pretty dress! How delightful to dance in the hall and talk to Arthur Jervice! She wondered what his sister with the curious name was like. How beautiful his face looked when he spoke of her!

“She must be lovely too,” thought Sylvia. “And so restful! There is nothing so cool and comfortable and peaceful as a mossy bank. I suppose she is called Moss because she comforts people.”

Sylvia hurried a little. Presently she stood and looked around her to be sure that no one was by. She then deliberately tightened her belt.

“It makes me feel the pangs less,” she thought. “Oh dear, how delightful, how happy those must be who are never, never hungry! Sometimes I can scarcely bear it; I almost feel that I could steal something to have a big, big meal. What a lot I ate last night, and how I longed to pocket even that great hunch of bread which was placed near my plate! But I did not dare. I thought my big meal would keep off my hunger to-day, but I believe it has made it worse than ever. I must have a straight talk with father to-night. I must tell him plainly that, however coarse the food, I must at least have enough of it. Oh dear, I ache—I ache for a good meal!”

The poor girl stood still. Footsteps were heard approaching. They were now close by. Pilot pricked up his ears and listened. A moment later Jasper appeared on the scene.

When she saw Sylvia she stopped, dropped a little courtesy, and said in a semi-familiar tone:

“And how are you this evening, Miss Leeson?”

Sylvia had not seen her as she approached. The girl started now and turned quickly round.

“You are Jasper?” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking the air, miss. Have you any objection?”

“None, of course,” replied Sylvia.

Had there been light enough to see, Jasper would have noticed that the girl’s face took on a cheerful expression. She laid her hand on Pilot’s forehead. Pilot growled. Sylvia said to him:

“Be quiet; this is a friend.”

Pilot evidently understood the words. He wagged his bushy tail and looked in Jasper’s direction. Jasper came boldly up and laid her hand beside Sylvia’s on the dog’s forehead. The tail wagged more demonstratively.

“You have won him,” said Sylvia in a tone of delight. “Do you know, I am glad, although I cannot tell why I should be.”

“He looks as if he could be very formidable,” said Jasper.—“Ah, good dog—good dog! Noble creature! So I am your friend? Good dog!”

“But it must be rather unpleasant for visitors to come to call on you, Miss Sylvia, with such a dog as that loose about the place. Now, I, for instance——”

“If you had a message from Evelyn for me,” said Sylvia, “you could call now with impunity. Strangers cannot; that is why father keeps Pilot. He is trained never to touch any one, but he is also trained to keep every one out. He does that in the best manner possible. He stands right in the person’s path and shows his big fangs and growls. Nobody would dream of going past him; but you would be safe.”

Jasper stood silent.

“It may be useful,” she repeated.

“You have not come now with a message from Evelyn?” said Sylvia, a pathetic tone in her voice.

“No, miss, I have not; but do you know, miss—do you know what has happened to me?”

“How should I?” replied Sylvia.

“I am turned out, miss—turned out by her ladyship—I who had a letter from Mrs. Wynford in Tasmania asking her ladyship to keep me always as my little Evelyn’s friend and nurse and guardian. Yes, Miss Sylvia, I am turned away as though I were dirt. I am turned away, miss, although it was only yesterday that her ladyship got the letter which the dying mother wrote. It is hard, is it not, Miss Leeson? It is cruel, is it not?”

“Hard and cruel!” echoed Sylvia. “It is worse. It is a horrible sin. I wonder you stand it!”

“Now, miss, for such a pretty young lady I wonder you have not more sense. Do you think I’d go if I could help it?”

“What does Evelyn say?” asked Sylvia, intensely excited.

“What does she say? Nothing. She is stunned, I take it; but she will wake up and know what it means. No chocolate, and no one to sleep in the little white bed by her side.”

“Oh, how she must enjoy her chocolate!” said poor Sylvia, a sigh of longing in her voice.

“I am grand at making it,” said Jasper. “I have spent my life in many out-of-the-way places. It was in Madrid I learnt to make chocolate; no one can excel me with it. I’d like well to make a cup for you.”

