A Very Naughty Girl

“What a fool I am!” thought Evelyn. “Why should I not make a rope and descend in that way? Aunt Frances has locked me in, but she does not know how daring is the nature of Evelyn Wynford. I inherit it from my darling mothery; I will not allow myself to be defeated.”

Her courage and her spirits revived when she thought of the rope. She must wait, however, at least until half-past seven. The great gong sounded once more. Evelyn rushed to her door, and heard the rustle of the silken dresses of the ladies as they descended. She had her eye at the keyhole, and fancied that she detected the hated form of her aunt robed in ruby velvet. A slim young figure in white also softly descended.

“My cousin Audrey,” thought the girl. “Oh dear! oh dear! and they leave me here, locked up like a rat in a trap. They leave me here, and I am out of everything. Oh, I cannot, will not stand it!”

She ran to her bed, tore off the sheets, took a pair of scissors, and cut them into strips. She had all the ways and quick knowledge of a girl from the wilds. She knew how to make a knot which would hold. Soon her rope was ready. It was quite strong enough to bear her light weight. She fastened it to a heavy article of furniture just inside the French windows of her sitting-room, and then dropping her little bag to the ground below, she herself swiftly descended.

“Free! free!” she murmured. “Free in spite of her! She will see how I have gone. Oh, won’t she rage? What fun! It is almost worth the misery of the last half-hour to have escaped as I have done.”

There was no one now to watch the little culprit as she stole across the grass. She ran up to the stile where Jasper was still waiting for her.

“My darling,” said Jasper, “how late you are! I was just going back; I had given you up.”

“Kiss me, Jasper,” said Evelyn. “Hug me and love me and carry me a bit of the way in your strong arms; and, oh! be quick—be very quick—for we must hide, you and I, where no one can ever, ever find us. Oh Jasper, Jasper, I have had such a time!”

It was not Jasper’s way to say much in moments of emergency. She took Evelyn up, wrapped her warm fur cloak well round the little girl, and proceeded as quickly as she could in the direction of The Priory. Evelyn laid her head on her faithful nurse’s shoulder, and a ray of warmth and comfort visited her miserable little soul.

“Oh, I am lost but for you!” she murmured once or twice. “How I hate England! How I hate Aunt Frances! How I hate the horrid, horrid school, and even Audrey! But I love you, darling, darling Jasper, and I am happy once more.”

“You are not lost with me, my little white Eve,” said Jasper. “You are safe with me; and I tell you what it is, my sweet, you and I will part no more.”

“We never, never will,” said the little girl with fervor; and she clasped Jasper still more tightly round the neck.

But notwithstanding all Jasper’s love and good-will, the little figure began to grow heavy, and the way seemed twice as long as usual; and when Evelyn begged and implored of her nurse to hurry, hurry, hurry, poor Jasper’s heart began to beat in great thumps, and finally she paused, and said with panting breath:

“I must drop you to the ground, my dearie, and you must run beside me, for I have lost my breath, pet, and I cannot carry you any farther.”

“Oh, how selfish I am!” said Evelyn at once. “Yes, of course I will run, Jasper. I can walk quite well now. I have got over my first fright. The great thing of all is to hurry. And you are certain, certain sure they will not look for me at The Priory?”

“Well, now, darling, how could they? Nobody but Sylvia knows that I live at The Priory, and why should they think that you had gone there? No; it is the police they will question, and the village they will go to, and the railway maybe. But it is fun to think of the fine chase we are giving them, and all to no purpose.”

Evelyn laughed, and the two, holding each other’s hands, continued on their way. By and by they reached the back entrance to The Priory. Jasper had left the gate a little ajar. Pilot came up to show attentions; he began to growl at Evelyn, but Jasper laid her hand on his big forehead.

“A friend, good dog! A little friend, Pilot,” was Jasper’s remark; and then Pilot wagged his tail and allowed his friend Jasper—to whom he was much attached, as she furnished him with unlimited chicken-bones—to go to the house. Two or three minutes later Evelyn found herself established in Jasper’s snug, pretty little bedroom. There the fire blazed; supper was in course of preparation. Evelyn flung herself down on a chair and panted slightly.

“So this is where you live?” she said.

“Yes, my darling, this is where I live.”

“And where is Sylvia?” asked Evelyn.

“She is having supper with her father at the present moment.”

“Oh! I should like to see her. How excited and astonished she will be! She won’t tell—you are sure of that, Jasper?”

“Tell! Sylvia tell!” said Jasper. “Not quite, my dearie.”

“Well, I should like to see her.”

“She’ll be here presently.”

“You have not told that I was coming?”

“No, darling; I thought it best not.”

“That is famous, Jasper; and do you know, I am quite hungry, so you might get something to eat without delay.”

“You did not by any chance forget the money?” said Jasper, looking anxiously at Evelyn.

“Oh no; it is in my little black bag; you had better take it while you think of it. It is in two rolls; Uncle Edward gave it to me. It is all gold—gold sovereigns; and there are twenty of them.”

“Are not you a darling, a duck, and all the rest!” said Jasper, much relieved at this information. “I would not worry you for the money, darling,” she continued as she bustled about and set the milk on to boil for Evelyn’s favorite beverage, “but that my own funds are getting seriously low. You never knew such a state as we live in here. But we have fun, darling; and we shall have all the more fun now that you have come.”

Evelyn leant back in her chair without replying. She had lived through a good deal that day, and she was tired and glad to rest. She felt secure. She was hungry, too; and it was nice to be petted by Jasper. She watched the preparations for the chocolate, and when it was made she sipped it eagerly, and munched a sponge-cake, and tried to believe that she was the happiest little girl in the world. But, oh! what ailed her? How was it that she could not quite forget the horrid days at the Castle, and the dreadful days at school, and Audrey’s face, and Lady Frances’s manner, and—last but not least—dear, sweet, kind Uncle Edward?

