A Very Naughty Girl

CHAPTER IV.—“I DRAW THE LINE AT UNCLE NED.”

“The Castle is too stiff for me,” she said, “and too—too airified and high and mighty. Mother was quite right when she spoke of Castle Wynford. I don’t care for anybody in the place except Uncle Ned. I don’t know how I shall live here. Oh Jasper, don’t you remember the evenings at home? Cannot you recall that night when Whitefoot was ill, and you and mothery and I had to sit up all through the long hours nursing her, and how we thought the dear old moo-cow would die! Don’t you remember the mulled cider and the gingerbread and the doughnuts and the apple-rings? How we toasted the apple-rings by the fire, and how they spluttered, and how good the hot cider was? And don’t you remember how mothery sang, and how you and I caught each other’s hands and danced, and dear old Whitefoot looked up at us with her big, sorrowful eyes? It is true that she died in the morning, but we had a jolly night. We’ll never have such times any more. Oh, I do wish my own mothery had not died and gone to heaven! Oh, I do wish it—I do!”

Evelyn crossed her arms tightly on her breast and began to sway herself backwards and forwards. Tears streamed from her eyes; she did not attempt to wipe them away.

“Now then, it is my turn to speak,” said Jasper. “I tell you what it is, Eve; you are about the biggest goose that was ever born in this world. Who would compare that stupid, rough old ranch with this lovely, magnificent house? And it is your own, Eve—or rather it will be your own. I took a good stare at the Squire, and I do not believe he will live to be very old; and whenever he dies you are to take possession—you and I together, Eve love—and out will go her ladyship, and out will go proud Miss Audrey. That will be a fine day, darling—a day worth living for.”

“Yes,” said Evelyn slowly; “and then we’ll alter things. We’ll make the Castle something like the ranch. We’ll get over some of our friends, and they shall live in the house. Mr. and Mrs. Petrie, who keep the egg-farm not a mile from the ranch, and Mr. Thomas Longchamp and Pete and Dick and Tom and Michael. I told them all when I was going away that when I was mistress of the Castle they should come, and we’ll go on much as we went on at the ranch. If mothery up in heaven can see me she will be glad. But, Jasper, why do you speak in that scornful way of my cousin Audrey? I think she is very beautiful. I think she is quite the most beautiful girl I have ever looked at. As to her being stately, she cannot help being stately. I wish I could walk like her, and talk like her, and speak like her; I do, Jasper—I do really.”

“Let me see,” said Jasper in a contemplative tone. “You are learning to love her, ain’t you?”

“I don’t love easily. I love my own darling mothery, who is not dead at all, for she is in heaven with father; and I love you, Jasper, and my uncle Edward.”

“My word! and why him?”

“I cannot help it; I love him already, and I’ll love him more and more the longer I see him and the more I know him. My father must have been like that—a gentleman—a perfect gentleman. Oh! I was happy at the ranch, and mothery was like no one else on the wide earth, but it gave me a sort of quiver down my spine when Uncle Edward took my hand, and when he kissed me. He is like what father was. Had father lived I’d have spent all my days here, and I’d have been perhaps quite as graceful as Audrey, and nearly as beautiful.”

“You will never be like her, so you need not think it. You are squat like your mother, and you ain’t got a decent feature in your face except your eyes, and even they are only big, not dark; and your hair is skimpy and your face white. You are a sort of mix’um-gather’um—a sort of betwixt-and-between—neither very fair nor very dark, neither very short nor very tall. You are thick-set, just the very image of your mother, and you will always be thick-set and always mix’um-gather’um as long as you live. There! I have spoken. I ain’t going to be afraid of you. You had better get into bed now, for it is late. You want your beauty-sleep, and you won’t get it unless you are quick. Now march! Put on your night-dress and step into bed.”

“I have got to say my prayers first,” said Evelyn, “and——” She paused and looked full at her maid. “I have got to say something else. If you talk like that I won’t love you any more. You are not to do it. I won’t have it.”

“Won’t she, then?” said Jasper. Her whole manner changed. “And have I hurt her—have I—the little dear? Come to me, my darling. Why, you are all trembling! Did you think I meant a word I said? Don’t you know that you are the jewel of my eyes and the core of my heart and all the rest? Did your mother leave you to me for nothing, and would I ever leave you, sweetest and best? And if it is squat you are, there is no one like you for determination and fire of spirit. Eh, now, come to my arms and I’ll rock the bitterness out of you, for it is puzzled you are, and fretted you are, and you shall not be—no, you shall not be either one or the other ever again while old Jasper lives.”