“And I’d like to drink it,” said Sylvia.

“As well as I can see you in this light,” continued Jasper, “you look as if a cup of my chocolate would do you good. Chocolate made all of milk, with plenty of bread and butter, is a meal which no one need despise. I say, miss, shall we go back to the “Green Man,” and shall you and me have a bit of supper together? You would not be too proud to take it with me although I am only my young lady’s maid?”

“I wish I could,” said Sylvia. There was a wild desire in her heart, a sort of passion of hunger. “But,” she continued, “I cannot; I must go home now.”

“Is your home near, miss?”

“Oh yes; it is just at the other side of that wall. But please do not talk of it—father hates people knowing. He likes us to live quite solitary.”

“And it is a big house. Yes, I can see that,” continued Jasper, peering through the trees.

Just then a young crescent moon showed its face, a bank of clouds swept away to the left, and Jasper could distinctly see the square outline of an ugly house. She saw something else also—the very white face of the hungry Sylvia, the look which was almost starvation in her eyes. Jasper was clever; she might not be highly educated in the ordinary sense, but she had been taught to use her brains, and she had excellent brains to use. Now, as she looked at the girl, an idea flashed through her mind.

“For some extraordinary reason that child is downright hungry,” she said to herself. “Now, nothing would suit my purpose better.”

She came close to Sylvia and laid her hand on her arm.

“I have taken a great fancy to you, miss,” she said.

“Have you?” answered Sylvia.

“Yes, miss; and I am very lonely, and I don’t mean to stay far away from my dear young lady.”

“Are you going to live in the village?” asked Sylvia.

“I have a room now at the ‘Green Man,’ Miss Leeson, but I don’t mean to stay there; I don’t care for the landlady. And I don’t want to be, so to speak, under her ladyship’s nose. Her ladyship has took a mortal hatred to me, and as the village, so to speak, belongs to the Castle, if the Castle was to inform the ‘Green Man’ that my absence was more to be desired than my company, why, out I’d have to go. You can understand that, can you not, miss?”

“Yes—of course.”

“And it is the way with all the houses round here,” continued Jasper; “they are all under the thumb of the Castle—under the thumb of her ladyship—and I cannot possibly stay near my dear young lady unless——”

“Unless?” questioned Sylvia.

“You was to give me shelter, miss, in your house.”

Sylvia backed away, absolute terror creeping over her face.

“Oh! I could not,” she said. “You do not know what you are asking. We never have any one at The Priory. I could not possibly do it.”

“I’d pay you a pound a week,” said Jasper, throwing down her trump card—“a pound a week,” she continued—“twenty whole shillings put in the palm of that pretty little hand of yours, paid regularly in advance; and you might have me in a big house like that without anybody knowing. I heard you speak of the gentleman, your father; he need never know. Is there not a room at The Priory which no one goes into, and could not I sleep there? And you’d have money, miss—twenty shillings; and I’d feed you up with chocolate, miss, and bread and butter, and—oh! lots of other things. I have not been on a ranch in Tasmania for nothing. You could hide me at The Priory, and you could keep me acquainted with all that happened to my little Eve, and I’d pay for it, miss, and not a soul on earth would be the wiser.”

“Oh, don’t!” said Sylvia—“don’t!” She covered her face with her hands; she shook all over. “Don’t tempt me!” she said. “Go away; do go away! Of course I cannot have you. To deceive him—to shock him—why——Oh, I dare not—I dare not! It would not be safe. There are times when he is scarcely—yes, scarcely himself; and I must not try him too far. Oh, what have I said?”

“Nothing, my dear—nothing. You are a bit overcome. And now, shall I tell you why?”

“No, don’t tell me anything more. Go; do go—do go!”

“I will go,” said Jasper, “after I have spoken. You are trembling, and you are cold, and you are frightened—you who ought never to tremble; you who under ordinary circumstances ought to know no fear; you who are beautiful—yes, beautiful! But you tremble because that poor young body of yours needs food and warmth—poor child!—I know.”

“Go!” said Sylvia. They were her only words.