“And I never proved to him that I could shoot a bird on the wing,” she thought. “What a pity—what a sad pity! He will find the gun loaded, and how astonished he will be! And he will never, never know that it was his Evelyn loaded it and left it ready. Oh dear! I am sorry that I am not likely to see Uncle Edward for a long time again. I am sorry that Uncle Edward will be angry; I do not mind about any one else, but I am sorry about him.”

Just then there came the sound of a high-pitched and sweet voice in the kitchen outside.

“There is Sylvia,” said Jasper. “I am going to tell her now, and to bring her in.”

She went into the outside kitchen. Sylvia, in her shabbiest dress, with a pinched, cold look on her face, was standing by the embers of the fire.

“Oh Jasper,” she said eagerly, “I do not know what to make of my father to-night! He has evidently had bad news by the post to-day—something about his last investments. I never saw him so low or so irritable, and he was quite cross about the nice little hash you made for his supper. He says that he will cut down the fuel-supply, and that I am not to have big fires for cooking; and, worst of all, Jasper, he threatens to come into the kitchen to see for himself how I manage. Do you know, I feel quite frightened to-night. He is very strange in his manner, and suspicious; and he looks so cold, too. No fire will he allow in the sitting-room. He gets worse and worse.”

“Well, darling,” said Jasper as cheerfully as she could, “this is an old story, is it not? He did eat his hash, when all is said and done.”

“Yes; but I don’t like his manner. And you know he discovered about the boxes in the box-room.”

“That is over and done with too,” said Jasper. “He cannot say much about that; he can only puzzle and wonder, but it would take him a long time to find out the truth.”

“I don’t like his way,” repeated Sylvia.

“And perhaps you don’t like my way either, Sylvia,” said a strange voice; and Sylvia uttered a scream, for Evelyn stood before her.

“Evelyn!” cried the girl. “Where have you come from? Oh, what is the matter? Oh, I do declare my head is going round!”

She clasped her hands to her forehead in absolute bewilderment. Jasper went and locked the kitchen door.

“Now we are safe,” she said; “and you two had best go into the bedroom. Yes, you had, for when he comes along it is the wisest plan for him to find the kitchen locked and the place in darkness. He will never think of my bedroom; and, indeed, when the curtains are drawn and the shutters shut you cannot get a blink of light from the outside, however hard you try.”

“Come, Sylvia,” said Evelyn. She took Sylvia’s hand and dragged her into the bedroom.

“But why have you come, Evelyn? Why is it?” said poor Sylvia, in great distress and alarm.

“You will have to welcome me whether you like it or not,” said Evelyn; “and what is more, you will have to be true to me. I came here because I have run away—run away from the school and the fuss and the disgrace of to-morrow—run away from horrid Aunt Frances and from the horrid Castle; and I have come here to dear old Jasper; and I have brought my own money, so you need not be at any expense. And if you tell you will—— But, oh, Sylvia, you will not tell?”

“But this is terrible!” said Sylvia. “I don’t understand—I cannot understand.”

“Sit down, Miss Sylvia, dearie,” said Jasper, “and I will try to explain.”

Sylvia sank down on the side of the little white bed.

“Now I know why you were getting this ready,” she said. “You would not explain to me, and I thought perhaps it was for me. Oh dear! oh dear!”

“I longed to tell you, but I dared not,” said Jasper. “Would I let my sweet little lady die or be disgraced? That is not in me. She will hide here with me for a bit, and afterwards—it will come all right afterwards, my dear Miss Sylvia. Why, there, darlings! I love you both. And see what I have been planning. I mean to go up-stairs to-night and sleep in your room, Miss Sylvia. Yes, darling; and you and Miss Evelyn can sleep together here. The supper is all ready, and I have had as much as I want. I mean to go quickly; and then if your father comes along and rattles at the kitchen door he’ll get no answer, and if he peers through the keyhole, the place will be black as night. Then, being made up of suspicions, poor man, he’ll tramp up-stairs and he’ll thunder at your door; but it will be locked, and after a time I’ll answer him in your voice from the heart of the big bed, and all his suspicions will melt away like snow when the sun shines on it. That is all, Miss Sylvia; and I mean to do it, and at once, too; for if we were so careful and chary and anxious before, we must be twice as careful and twice as chary now that I have got the precious little Eve to look after.”

Jasper’s plan was carried out to the letter. Sylvia did not like it, but at the same time she did not know how to oppose it; and when Evelyn put her arms round her neck and was soft and gentle—she who was so hard with most, and so difficult to manage—and when she pleaded with tears in her big brown eyes and a pathetic look on her white face, Sylvia yielded for the present. Whatever happened, she would not betray her.

CHAPTER XXVIII.—THE ROOM WITH THE LIGHT THAT FLICKERED.

There was a moon in the sky, and the garden stood in streaks of bright light, and of dense shadow where the thick yew-hedge shut away the cold rays of the moon. Evelyn’s white little face was pressed against the pane. Pilot stalked up and down outside, now and then baying to the moon, now and then uttering a suspicious bark, but he never glanced in the direction of the window out of which Evelyn looked. To the right of the window lay the hens’ run and hen-house which have already been mentioned in these pages. Evelyn knew nothing about them, however; she thought the view ugly and uninteresting. She disliked the thick yew-hedge and the gnarled old yew-tree, and grumbling under her breath, she turned from the window, having quite forgotten to close the shutters. She got into bed now and fell asleep, little knowing what mischief she had done.