Evelyn’s eyes, which had flashed an almost ugly fire, now softened. She looked at Jasper as if she meant to resist her. Then she wavered, and came almost totteringly across the room, and the next moment the strange woman had clasped the girl to her embrace and was rocking her backwards and forwards, Evelyn’s head lying on her breast just as if she were a baby.

“Now then, that’s better,” said Jasper. “I’ll undress you as though we were back again on the ranch, and when you are snug and safe in your little white bed we’ll have a bit of fun.”

“Fun!” said Evelyn. “What?”

“Don’t you know how you like a stolen supper? I have got chocolate here, and a little pot, and a jug of cream, and a saucepan, and I’ll make a rich cup for you and another for myself; and here’s a box of cakes, all sorts and very good. While you are sipping your chocolate I’ll take off Miss Audrey and Lady Frances for you. The door is locked; no one can see us. We’ll be as snug as snug can be, and we’ll have our fun just as if we were back at the ranch.”

Evelyn was now all laughter and high spirits. She had no idea of restraining herself. She called Jasper her honey and her honey-pot, and kissed the good woman several times. She superintended the making of the chocolate with eager words and many directions. Finally, a cup of the rich beverage was handed to her, and she sipped it, luxuriously curled up against her snowy pillows, and ate the sweet cakes, and watched Jasper with happy eyes.

“So it is Miss Audrey you’d like to take after?” said Jasper. “You think you are not a patch on her. To be sure not—wait and we’ll see.”

In an instant Jasper had transformed her features to a comical resemblance of Audrey’s. She spoke in mincing tones, with just sufficient likeness to Audrey to cause Evelyn to scream with mirth. She took light, quick steps across the room, and imitated Audrey’s very words. All of a sudden she changed her manner. She now resembled Miss Sinclair, putting on the slightly precise language of the governess, adjusting her shoulders and arranging her hands as she had seen Miss Sinclair do for a brief moment that evening. Her personation of Miss Sinclair was as good as her personation of Audrey, and Evelyn became so excited that she very nearly spilt her chocolate. But her crowning delight came when all of a sudden, without the slightest warning, Jasper became Lady Frances herself. She now sailed rather than walked across the apartment; her tones were stately and slow; her manner was the sort which might inspire awe; her very words were those of Lady Frances. But the delighted maid believed that she had a further triumph in store, for, with a quick change of mien, she now had the audacity to personate the Squire himself; but in one instant, like a flash, Evelyn was out of bed. She put down her chocolate-cup and rushed towards Jasper.

“The others as much as you like,” she said, “but not Uncle Ned. You dare not. You sha’n’t. I’ll turn you away if you do. I’ll hate you if you do. The others over and over again—they are lovely, splendid, grand—it puts heart in me to see you—but not Uncle Ned.”

Jasper looked in astonishment at the little girl.

“So you love him as much as that already?” she said. “Well, as you please, of course.”

“Don’t be cross, Jasper,” said Evelyn. “I can stand all the others; I can even like them. I told Audrey to-night how splendidly you can mimic, and you shall mimic her to her face when I know her better. Oh, it is killing—it is killing! But I draw the line at Uncle Ned.”

CHAPTER V.—FRANK’S EYES.

“You will not be too hard on the child, dear,” said her husband. “Remember she has never had the advantage of your training.”

“Poor little creature!” said Lady Frances. “That, indeed, my dear Edward, is plain to be seen.”

She bridled very slightly. Lady Frances knew that there was not a more correct trainer of youth in the length and breadth of the county than herself. Audrey, who looked very bright and handsome that morning, ventured to glance at her mother.

“Perhaps Evelyn is dressed and does not know that we are at breakfast,” she said. “May I go to her room and find out?”

“No, Audrey, not this morning. I shall go to see Evelyn presently. By the way, I hope you are ready for your visitors?”

“I suppose so, mother. I don’t really quite know who are coming.”