“I will go,” answered Jasper after a pause; “but I will come again to this same spot to-morrow night, and then you can answer me. Her ladyship cannot turn me out between now and to-morrow night, and I will come then for my answer.”

She turned and left Sylvia and went straight back to the village.

Sylvia stood still for a minute after she had gone. She then turned very slowly and re-entered The Priory grounds. A moment later she was in the ugly, ill-furnished house. The hall into which she had admitted herself was perfectly dark. There were no carpets on the floor, and the wind whistled through the ill-fitting casements. The young girl fumbled about until she found a box of matches. She struck one and lit a candle which stood in a brass candlestick on a shelf. She then drearily mounted the uncarpeted stairs. She went to her own room, and opening a box, looked quickly and furtively around her. The box contained some crusts of bread and a few dried figs. Sylvia counted the crusts with fingers that shook. There were five. The crusts were not large, and they were dry.

“I will eat one to-night,” she said to herself, “and—yes, two of the figs. I will not eat anything now. I wish Jasper had not tempted me. Twenty shillings, and paid in advance; and father need never know! Lots of room in the house! Yes; I know the one she could have, and I could make it comfortable; and father never goes there—never. It is away beyond the kitchen. I could make it very comfortable. She should have a fire, and we could have our chocolate there. We must never, never have any cooking that smells; we must never have anything fried; we must just have plain things. Oh! I dare not think any more. Mother once said to me, ‘If your father ever, ever finds out, Sylvia, that you have deceived him, all, all will be up.’ I won’t yield to temptation; it would be an awful act of deceit. I cannot—I will not do it! If he will only give me enough I will resist Jasper; but it is hard on a girl to be so frightfully hungry.”

She sighed, pulled herself together, walked to the window, and looked up at the watery moon.

“My own mother,” she whispered, “can you see me, and are you sorry for me, and are you helping me?”

Then she washed her hands, combed out her pretty, curly black hair, and ran down-stairs. When she got half-way down she burst into a cheerful song, and as she bounded into a room where a man sat crouching over a few embers on the hearth her voice rose to positive gaiety.

“Where have you been all this time?” said the querulous tones.

“Learning a new song for you, dad. Come now; supper is ready.”

“Supper!” said the man. He rose, and turned and faced his daughter.

He was a very thin man, with hair which must once have been as black as Sylvia’s own; his eyes, dark as the young girl’s, were sunk so far back in his head that they gleamed like half-burnt-out coals; his cheeks were very hollow, and he gave a pathetic laugh as he turned and faced the girl.

“I have been making a calculation,” he said, “and it is my firm impression that we are spending a great deal more than is necessary. There are further reductions which it is quite possible to make. But come, child—come. How fat and well and strong you look, and how hearty your voice is! You are a merry creature, Sylvia, and the joy of my life. Were it not for you I should never hold out. And you are so good at pinching and contriving, dear! But there, I give you too many luxuries don’t I, my little one? I spoil you, don’t I? What did you say was ready?”

“Supper, father—supper.”

“Supper!” said Mr. Leeson. “Why, it seems only a moment ago that we dined.”

“It is six hours ago, father.”

“Now, Sylvia, if there is one thing I dislike more than another, it is that habit of yours of counting the hours between your meals. It is a distinct trace of greediness and of the lower nature. Ah, my child, when will you live high above your mere bodily desires? Supper, you say? I shall not be able to eat a morsel, but I will go with you, dear, if you like. Come, lead the way, my singing-bird; lead the way.”

Sylvia took a candle and lighted it. She then went on in front of her father. They traversed a long and dark passage, and presently she threw open the door of as melancholy and desolate a room as could be found anywhere in England.

The paper on the wall was scarcely perceptible, so worn was it by the long passage of time. The floor was bare of any carpet; there was a deal table at one end of the room; on the table a small white cloth had been placed. A piece of bread was on a wooden platter on this table. There was also a jug of water and a couple of baked potatoes. Sylvia had put these potatoes into the oven before she went out, otherwise there would not have been anything hot at all for the meager repast. The grate was destitute of any fire; and although there were blinds to the windows, there were no curtains. The night was a bitterly cold one, and the girl, insufficiently clothed as well as unfed, shivered as she went into the room.