For it was on that very same night that Mr. Leeson determined, not to bury his bags of gold, but to dig them up. He was in a weak and trembling condition, and what he considered the most terrible misfortune had overpowered him, for the large sums which he had lately invested in the Kilcolman Gold-mines had been irretrievably lost; the gold-mines were nothing more nor less than a huge fraud, and all the shareholders had lost their money. The daily papers were full of the fraudulent scheme, and indignation was rife against the promoters of the company. But little cared Mr. Leeson for that; one fact alone concerned him. He, who grudged a penny to give his only child warmth and comfort, had by one fell blow lost thousands of pounds. He was almost like a man bereft of his senses. When Sylvia had left him that evening he had stood for some time in the cold and desolate parlor; then he sat down and began to think. His money was invested in more than one apparently promising speculation. He meant to call it all in—to collect it all and leave the country. He would not trust another sovereign in any bank in the kingdom; he would guard his own money; above all things, he would guard his precious savings. He had saved during his residence at The Priory something over twelve hundred pounds. This money, which really represented income, not capital, had been taken from what ought to have been spent on the necessaries of life. More and more had he saved, until a penny saved was more valuable in his eyes than any virtue under the sun; and as he saved and added sovereign to sovereign, he buried his money in canvas bags in the garden. But the time had come now to dig up his gold and fly. There were three trunks in the box-room; he would divide the money between the three. They were strong, covered with cow-hide, old-fashioned, safe to endure even such a weight as was to be put into them. He had made all his plans. He meant to take Sylvia, leave The Priory, and go. What further savings he could effect in a foreign land he knew not; he only wanted to be up and doing. This night, just when the moon set, would be the very time for his purpose. He was anxious—very anxious—about those fresh trunks which had been put into the attic; there was something also about Sylvia which aroused his suspicions. He felt certain that she was not quite so open with him as formerly. Those suppers were too good, too delicate, too tasty to be eaten without suspicion. At the best she was burning too much fuel. He would go round to the kitchen this very night and see for himself that the fire was out—dead out. Why should Sylvia warm herself by the kitchen fire while he shivered fireless and almost candleless in the desolate parlor? Soon after ten o’clock, therefore, he started on his rounds. He went through room after room, looking into each; he had never been so restless. He felt that a great and terrible task lay before him, and so bewildered was his mind, so much was his balance shaken, that he thought more of the twelve hundred pounds which he had saved than of the thousands which he had lost by foolish investment. The desolate rooms in the old Priory were all as they had ever been—scarcely any furniture in some, no furniture at all in others; they were bare and bleak and ugly. He went to the kitchen; the door was locked. He shook it and called aloud; there was no answer.

“The child has gone to bed,” he said to himself. “That is well.”

He stooped down and tried to look through the keyhole; only darkness met his gaze. He turned and shambled up-stairs. He turned the handle of Sylvia’s door. How wise had been Jasper when she had guessed that the master of the house would do just what he did do!

“Sylvia!” he called aloud—“Sylvia!”

“Yes, father,” said a voice which seemed to be quite the voice of his daughter.

“Are you in bed?”

“Yes. Do you want me?”

“No; stay where you are. Good night.”

“Good night,” answered the pretended Sylvia.

But Mr. Leeson, as he went down-stairs, did not hear the stifled laughter which was smothered in the pillows. He waited until the moon was on the wane, and then, armed with the necessary implements, went into the garden. He would certainly remove half the bags that night; the remainder might wait until to-morrow.

He reached the garden; he arrived at the spot where his treasure was buried, and then he stood still for a moment, and looked around him. Everything seemed all right—silent as the grave—still as death. It was a windless night; the moon would very soon set and there would be darkness. He wanted darkness for his purpose. Pilot came shuffling up.

“Good dog! guard—guard. Good dog!” said his master.

Pilot had been trained to know what this meant, and he went immediately and stood within a foot or two of the main entrance. Mr. Leeson did not know that a gate at the back entrance was no longer firmly secured and chained, as he imagined it to be. He thought himself safe, and began to work.

He had dug up six of the bags, and there were six more yet to be unearthed, when, suddenly raising his head, he saw a light in a window on the ground floor. It was a very faint light, and seemed to come and go.

He was much puzzled. His heart beat strangely; suspicion visited him. Had any one seen him? If so he was lost. He dared not wait another moment; he took two of the bags of gold and dragged them as best he could into the house. He went out again to fetch another two, and yet another two. He put the six canvas bags in the empty hall, and then returning to the garden, he pressed down the earth and covered it with gravel, and tried to make it look as if no one had been there—as if no one had disturbed it. But he was trembling all over, and as he did so he looked again at the flickering, broken light which came dimly, like something gray and uncertain, from within the room.

He went on tiptoe softly, very softly, up to the window and peered in. He could not see much—nothing, in fact, except one thing. The room had a fire. That was enough for him.

Furious anger shook the man to his depths. He hurried into the house.

CHAPTER XXIX.—WHAT COULD IT MEAN?

He now approached the window where the light shone—the faint, dim light which flickered against the blind and seemed almost to go out, and then shone once more. Slowly and dexterously he cut, with a diamond which he had brought for the purpose, a square of glass out of the lower pane. He put the glass on the ground, and slipping in his hand, pushed back the bolt. All his movements were quiet. He said “Ah!” once or twice under his breath. When he had gently and very softly lifted the sash, he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away some drops which stood on his forehead. Then he said “Ah!” once more, and slipped softly, deftly, and quietly into the room. He had made no noise whatsoever. The young sleepers never moved. He stood in the fire-lit, and in his opinion lavishly furnished, room. Here was a small white bed and an occupant; here a larger bed and another occupant. He crept on tiptoe towards the two beds. He bent down over the little occupant of the smaller bed.