“The Jervices, of course—Henrietta, Juliet, and their brothers; there are also the Claverings, Mary and Sophie. I think those are the only young people, but with six in addition to you and Evelyn, you will have your hands full, Audrey.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” replied Audrey. “It will be fun.—You will help me all you can, won’t you, Jenny?”

“Certainly, dear,” replied Miss Sinclair.

“It is the greatest possible comfort to me to have you in the house, Miss Sinclair,” said Lady Frances, now turning to the pretty young governess. “You have not yet had an interview with Evelyn, have you?”

“I talked to her a little last night,” replied Miss Sinclair. “She seems to me to be a child with a good deal of character.”

“She is like no child I ever met before,” said Lady Frances, with a shudder. “I must frankly say I never looked forward with any pleasure to her arrival, but my worst fears did not picture so thoroughly objectionable a little girl.”

“Oh, come, Frances—come!” said her husband.

“My dear Edward, I do not give myself away as a rule; but it is just as well that Miss Sinclair should see how much depends on her guidance of the poor little girl, and that Audrey should know how objectionable she is, and how necessary it is for us all to do what we can to alter her ways. The first step, of course, is to get rid of that terrible woman whom she calls Jasper.”

“But, mother,” said Audrey, “that would hurt Evelyn’s feelings very much—she is so devoted to Jasper.”

“You must leave the matter to me, Audrey,” said Lady Frances, rising. “You may be sure that I will do nothing really cruel or unkind. But, my dear, it is as well that you should learn sooner or later that spoiling a person is never true kindness.”

Lady Frances left the room as she spoke; and Audrey, turning to her governess, said a few words to her, and they also went slowly in the direction of the conservatory.

“What do you think of her, Jenny?” asked the girl.

“Just what I said, dear. The child is full of originality and strong feelings, but of course, brought up as she has been, she will be a trial to your mother.”

“That is just it. Mother has never seen any one in the least like Evelyn. She won’t understand her; and if she does not there will be mischief.”

“Evelyn must learn to subdue her will to that of Lady Frances,” said Miss Sinclair. “You and I, Audrey, will try to be very patient with her; we will put up with her small impertinences, knowing that she scarcely means them; and we will try to make things as happy for her as we can.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Audrey. “I cannot see why she should be rude and chuff and disagreeable. I don’t altogether dislike her. She certainly amuses me. But she will not have a very happy time at the Castle until she knows her place.”

“That is it,” said Miss Sinclair. “She has evidently been spoken to most injudiciously—told that she is practically mistress of the place, and that she may do as she likes here. Hence the result. But at the worst, Audrey, I am certain of one thing.”

“What is that, Jenny? How wise you look, and how kind!”

“I believe your father will be able to manage her, whoever else fails. Did you not notice how her eyes followed him round the room last night, and how, whenever he spoke to her, her voice softened and she always replied in a gentle tone?”

“No, I did not,” answered Audrey. “Oh dear! it is very puzzling, and I feel rather cross myself. I cannot imagine why that horrid little girl should ever own this lovely place. It is not that I am jealous of her—I assure you I am anything but that—but it hurts me to think that one who can appreciate things so little should come in for our lovely property.”

“Well, darling, let us hope she will be quite a middle-aged woman before she possesses Castle Wynford,” said the governess. “And now, what about your young friends?”

Audrey slipped her hand inside Miss Sinclair’s arm, and the two paced the conservatory, talking long and earnestly.

Meanwhile Evelyn, having partaken of a rich and unwholesome breakfast of pastry, game-pie, and chocolate, condescended slowly to rise. Jasper waited on her hand and foot. A large fire burned in the grate; no servant had been allowed into the apartment since Evelyn had taken possession of it the night before, and it already presented an untidy and run-to-seed appearance. White ashes were piled high in the untidy grate; dust had collected on the polished steel of the fire-irons; dust had also mounted to the white marble mantelpiece covered with velvet of turquoise-blue, but neither Evelyn nor Jasper minded these things in the least.

“And now, pet,” said the maid, “what dress will you wear?”

“I had better assert myself as soon as possible,” said Evelyn. “Mothery told me I must. So I had better put on something striking. I saw that horrid Audrey walking past just now with her governess; she had on a plain, dark-blue serge. Why, any dairymaid might dress like that. Don’t you agree with me, Jasper?”

“There is your crimson velvet,” said Jasper. “I bought it for you in Paris. You look very handsome in it.”