“What a palatial room this is!” said Mr. Leeson. “I really often think I did wrong to come to this house. I have not the slightest doubt that my neighbors imagine that I am a man of means. It is extremely wrong to encourage that impression, and I trust, Sylvia, that you never by word or action do so. A lady you are, my dear, and a lady you will look whatever you wear; but that beautiful simplicity which rises above mere dress and mere food is what I should like to inculcate in your nature, my sweet child. Ah! potatoes—and hot! My dear Sylvia, was this necessary?”

“There are only two, father—one for you and one for me.”

“Well, well! I suppose the young must have their dainties as long as the world lasts,” said Mr. Leeson. “Sit down, my dear, and eat. I will stand and watch you.”

“Won’t you eat anything, father?” said the girl. A curious expression filled her dark eyes. She longed for him to eat, and yet she could not help thinking how supporting and soothing and satisfying both those potatoes would be, and all that hunch of dry bread.

Mr. Leeson paused before replying:

“It would be impossible for you to eat more than one potato, and it would be a sin that the other should be wasted. I may as well have it.” He dropped into a chair. “Not that I am the least hungry,” he added as he took the largest potato and put it on his plate. “Still, anything is preferable to waste. What a pity it is that no one has discovered a use for the skins, for these as a rule have absolutely to be wasted! When I have gone through some abstruse calculations over which I am at present engaged, I shall turn my attention to the matter. Quantities of nourishing food are doubtless wasted every year by the manner in which potato-skins are thrown away. Ah! and this bread, Sylvia—how long has it been in the house?”

“I got it exactly a week ago,” said Sylvia. “It is quite the ordinary kind.”

“It is too fresh, my dear. In future we must not eat new bread.”

“It is a week old, father.”

“Don’t take me up in that captious way. I say we must not eat new bread. It was only to-day I came across a book which said that bread when turning slightly—very slightly—moldy satisfies the appetite far more readily than new bread. Then you will see for yourself, Sylvia, that a loaf of such bread may be made to go nearly as far as two loaves of the ordinary kind. You follow me, do you not, singing-bird?”

“Yes, father—yes. But may I eat my potato now while it is hot?”

“How the young do crave for unnecessary indulgences!” said Mr. Leeson; but he broke his own potato in half, and Sylvia seized the opportunity to demolish hers.

Alack and alas! when it was finished, every scrap of it, scarcely any even of the skin being left, she felt almost more hungry than ever. She stretched out her hand for the bread. Mr. Leeson raised his eyes as she did so and gave her a reproachful glance.

“You will be ill,” he said. “You will suffer from a bilious attack. Take it—take it if you want it; I am the last to interfere with your natural appetite.”

Sylvia ate; she ate although her father’s displeased eyes were fixed on her face. She helped herself twice to the stale and untempting loaf. Delicious it tasted. She could even have demolished every scrap of it and still have felt half-wild with hunger. But she was eating it now to give herself courage, for she had made up her mind—speak she must.

The meal came to an end. Mr. Leeson had finished his potato; Sylvia had very nearly consumed the bread.

“There will be a very small breakfast to-morrow,” he said in a mournful tone; “but you, Sylvia, after your enormous supper, will scarcely require a large one.”

Sylvia made no answer. She took her father’s hand and walked back with him through the passage. The fire was out now in the sitting-room; Sylvia brought her father’s greatcoat.

“Put it on,” she said. “I want to sit close to you, and I want to talk.”

He smiled at her and wrapped himself obediently in his coat. It was lined with fur, a relic of bygone and happier days. Sylvia turned the big fur collar up round his ears; then she drew herself close to him. She seated herself on his lap.

“Put your arm round me; I am cold,” she said.

“Cold, my dear little girl!” he said. “Why, so you are! How very strange! It is doubtless from overeating.”

“No, father.”