A girl—a stranger! A girl with long, fair hair, and light lashes lying on a white cheek. A curious-looking girl! She moaned once or twice in her sleep. He did not want to awaken her.

He looked towards the other bed, in which lay Sylvia, pretty, debonair, rosy in her happy, warm slumber. She had flung one arm outside the counterpane. Her lips parted; she uttered the words:

“Darling father! Poor, poor father!”

The man who listened started back as though something had struck him.

Sylvia in that bed—Sylvia who had spoken to him not two hours ago up-stairs? What did it mean? What could it mean? And who was this stranger? And what did the fire mean, and all the furniture? A carpet on the floor, too! A carpet on his floor—his! And a fire which he had never warranted in his grate, and beds which he had never ordered in his room! Oh! was it not enough to strike a man mad with fury? And yet again! what was this? A table and the remains of supper! Good living, warmth, luxuries, under the roof of the man who was fireless and cold and, as he himself fondly and foolishly believed, a beggar!

He stood absolutely dumb. He would not awaken the sleepers. A strange sensation visited him. He was determined not to give way to his passions; he was determined, before he said a word to Sylvia, to regain his self-control.

“Once I said bitter things to her mother; I will not err in that direction any more,” he said to himself. “And in her sleep she called me ‘Father’ and ‘Poor father.’ But all the same I shall cast her away. She is no longer my Sylvia. I disown her; I disinherit her. She goes out into the cold. She is ruining her father. She has deceived me; she shall never be anything to me again. Paw! how I hate her!”

He went to the window, got out just as he had got in, drew down the sash, and stepped softly across the dark lawn.

He was very cold now, and he felt faint; the effect of the tiny supply of brandy which he had administered to himself had worn off. He went into his desolate parlor. How cold it was! He thought of the big fire in the bedroom which he had left. How poor and desolate was this room by contrast! What a miserable bed he reposed on at night—absolutely not enough blankets—but Sylvia lay like a bird in its nest, so warm, so snug! Oh! how bad she was!

“Her mother was never as bad as that,” he muttered to himself. “She was extravagant, but she was not like Sylvia. She never willingly deceived me. Sylvia to have a strange and unknown girl—a stranger—in the house! All my suspicions are verified. My doubts are certainties. God help me! I am a miserable old man.”

He cowered down, and the icy cold of the room struck through his bones. He looked at the grate, and observed that a fire had been laid there.

“Sylvia did that,” he said to himself. “The little minx did not like to feel that she was so warm and I so cold, so she laid the fire; she thought that I would indulge myself. I! But am I not suffering for her? While she lies in the lap of luxury I die of cold and hunger, and all for her. But I will do it no longer. I will light the fire; I will have a feast; I will eat and drink and be merry, and forget that I had a daughter.”

So the unfortunate man, half-mad with bewilderment and the grief of his recent losses, lit a blazing fire, and going to his cupboard, took out his brandy and drank what was left in the bottle. He was warm now, and his pulse beat more quickly. He remembered his six bags of gold, and the other six bags in the garden, and he resolved that if necessary he would fly without Sylvia. Sylvia could stay behind. If she managed to have such luxuries without his aid, she could go on having them; he would leave her a trifle—yes, a trifle—and save the rest for himself, and be no longer tortured by an unworthy and deceitful daughter. But as he thought these things he became more and more puzzled. The Sylvia lying on that bed was undoubtedly his daughter; but his daughter had spoken to him from her own room at a reasonable hour—between ten and eleven o’clock—that same night. How could there be two Sylvias?

“The mystery thickens,” he muttered to himself. “This is more than I can stand. I will ferret the thing out—yes, and to the very bottom. Those trunks in the attic! I suppose they belong to that ugly child. That voice in Sylvia’s room! Well, of course it was Sylvia’s voice; but what about the other Sylvia down-stairs? I must see into this matter without delay.”

He went up-stairs and found himself outside Sylvia’s door. He turned the handle, but it was locked. There was a light in the room, doubtless caused by another fire. He looked through the keyhole; the door was locked from within, for the key was in the lock.

More and more remarkable! How could Sylvia lock the door from within if she was not in the room? Really the matter was enough to daze any man. Suddenly he made up his mind. It was now five o’clock in the morning; in a short time the day would break. Sylvia was an early riser. If Sylvia or any one else was in that room he would wait on the threshold to confront that person. Oh, of course it was Sylvia; she had slipped back again and was in bed, and thought he would never discover her. How astonished she would be when she saw him seated outside her door!

So Mr. Leeson fetched a broken-down chair from his own bedroom, placed it softly just outside the door of the room where Jasper was reposing, and prepared himself to watch. He was far too excited to sleep, and the hours dragged slowly on. There was an old eight-day clock in the hall, and it struck solemnly hour after hour. Six o’clock—seven o’clock. Sylvia rose soon after seven. He waited now impatiently. The days were beginning to lengthen, and it was light—not full daylight, but nearly so. He heard a stir in the room.

“Ha, ha, Miss Sylvia!” he said to himself, “I shall catch you, take you by the hand, bring you down to my parlor, tell you exactly what I think of——Hullo! she is making a good deal of noise. How strong she is! How she bounded out of bed!”

He listened impatiently. His heart warmed now to the work which lay before him. He was, on the whole, enjoying himself at the thought of discovering to Sylvia how black he thought her iniquities.

“No child of my own any more!” he said to himself. “‘Poor father,’ indeed! ‘Darling father, forsooth!’ No, no, Sylvia; acts speak louder than words, and you were convicted out of your own mouth, my daughter.”