“Oh, come, Jasper,” said her little mistress, “you said I was squat last night.”

“The rich velvet shows up your complexion,” persisted Jasper. “Put it on, dear; you must make a good impression.”

Accordingly Evelyn allowed herself to be arrayed in a dress of a curious shade between red and crimson. Jasper encircled her waist with a red silk sash; and being further decked with numerous rows of colored beads, varying in hue from the palest green to the deepest rose, the heiress pronounced herself ready to descend.

“And where will you go first, dear?” said Jasper.

“I am going straight to find my Uncle Edward. I have a good deal to say to him. And there is mother’s note; I think it is all about you. I will give it to Uncle Edward to give to my Aunt Frances. I don’t like my Aunt Frances at all, so I will see Uncle Edward first.”

Accordingly Evelyn, in her heavy red dress, her feet encased in black shoes and white stockings, ran down-stairs, and having inquired in very haughty tones of a footman where the Squire was likely to be found, presently opened the door of his private sanctum and peeped in.

Even Lady Frances seldom cared to disturb the Squire when he was in his den, as he called it. When he raised his eyes, therefore, and saw Evelyn’s pale face, her light flaxen hair falling in thin strands about her ears, her big, somewhat light-brown eyes staring at him, he could not help giving a start of annoyance.

“Oh, Uncle Ned, you are not going to be cross too?” said the little girl. She skipped gaily into the room, ran up to him, put one arm round his neck, and kissed him.

The Squire looked in a puzzled way at the queer little figure. Like most men, he knew little or nothing of the details of dress; he was only aware that his own wife always looked perfect, that Audrey was the soul of grace, and that Miss Sinclair presented a very pretty appearance. He was now, therefore, only uncomfortable in Evelyn’s presence, not in the least aware of what was wrong with her, but being quite certain that Lady Frances would not approve of her at all.

“I have come first to you, Uncle Edward,” said Evelyn, “because we must transact some business together.”

“Transact some business!” repeated her uncle. “What long words you use, little girl!”

“I have heard my dear mothery talk about transacting business, so I have picked up the phrase,” replied Evelyn in thoughtful tones. “Well, Uncle Edward, shall we transact? It is best to have things on a business footing; don’t you think so—eh?”

“I think that you are a very strange little person,” said her uncle. “You are too young to know anything of business matters; you must leave those things to your aunt and to me.”

“But I am your heiress, don’t forget. This room will be mine, and all that big estate outside, and the whole of this gloomy old house when you die. Is not that so?”

“It is so, my child.” The Squire could not help wincing when Evelyn pronounced his house gloomy. “But at the same time, my dear Evelyn, things of that sort are not spoken about—at least not in England.”

“Mothery and I spoke a lot about it; we used to sit for whole evenings by the fireside and discuss the time when I should come in for my property. I mean to make changes when my time comes. You don’t mind my saying so, do you?”

“I object to the subject altogether, Evelyn.” The Squire rose and faced his small heiress. “In England we don’t talk of these things, and now that you have come to England you must do as an English girl and a lady would. On your father’s side you are a lady, and you must allow your aunt and me to train you in the observances which constitute true ladyhood in England.”

Evelyn’s brown eyes flashed a very angry fire.

“I don’t wish to be different from my mother,” she said. “My mother was one of the most splendid women on earth. I wish to be exactly like her. I will not be a fine lady—not for anybody.”

“Well, dear, I respect you for being fond of your mother.”

“Fond of her!” said Evelyn; and a strange and intensely tragic look crossed the queer little face.

She was quite silent for nearly a minute, and Edward Wynford watched her with curiosity and pain mingled in his face. Her eyes reminded him of the brother whom he had so truly loved; in every other respect Evelyn was her mother over again.

“I suppose,” she said after a pause, “although I may not speak about what lies before me in the future, and you must die some time, Uncle Edward, that I may at least ask you to supply me with the needful?”

“The what, dear?”

“The needful. Chink, you know—chink.”

Squire Wynford sank slowly back again into his chair.