“Why that ‘No, father’? What a curious expression is in your voice, Sylvia, my dear! Since your mother’s death you have been my one comfort. Heart and soul you have gone with me through the painful life which I am obliged to lead. I know that I am doing the right thing. I am no longer lavishly wasting that which has been entrusted to me, but am, on the contrary, saving for the day of need. My dear girl, you and I have planned our life of retrenchment. How much does our food cost us for a week?”

“Very, very little, father. Too little.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Father, forgive me; I must speak.”

“What is wrong?”

Mr. Leeson pushed his daughter away. His eyes, which had been full of kindness, grew sharp and became slightly narrowed; a watchful expression came into his face.

“Beware, Sylvia, how you agitate me; you know the consequences.”

“Since mother died,” answered the girl, “I have never agitated you; I have always tried to do exactly as you wished.”

“On the whole you have been a good girl; your one and only fault has been your greediness. Last night, it is true, you displeased me very deeply, but on your promise never to transgress so again I have forgiven you.”

“Father,” said Sylvia in a tremulous tone, “I must speak, and now. You must not be angry, father; but you say that we spend too much on housekeeping. We do not; we spend too little.”

“Sylvia!”

“Yes; I am not going to be afraid,” continued the girl. “You were displeased with me to-night—yes, I know you were—because I nearly finished the bread. I finished it because—because I was hungry; yes, hungry. And, father, I do not mind how stale the bread is, nor how poor the food, but I must—I must have enough. You do not give me enough. No, you do not. I cannot bear the pain. I cannot bear the neuralgia. I cannot bear the cold of this house. I want warmth, and I want food, and I want clothes that will keep the chill away. That is all—just physical things. I do not ask for fun, nor for companions of my own age, nor for anything of that sort, but I do ask you, father, not to oblige me to lead this miserable, starved life in the future.”

Sylvia paused; her courage, after all, was short-lived. The look on her father’s face arrested her words. He wore a stony look. His face, which had been fairly animated, had lost almost all expression. The pupils of his eyes were narrowed to a pin’s point. Those eyes fixed themselves on the girl’s face as though they were gimlets, as though they meant to pierce right into her very soul. Alarm now took the place of beseeching.

“Never mind,” she said—“never mind; it was just your wild little rebellious Sylvia. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t—don’t! Oh, I will bear it—I will bear it! Don’t look at me like that!”

“Go to your room,” was his answer, “at once. Go to your room.”

She was a spirited girl, but she crept out of the room as though some one had beaten her.

CHAPTER XIII.—JASPER TO THE RESCUE.

“You are to come in,” said Sylvia. “I have made up my mind. I have been preparing your room all day. If he finds it out I dare not think what will happen. But come—do come; I am ready and waiting for you.”

“I thought you would be. I can fetch the rest of my things to-morrow. Can we slip into my room now?”

“We can. Come at once.—Pilot, remember that this lady is our friend.—One moment, please, Jasper; I must be quite certain that Pilot does not do you an injury.—Pilot, give your right paw to this lady.”

Pilot looked anxiously from Jasper to Sylvia; then, with a deliberate movement, and a great expression of condescension on his face, he did extend his right paw. Jasper took it.

“Kiss him now just between his eyes,” said Sylvia.

“Good gracious, child! I never kissed a dog in my life.”

“Kiss him as you value your future safety. You surely do not want to be a prisoner at The Priory!”

“Heaven forbid!” said Jasper. “What I want to do, and what I mean to do, is to parade before her ladyship just where her ladyship cannot touch me. She could turn me out of every house in the place, but not from here. I do not want to keep it any secret from her ladyship that I am staying with you, Miss Sylvia.”

“We can talk of that afterwards,” said Sylvia. “Come into the house now.”

The two turned, the dog accompanying them. They passed through the heavy iron gates and walked softly up the avenue.

“What a close, dismal sort of place!” said Jasper.

“Please—please do not speak so loud; father may overhear us.”

“Then mum’s the word,” said the woman.

“Step on the grass here, please.”

Jasper did exactly as Sylvia directed her, and the result was that soon the two found themselves in as empty a kitchen as Jasper had ever beheld in the whole course of her life.