Jasper dressed with despatch. She washed; she arranged her toilet. She came to the door; she opened it. Mr. Leeson looked up.

Jasper fell back.

“Merciful heavens!” cried the woman; and then Mr. Leeson grasped her hand and dragged her out of the room.

“Who are you, woman?” he said. “How dare you come into my house? What are you doing in my daughter’s room?”

“Ah, Mr. Leeson,” said Jasper quietly, “discovered at last. Well, sir, and I am not sorry.”

“But who are you? What are you? What are you doing in my daughter’s room?”

“Will you come down to the parlor with me, Mr. Leeson, or shall I explain here?”

“You do not stir a step from this place until you tell me.”

“Then I will, sir—I will. I have been living in this house for the last six weeks. During that time I have paid Miss Sylvia, and she has had money enough to keep the breath of life within her. Be thankful that I came, Mr. Leeson, for you owe me much, and I owe you nothing. Ah! do you recognize me now? The gipsy—forsooth!—the gipsy who gave you a recipe for making the old hen tender! Ha, ha! I laugh as I thought never to laugh again when I recall that day.”

Mr. Leeson stood cold and white, looking full at Jasper. Suddenly a great dizziness took possession of him; he stretched out his hand wildly.

“There is something wrong with me,” he said. “I don’t think I am well.”

“Poor old gentleman!” said Jasper—“no wonder!” and her voice became mild. “The shock of it all, and the confusion! Sakes alive! I am not going to take you into that icy bedroom of yours. Lean on me. There now, sir. You have not lost a penny by me; you have saved, on the contrary, and I have kept your daughter alive, and I have given you the best food, made out of the tenderest chickens, out of my own money, mark you—out of my own money—for weeks and weeks. Come down-stairs, sir; come and I will get you a bit of breakfast.”

“I—cannot—see,” muttered Mr. Leeson again.

“Well then, sir, I suppose you can feel. Anyhow, here is a good, strong right arm. Lean on it—all your weight if you like. Now then, we will get down-stairs.”

Mr. Leeson was past resistance. Jasper pulled his shaky old hand through her arm, and half-carried, half-dragged him down to the parlor. There she put him in a big armchair near the fire, and was bustling out of the room to get breakfast when he called her back.

“So you really are the woman who had the recipe for making old hens tender?”

“Bless you, Mr. Leeson!—bless you!—yes, I am the woman.”

“You will let me buy it from you?”

“Certainly—yes,” replied Jasper, not quite knowing whether to laugh or to cry. “But I am going to get you some breakfast now.”

“And who is the other girl?”

“Does he know about her too?” thought Jasper. “What can have happened in the night?”

“If you mean my dear little Miss Eve, why, no one has a better right to be here, for she belongs to me and I pay for her—yes, every penny; and, for the matter of that, she only came last night. But do not fash yourself now, my good sir; you are past thought, I take it, and you want a hearty meal.”

Jasper bustled away; Mr. Leeson lay back in his chair. Was the world turning upside down? What had happened? Oh, if only he could feel well! If only that giddiness would leave him! What was the matter? He had been so well and so fierce and so strong a few hours ago, and now—now even his anger was slipping away from him. He had felt quite comforted when he leaned on Jasper’s strong arm; and when she pushed him into the armchair and wrapped an old blanket round him, he had enjoyed it rather than otherwise. Oh! he ought to be nearly mad with rage; and yet somehow—somehow he was not.

CHAPTER XXX.—THE LOADED GUN.

“It is no use, Audrey,” she said to her daughter; “you have cried yourself out of recognition. My dear child, you must go to bed now, and to sleep. That naughty, naughty girl is not worth our all being ill.”

“But, oh, mother! what has happened to her?”

“She is with Jasper, of course.”

“But suppose she is not, mother?”

“I do not suppose what is not the case, Audrey. She is beyond doubt with that pernicious woman, and as far as I am concerned I wash my hands of her.”

“And—the disgrace to-morrow?” said poor Audrey.

“My darling, you at least shall not be subjected to it. If I could find Evelyn I would take her myself to the school, and make her stand up before the scholars and tell them all that she had done; or if she refused I would tell for her. But as she is not here you are not going to be disgraced, my precious. I shall write a line to Miss Henderson telling her that the guilty party has flown, and that you are far too distressed to go to school; and I shall beg her to take any steps she thinks best. Really and truly that girl has made the place too hot to live in; I shall ask your father to take us abroad for the winter.”

“But surely, mother, you will not allow poor little Evelyn to get quite lost; you will try to find her?”

“Oh, my dear! have I not been trying? Do not say any more to me about her to-night. I am really so irritated that I may say something I shall be sorry for afterwards.”

So Audrey went to bed, and being young, she soon dropped asleep. Lady Frances, being dead tired, also slept; and the Squire, who knew nothing of all the fuss and trouble, came in at an early hour in the morning.

He lay down to sleep, and awoke after a short slumber. He then got up, dressed, and went into his grounds.

Lady Frances and Audrey were at breakfast—Lady Frances very pale, and Audrey with traces of her violent weeping the night before still on her face—when a servant burst in great terror and excitement into the room.

“Oh, your ladyship,” he exclaimed, “the Squire is lying in the copse badly shot with his own gun! One of the grooms is with him, and Jones has gone for the doctor, and I came at once to tell your ladyship.”

Poor Lady Frances in her agony scarcely knew what she was doing. Audrey asked a frenzied question, and soon the two were bending over the stricken man. The Squire was shot badly in the side. A new fowling-piece lay a yard or two away.

“How did it happen?” said Lady Frances. “What can it mean?”

Audrey knelt by her father, took his icy-cold hand in hers, and held it to her lips. Was he dead?