“You might ask me to sit down,” said Evelyn, “seeing that the room and all it contains will be——” Here she broke off abruptly. “I beg your pardon,” she continued. “I really and truly do not want you to die a minute before your rightful hour. We all have our hour—at least mothery said so—and then go we must, whether we like it or not; so, as you must go some day, and I must——Oh dear! I am always being drawn up now by that horrid wish of yours that I should try to be an English girl. I will try to be when I am in your presence, for I happen to like you; but as for the others, well, we shall see. But, Uncle Ned, what about the chink? Perhaps you call it money; anyhow, it means money. How much may I have out of what is to be all my own some day to spend now exactly as I like?”

“You can have a fair sum, Evelyn. But, first of all, tell me what you want it for and how you mean to spend it.”

“I have all kinds of wants,” began Evelyn. “Jasper had plenty of money to spend on me until I came here. She manages very well indeed, does Jasper. We bought lots of things in Paris—this dress, for instance. How do you like my dress, Uncle Ned?”

“I am not capable of giving an opinion.”

“Aren’t you really? I expect you are about stunned. You never thought a girl like me could dress with such taste. Do you mind my speaking to Audrey, Uncle Ned, about her dress? It does not seem to me to be correct.”

“What is wrong with it?” asked the Squire.

“It is so awfully dowdy; it is not what a lady ought to wear. Ladies ought to dress in silks and satins and brocades and rich embroidered robes. Mothery always said so, and mothery surely knew. But there, I am idling you, and I suppose you are busy directing the management of your estates, which are to be——Oh, there! I am pulled up again. I want my money for Jasper, for one thing. Jasper has got some poor relations, and she and I between us support them.”

“She and you between you,” said the Squire, “support your maid’s relations!”

“Oh dear me, Uncle Ned, how stiffly you speak! But surely it does not matter; I can do what I like with my own.”

“Listen to me, Evelyn,” said her uncle. “You are only a very young girl; your mind may in some ways be older than your body, but you are nothing more than a child.”

“I am not such a child as I look. I was sixteen a month ago. I am sixteen, and that is not very young.”

“We must agree to differ,” said her uncle. “You are young and you are not wise; and although there is some money which is absolutely your own coming from the ranch in Tasmania, yet I have the charge of it until you come of age.”

“When I come of age I suppose I shall be very, very rich?”

“Not at all. You will be my care, and I will allow you what is proper, but as long as I live you will only have the small sum which will come to you yearly from the rent of the ranch. As the ranch may possibly be sold some day, we may be able to realize a nice little capital for you; but you are too young to know much of these things at present. The matter in hand, therefore, is all-sufficient. I will allow you as pocket-money five pounds a quarter. I give precisely the same sum to Audrey. Your aunt will buy your clothes, and you will live here and be treated in all respects as my daughter. Now, that is my side of the bargain.”

Evelyn’s face turned white.

“Five pounds a quarter!” she said. “Why, that is downright penury!”

“No, dear; for the use you require it for it is downright riches. But, be it riches or be it penury, you get no more.”

Evelyn looked full at her uncle; her uncle looked back at her.

“Come here, little girl,” he said.

Her heart was beating with furious anger, but there was something in his tone which subdued her. She went slowly to him, and he put his arm round her waist.

“Your eyes are like—very like—one whom I loved best on earth.”

“You mean my father,” said the girl.

“Your father. He left you to me to care for, and to love and to train—to train for a high position eventually.”

“He left me to mothery; you are quite mistaken there. Mothery has trained me; father left me to her. She often and often and often told me so.”

“That is true, dear. While your mother lived she had the prior claim over you, but now you belong to me.”

“Yes,” said Evelyn. She felt fascinated. She snuggled comfortably inside her uncle’s arm; her strange brown eyes were fixed on his face.

“I give you,” he continued, “the love and care of a father, but I expect a return.”

“What? I don’t mind. I have two diamonds—beauties. You shall have them to make into studs; you shall, because I—yes, I love you.”

“I don’t want your diamonds, my little girl, but I want other things—your love and your obedience. I want you, if you like me, and if you like your Aunt Frances, and if you like your cousin, to follow in our steps, for we have been brought up to approve of courteous manners and quiet dress and gentle speech; and I want that brain of yours, Evelyn, to be educated to high and lofty thoughts. I want you to be a grand woman, worthy of your father, and I expect this return from you for all that I am going to do for you.”

“Are you going to teach me your own self?” asked Evelyn.