“Sakes, child!” she cried, “is this where you cook your meals?”

“The kitchen does quite well enough for our requirements,” said Sylvia in a low tone.

“And where are you going to put me?”

“In this room. I think in the happy days when the house was full this room must have been used as the servants’ hall. See, there is a nice fireplace, with a good fire in it. I have drawn down the blinds, and I have put thick curtains—the only thick curtains we possess—across the windows. There are shutters too. If my father does walk abroad he cannot see any light through this window. But I am sorry to say you can have a fire only at night, for he would be very angry if he saw the smoke ascending in the daytime.”

“Hard lines! But I suppose, as I made the offer, I must abide by it,” said Jasper. “The room looks bare but well enough. It is clean, I suppose?”

“It is about as clean as I can make it,” said Sylvia, with a dreary sigh.

“As clean as you can make it? Have you not a servant, my dear?”

“Oh no; we do not keep a servant.”

“Then I expect my work is cut out for me,” said Jasper, who was thoroughly good-natured, and had taken an immense fancy to Sylvia.

“Please,” said the girl earnestly, “you must not attempt to make the place look the least bit better; if you do, father will find out, and then——”

“Find out!” said Jasper. “If I were you, you poor little thing, I would let him. But there! I am in, and possession is everything. I have brought my supper with me, and I thought maybe you would not mind sharing it. I have it in this basket. This basket contains what I require for the night and our supper as well. I pay you twenty shillings a week, and buy my own coals, so I suppose at night at least I may have a big fire.”

Here Jasper went to a large, old-fashioned wooden hod, and taking big lumps of coal, put them on the fire. It blazed right merrily, and the heat filled the room. Sylvia stole close to it and stretched out her thin, white hands for the warmth.

“How delicious!” she said.

“You poor girl! Can you spend the rest of the evening with me?”

“I must go to father. But, do you know, he has prohibited anything but bread for supper.”

“What!”

“He does not want it himself, and he says that I can do with bread. Oh, I could if there were enough bread!”

“You poor, poor child! Why, it was Providence which sent me all the way from Tasmania to make you comfortable and to save the bit of life in your body.”

“Oh, I cannot—I cannot!” said Sylvia. Her composure gave way; she sank into a chair and burst into tears.

“You cannot what, you poor child?”

“Take everything from you. I—I am a lady. In reality we are rich—yes, quite rich—only father has a craze, and he won’t spend money. He hoards instead of spending. It began in mother’s lifetime, and he has got worse and worse and worse. They say it is in the family, and his father had it, and his father before him. When father was young he was extravagant, and people thought that he would never inherit the craze of a miser; but it has grown with his middle life, and if mother were alive now she would not know him.”

“And you are the sufferer, you poor lamb!”

“Yes; I get very hungry at times.”

“But, my dear, with twenty shillings a week you need not be hungry.”

“Oh no. I cannot realize it. But I have to be careful; father must not see any difference.”

“We will have our meals here,” said Jasper.

“But we must not light a fire by day,” said the girl.

“Never mind; I can manage. Are there not such things as spirit-lamps? Oh yes, I am a born cook. Now then, go away, my dear; have your meal of bread with your father, say good-night to him, and then slip back to me.”

Sylvia ran off almost joyfully. In about an hour she returned. During that time Jasper had contrived to make a considerable change in the room. The warmth of the fire filled every corner now the thick curtains at the window looked almost cheerful; the heavy door tightly shut allowed no cold air to penetrate. On the little table she had spread a white cloth, and now that table was graced by a great jug of steaming chocolate, a loaf of crisp white bread, and a little pat of butter; and besides these things there were a small tongue and a tiny pot of jam.

“Things look better, don’t they?” said Jasper. “And now, my dearie, you shall not only eat in this room, but you shall sleep in that warm bed in which I have just put my own favorite hot-water bag.”

“But you—you?” said Sylvia.

“I either lie down by your side or I stay in the chair by the fire. I am going to warm you up and pet you, for you need it, you poor, brave little girl!”