As he lay there the young girl for the first time in all her life learned how passionately, how dearly she loved him. What would life be without him? In some ways she was nearer to her mother than to her father, but just now, as he lay looking like death itself, he was all in all to her.

“Oh, when will the doctor come?” said Lady Frances, raising her haggard face. “Oh, he is bleeding to death—he is bleeding to death!”

With all her knowledge—and it was considerable—with all her common-sense, on which she prided herself, Lady Frances knew very little about illness and still less about wounds. She did not know how to stop the bleeding, and it was well the doctor, a bright-faced young man from the neighboring village, was soon on the spot. He examined the wounds, looked at the gun, did what was necessary to stop the immediate bleeding, and soon the Squire was carried on a hastily improvised litter back to his stately home.

An hour ago in the prime of life, in the prime of strength; now, for all his terrified wife and daughter could know, he was already in the shadow of death.

“Will he die, doctor?” asked Audrey.

The young doctor looked at her pitifully.

“I cannot tell,” he replied; “it depends upon how far the bullet has penetrated. It is unfortunate that he should have been shot in such a dangerous part of the body. How did it happen?”

A groom now came up and told a hasty tale.

“The Squire called me this morning,” he said, “and told me to go into his study and bring him out his new fowling-piece, which had been sent from London a few days ago. I brought it just as it was. He took it without noticing it much. I was about to turn round and say to him, ‘It is at full cock—perhaps you don’t know, sir,’ but I thought, of course, he had loaded it and prepared it himself; and the next minute he was climbing a hedge. I heard a report, and he was lying just where you found him.”

The question which immediately followed this recital was, “Who had loaded the gun?”

Another doctor was summoned, and another telegraphed for from London, and great was the agitation and misery. By and by Audrey found herself alone. She could scarcely understand her own sensations. In the first place, she was absolutely useless. Her mother was absorbed in the sickroom; the servants were all occupied—even Read was engaged as temporary nurse until a trained one should arrive. Poor Audrey put on her hat and went out.

“If only my dear Miss Sinclair were here!” she thought. “Even if Evelyn were here it would be better than nothing. Oh, no wonder we quite forget Evelyn in a time of anguish like the present!”

Then a fearful thought stabbed her to the heart.

“If anything happens——” She could not get her lips to form the word she really thought of. Once again she used the conventional phrase:

“If anything happens, Evelyn will be mistress here.”

She looked wildly around her.

“Oh! I must find some one; I must speak to some one,” she thought. “I will go to Sylvia; it is no great distance to The Priory. I will go over there at once.”

She walked quickly. She was glad of the exercise—of any excuse to keep moving. She soon reached The Priory, and was just about to put her hand on the latch to open the big gates when a girl appeared on the other side—a girl with a white face, somewhat sullen in outline, with big brown eyes, and a quantity of fair hair falling over her shoulders. Even in the midst of her agitation Audrey gave a gasp.

“Evelyn!” she said.

“I am not going with you,” said Evelyn. She backed away, and a look of apprehension crossed her face. “Why have you come here? You never come to The Priory. What are you doing here? Go away. You need not think you will have anything to do with me in the future. I know it is all up with me. I suppose you have come from the school to—to torture me!”

“Don’t, Evelyn—don’t,” said Audrey. “Oh, the misery you caused us last night! But that is nothing to what has happened now. Listen, and forget yourself for a minute.”

Poor Audrey tottered forward; her composure gave way. The next moment her head was on her cousin’s shoulder; she was sobbing as if her heart would break.

“Why, how strange you are!” said Evelyn, distressed and slightly softened, but, all the same, much annoyed at what she believed would frustrate all her plans. For things had been going so well! The poor, silly old man who lived at The Priory was too ill to take any notice. She and Sylvia could do as they pleased. Jasper was Mr. Leeson’s nurse. Mr. Leeson was delirious and talking wild nonsense. Evelyn was in a scene of excitement; she was petted and made much of. Why did Audrey come to remind her of that world from which she had fled?

“I suppose it was rather bad this morning at school,” she said. “I can imagine what a fuss they kicked up—what a shindy—all about nothing! But there! yes, of course, I do not mind saying now that I did do it. I was sorry afterwards; I would not have done it if I had known—if I had guessed that everybody would be so terribly miserable. But you do not suppose—you do not suppose, Audrey, that I, who am to be the owner of Castle Wynford some day——”

But at these words Audrey gave a piercing cry:

“Some day! Oh, Evelyn, it may be to-day!”

“What do you mean?” said Evelyn, her face turning very white. She pushed Audrey, who was a good deal taller than her cousin, away and looked up at her. Audrey had now ceased crying; she wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“I must tell you,” she said. “It is my father. He shot himself by accident this morning. His new gun from London was loaded. I suppose he did not know it; anyhow, he knocked the gun against something and it went off, and—he is at death’s door.”

“What—do—you say?” asked Evelyn.

A complete change had come over her. Her eyes looked dim and yet wild. She took Audrey by the arm and shook her.

“The gun from London loaded, and it went off, and—— Is he hurt much—much? Speak, Audrey—speak!”

She took her cousin now and shook her frantically.

“Speak!” she said. “You are driving me mad!”

“What is the matter with you, Evelyn?”

“Speak! Is he—hurt—much?”

“Much!” said Audrey. “The doctor does not know whether he will ever recover. Oh, what have I done to you?”

“Nothing,” said Evelyn. “Get out of my way.”

Like a wild creature she darted from her cousin, and, fast and fleet as her feet could carry her, rushed back to Castle Wynford.