“You can come to me sometimes for a talk, but it is impossible for me to be your instructor. You will have a suitable governess.”

“Jasper knows a lot of things. Perhaps she could teach both Audrey and me. She might if you paid her well. She has got some awfully poor relations; she must have lots of money, poor Jasper must.”

“Well, dear, leave me now. We will talk of your education and who is to instruct you, and all about Jasper too, within a few days. You have got to see the place and to make Audrey’s acquaintance; and there are some young friends coming to the Castle for a week. Altogether, you have arrived at a gay time. Now run away, find your cousin, and make yourself happy.”

Squire Wynford rose as he spoke, and taking Evelyn’s hand, he led her to the door. He opened the door wide for her, and saw her go out, and then he kissed his hand to her and closed the door again.

“Poor little mite!” he said to himself. “As strange a child as I ever saw, but with Frank’s eyes.”

CHAPTER VI.—THE HUNGRY GIRL.

“But, if you please,” said Evelyn, “I have nothing to say to you, and I have a great deal to do in other directions. I am going back to Jasper; she wants me.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” began Lady Frances. “Come in here this moment, my dear.”

She took Evelyn’s hand and dragged the unwilling child into her private apartment. A bright fire burned in the grate. The room looked cozy, cheerful, orderly. Lady Frances was a woman of method. She had piles of papers lying neatly docketed on her writing-table; a sheaf of unanswered letters lay on one side. A Remington typewriter stood on a table near, and a slim-looking girl was standing by the typewriter.

“You will leave me for the present, Miss Andrews,” she said, turning to her amanuensis. “I shall require you here again in a quarter of an hour.”

Miss Andrews, with a low bow, instantly left the room.

“You see, Evelyn,” said her aunt, “you are taking up the time of a very busy woman. I manage the financial part of several charities—in short, we are very busy people in this house—and in the morning I, as a rule, allow no one to interrupt me. When the afternoon comes I am ready and willing to be agreeable to my guests.”

“But I am not your guest. The house belongs to me—or at least it will be mine,” said Evelyn.

“You are quite right in saying you are not my guest. You are my husband’s niece, and in the future you will inherit his property; but if I hear you speaking in that rude way again I shall be forced to punish you. I can see for myself that you are an ill-bred girl and will require a vast lot of breaking-in.”

“And you think you can do it?” said Evelyn, her eyes flashing.

“I intend to do it. I am going to talk to you for a few minutes this morning, and after I have spoken I wish you to clearly understand that you are to do as I tell you. You will not be unhappy here; on the contrary, you will be happy. At first you may find the necessary rules of a house like this somewhat irksome, but you will get into the way of them before long. You need discipline, and you will have it here. I will not say much more on that subject this morning. You can find Audrey, and she and Miss Sinclair will take you round the grounds and amuse you, and you must be very much obliged to them for their attentions. Audrey is my daughter, and I think I may say without undue flattery that you will find her a most estimable companion. She is well brought up, and is a charming girl in every sense of the word. Miss Sinclair is her governess; she will also instruct you, but time enough for that in the future. Now, when you leave here go straight to your room and desire your servant—Jasper, I think, you call her—to dress you in a plain and suitable frock.”

“A frock!” said Evelyn. “I wear dresses—long dresses. I am not a child; mothery said I had the sense of several grown-up people.”

“The garment you are now in you are not to wear again; it is unsuitable, and I forbid you to be even seen in it. Do you understand?”

“I hear you,” said Evelyn.

“Go up-stairs and do what I tell you, and then you can go into the grounds. Audrey is having holidays at present; you will find her with her governess in the shrubbery. Now go; the time I can devote to you for the present is up.”

“I had better give you this first,” said Evelyn.

She thrust her hand into her pocket and took out the ill-spelt and now exceedingly dirty note which poor Mrs. Wynford in Tasmania had written to Lady Frances before her death.

“This is from mothery, who is dead,” continued the child. “It is for you. She wrote it to you. I expect she is watching you now; she told me that she would come back if she could and see how people treated me. I am going. Don’t lose the note; it was written by mothery, and she is dead.”

Evelyn laid the dirty letter on the blotting-pad on Lady Frances’s table. It looked strangely out of keeping with the rest of her correspondence. The little girl left the room, banging the door behind her.