It took a good deal to touch a heart like Evelyn’s, but it was touched at last; nay, more, it was wounded; it was struck with a blow so deep, so sudden, so appalling, that the bewildered child reeled as she ran. Her eyes grew dark with emotion. She was past tears; she was almost past words. By and by, breathless, scared, bewildered, carried completely out of herself, she entered the Castle. There was no one about, but a doctor’s brougham stood before the principal entrance. Evelyn looked wildly around her. She knew her uncle’s room. She ran up-stairs. Without waiting for any one to answer, she burst open the door. The room was empty.

“He must be very badly hurt,” she whispered to herself. “He must be in his little room on the ground floor.”

She went down-stairs again. She ran down the corridor where often, when in her best moments, she had gone to talk to him, to pet him, to love him. She entered the sitting-room where the gun had been. A great shudder passed through her frame as she saw the empty case. She went straight through the sitting-room, and, unannounced, undesired, unwished-for, entered the bedroom.

There were doctors round the bed; Lady Frances was standing by the head; and a man was lying there, very still and quiet, with his eyes shut and a peaceful smile on his face.

“He is dead,” thought Evelyn—“he is dead!” She gave a gasp, and the next instant lay in an unconscious heap on the floor.

When the unhappy child came to herself she was lying on a sofa in the sitting-room. A doctor was bending over her.

“Now you are better,” he said. “You did very wrong to come into the bedroom. You must lie still; you must not make a fuss.”

“I remember everything,” said Evelyn. “It was I who did it. It was I who killed him. Don’t—don’t keep me. I must sit up; I must speak. Will he die? If he dies I shall have killed him. You understand, I—I shall have done it!”

The doctor looked disturbed and distressed. Was this poor little girl mad? Who was she? He had heard of an heiress from Australia: could this be the child? But surely her brain had given way under the extreme pressure and shock!

“Lie still, my dear,” he said gently; and he put his hand on the excited child’s forehead.

“I will be good if you will help me,” said the girl; and she took both his hands in hers and raised her burning eyes to his face.

“I will do anything in my power.”

“Don’t you see what it means to me?—and I must be with him. Is he dead?”

“No, no.”

“Is he in great danger?”

“I will tell you, if you are good, after the doctor from London comes.”

“But I did it.”

“Excuse me, miss—I do not know your name—you are talking nonsense.”

“Let me explain. Oh! there never was such a wicked girl; I do not mind saying it now. I loaded the gun just to show him that I could shoot a bird on the wing, and—and I forgot all about it; I forgot I had left the gun loaded. Oh, how can I ever forgive myself?”

The doctor asked her a few more questions. He tried to soothe her. He then said if she would stay where she was he would bring her the very first news from the London doctor. The case was not hopeless, he assured her; but there was danger—grave danger—and any shock would bring on hemorrhage, and hemorrhage would be fatal.

The little girl listened to him, and as she listened a new and wonderful strength was given to her. At that instant Evelyn Wynford ceased to be a child. She was never a child any more. The suffering and the shock had been too mighty; they had done for her what perhaps nothing else could ever do—they had awakened her slumbering soul.

How she lived through the remainder of that day she could never tell to any one. No one saw her in the Squire’s sitting-room. No one wanted the room; no one went near it. Audrey was back again at the Castle, comforting her mother and trying to help her. When she spoke of Evelyn, Lady Frances shuddered.

“Don’t mention her,” she said. “She had the impertinence to rush into the room; but she also had the grace to——”

“What, mother?”

“She was really fond of her uncle, Audrey; I always said so. She fainted—poor, miserable girl—when she saw the state he was in.”

But Lady Frances did not know of Evelyn’s confession to the young doctor; nor did Dr. Watson tell any one.

It was late and the day had passed into night when the doctor came in and sat down by Evelyn’s side.

“Now,” he said, “you have been good, and have kept your word, and have obliterated yourself.”

She did not ask him the meaning of the word, although she did not understand it. She looked at him with the most pathetic face he had ever seen.

“Speak,” she said. “Will he live?”

“Dr. Harland thinks so, and he is the very best authority in the world. He hopes in a day or two to remove the pellets which have done the mischief. The danger, as I have already told you, lies in renewed hemorrhage; but that I hope we can prevent. Now, are you going to be a very good girl?”

“What can I do?” asked Evelyn. “Can I go to him and stay with him?”

“I wonder,” said the doctor—“and yet,” he added, “I scarcely like to propose it. There is a nurse there; your aunt is worn out. I will see what I can do.”

“If I could do that it would save me,” said Evelyn. “There never, never has been quite such a naughty girl; and I—I did it—oh! not meaning to hurt him, but I did it. Oh! it would save me if I might sit by him.”

“I will see,” said the doctor.

He felt strangely interested in this queer, erratic, lost-looking child. He went back again to the sickroom. The Squire was conscious. He was lying in comparative ease on his bed; a trained nurse was within reach.

“Nurse,” said the doctor.

The woman went with him across the room.

“I am going to stay here to-night.”

“Yes, sir; I am glad to hear it.”

“It is quite understood that Lady Frances is to have her night’s rest?”

“Her ladyship is quite worn out, sir. She has gone away to her room. She will rest until two in the morning, when she will come down-stairs and help me to watch by the patient.”

“Then I will sit with him until two o’clock,” said the doctor. “At two o’clock I will lie down in the Squire’s sitting-room, where I can be within call. Now, I want to make a request.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I am particularly anxious that a little girl who is in very great trouble, but who has learnt self-control, should come in and sit in the armchair by the Squire’s side. She will not speak, but will sit there. Is there any objection?”

“Is it the child, sir, who fainted when she came into the room to-day?”

“Yes; she was almost mad, poor little soul; but I think she is all right now, and she has learnt her lesson. Nurse, can you manage it?”

“It must be as you please, sir.”

“Then I will risk it,” said the doctor.

He went back to Evelyn, and said a few words to her.

“You must wash your face,” he said, “and tidy yourself; and you must have a good meal.”

Evelyn shook her head.

“If you do not do exactly what I tell you I cannot help you.”

“Very well; I will eat and eat until you tell me to stop,” she answered.

“Go, and be quick, then,” said the doctor, “for we are arranging things for the night.”

So Evelyn went, and returned in a few minutes; then the doctor took her hand and led her into the sickroom, and she sat by the side of the patient.

The room was very still—not a sound, not a movement. The sick man slept; Evelyn, with her eyes wide open, sat, not daring to move a finger.

What she thought of her past life during that time no one knows; but that soul within her was coming more and more to the surface. It was a strong soul, although it had been so long asleep, and already new desires, unselfish and beautiful, were awakening in the child. Between twelve and one that night the Squire opened his eyes and saw a little girl, with a white face and eyes big and dark, seated close to him.

He smiled, and his hand just went out a quarter of an inch to Evelyn. She saw the movement, and immediately her own small fingers clasped his. She bent down and kissed his hand.

“Uncle Edward, do not speak,” she said. “It was I who loaded the gun. You must get well, Uncle Edward, or I shall die.”

He did not answer in any words, but his eyes smiled at her; and the next moment she had sunk back in her chair, relieved to her heart’s core. Her eyes closed; she slept.

CHAPTER XXXI.—FOR UNCLE EDWARD’S SAKE.

“Yes.”

“Is he out of danger?”

“The doctors think so.”

“Then, Aunt Frances, I can thank God; and what is more, I—even I, who am such an awfully naughty girl—can love God.”

“I don’t like cant,” said Lady Frances; and she turned away with a scornful expression on her lips.

Evelyn sprang to her, clutched both her hands, and said excitedly:

“Listen; you must. I have something to say. It was I who did it!”

“You, Evelyn—you!”

Lady Frances pushed the child from her, and moved a step away. There was such a look of horror on her face that Evelyn at another moment must have recoiled from it; but nothing could daunt her now in this hour of intense repentance.

“I did it,” she repeated—“oh, not meaning to do it! I will tell you; you must listen. Oh, I have been so—so wicked, so—so naughty, so stubborn, so selfish! I see myself at last; and there never, never was such a horrid girl before. Aunt Frances, you shall listen. I loaded the gun, for I meant to go out and shoot some birds on the wing. Uncle Edward doubted that I could do it, and I wanted to prove to him that I could; but I was prevented from going, and I forgot about the gun; and the night before last I ran away. I ran to Jasper. When you locked me up in my room I got out of my sitting-room window.”

“I know all that,” said Lady Frances.

“I went to Jasper, and Jasper took me to The Priory—to Sylvia’s home. Jasper has been staying in the house with Sylvia for a long time, and I went to Sylvia and to Jasper, and I hid there. Audrey came yesterday morning and told me what had happened; and, oh! I thought my heart would break. But Uncle Edward has forgiven me.”

“What! Have you dared to see him?”

“The doctor gave me leave. I stayed with him half last night, until you came at two o’clock; and I told Uncle Edward, and he smiled. He has forgiven me. Oh! I love him better than any one in all the world; I could just die for him. And, Aunt Frances, I did tear the book, and I did behave shockingly at school; and I will go straight to Miss Henderson and tell her, and I will do everything—everything you wish, if only you will let me stay in the house with Uncle Edward. For somehow—somehow,” continued Evelyn in a whisper, her voice turning husky and almost dying away, “I think Uncle Edward has made religion and God possible to me.”

As Evelyn said the last words she staggered against the table, deadly white. She put one hand on a chair to steady herself, and looked up with pathetic eyes at her aunt.

What was there in that scared, bewildered, and yet resolved face which for the first time since she had seen it touched Lady Frances?

“Evelyn,” she said, “you ask me to forgive you. What you have said has shocked me very much, but your manner of saying it has opened my eyes. If you have done wrong, doubtless I am not blameless I never showed you——”

“Neither sympathy nor understanding,” said Evelyn. “I might have been different had you been different. But please—please, do anything with me now—anything—only let me stay for Uncle Edward’s sake.”

Lady Frances sat down.

“I am a mother,” she said, “and I am not without feeling, and not without sympathy, and not without understanding.”

And then she opened her arms. Evelyn gave a bewildered cry; the next moment she was folded in their embrace.

“Oh, can I believe it?” she sobbed.

Thus Evelyn Wynford found the Better Part, and from that moment, although she had struggles and difficulties and trials, she was in the very best sense of the word a new creature; for Love had sought her out, and Love can lead one by steep ascents on to the peaks of self-denial, unselfishness, truth, and honor.

Sylvia’s father, after a mighty struggle with severe illness, came back again slowly, sadly to the shores of life; and Sylvia managed him and loved him, and he declared that never to his dying day could he do without Jasper, who had nursed him through his terrible illness. The instincts of a miser had almost died out during his illness, and he was willing that Sylvia should spend as much money as was necessary to secure good food and the comforts of life.

The Squire got slowly better, and presently quite well; and when another New Year dawned upon the world, and once again the Wynfords of Wynford Castle kept open house, Sylvia was there, and also Mr. Leeson; and all the characters in this story met under the same roof. Evelyn clung fast to her uncle’s hand. Audrey glanced at her cousin, and then she looked at Sylvia, and said in a low voice:

“Never was any one so changed; and, do you know, since the accident she has never once spoken of being the heiress. I believe if any thing happened to father Evelyn would die.”