“A dreadful child!” thought Lady Frances. “How are we to endure her? My poor, sweet Audrey! I must get Edward to allow me to send Evelyn to school; she really is not a fit companion for my young daughter.”

Miss Andrews came back.

“Please direct these envelopes, and answer some of these letters according to the notes which I have put down for you,” said Lady Frances; and her secretary began to work. But Lady Frances did not ask Miss Andrews to read or reply to the dirty little note. She took it up very much as though she would like to drop it into the fire, but finally she opened it and read the contents. The letter was rude and curt, and Lady Frances’s fine black eyes flashed as she read the words. Finally, she locked the letter up in a private bureau, and sitting down, calmly proceeded with her morning’s work.

Meanwhile Evelyn, choking with rage and utterly determined to disobey Lady Frances, left the room. She stood still for a moment in the long corridor and looked disconsolately to right and to left of her.

“How ugly it all is!” she said to herself. “How I hate it! Mothery, why did you die? Why did I ever leave my darling, darling ranch in Tasmania?”

She turned and very slowly walked up the white marble staircase. Presently she reached her own luxurious room. It was in the hands of a maid, however, who was removing the dust and putting the chamber in order.

“Where is Jasper?” asked the little girl.

“Miss Jasper has gone out of doors, miss.”

“Do you know how long she has been out?” asked Evelyn in a tone of keen interest.

“About half an hour, miss.”

“Then I’ll follow her.”

Evelyn went to her wardrobe. Jasper had already unpacked her young lady’s things and laid them higgledy-piggledy in the spacious wardrobe. It took the little girl a long time to find a tall velvet hat trimmed with plumes of crimson feathers. This she put on before the glass, arranging her hair to look as thick as possible, and smirking at her face while she arrayed herself.

“I would not wear this hat, for I got it quite for Sunday best, but I want her to see that she cannot master me,” thought the child. She then wrapped a crimson silk scarf round her neck and shoulders, and so attired looked very much like a little lady of the time of Vandyck. Once more she went down-stairs.

Audrey she did not wish to meet; Miss Sinclair she intended to be hideously rude to; but Jasper—where was Jasper?

Evelyn looked all round. Suddenly she saw a figure on the other side of a small lake which adorned part of the grounds. The figure was too far off for her to see it distinctly. It must be Jasper, for it surely was not in the least like the tall, fair, and stately Aubrey, not like Miss Sinclair.

Picking up her skirts, which were too long for her to run comfortably, the small figure now skidded across the grass. She soon reached the side of the lake, and shouted:

“Jasper! Oh Jasper! Jasper, I have news for you! You never knew anything like the——”

The next instant she had rushed into the arms of Sylvia Leeson. Sylvia cried out eagerly:

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

Evelyn stared for a moment at the strange girl, then burst into a hearty laugh.

“Do tell me—quick, quick!—are you one of the Wynfords?” she asked.

“I a Wynford!” cried Sylvia. “I only wish I were. Are you a Wynford? Do you live at the Castle?”

“Do I live at the Castle!” cried Evelyn. “Why, the Castle is mine—I mean it will be when Uncle Ned dies. I came here yesterday; and, oh! I am miserable, and I want Jasper?”

“Who is Jasper?”

“My maid. Such a darling!—the only person here who cares in the least for me. Oh, please, please tell me your name! If you do not live at the Castle, and if you can assure me from the bottom of your heart that you do not love any one—any one who lives in the Castle—why, I will love you. You are sweetly pretty! What is your name?”

“Sylvia Leeson. I live three miles from here, but I adore the Castle. I should like to come here often.”

“You adore it! Then that is because you know nothing about it. Do you adore Audrey?”

“Is Audrey the young lady of the Castle?”

“She is not the young lady of the Castle. I am the young lady of the Castle. But have you ever seen her?”

“Once; and then she was rude to me.”

“Ah! I thought so. I don’t think she could be very polite to anybody. Now, suppose you and I become friends? The Castle belongs to me—or will when Uncle Ned dies. I can order people to come or people to go; and I order you to come. You shall come up to the house with me. You shall have lunch with me; you shall really. I have got a lovely suite of rooms—a bedroom of blue-and-silver and a little sitting-room for my own use; and you shall come there, and Jasper shall serve us both. Do you know that you are sweetly pretty?—just like a gipsy. You are lovely! Will you come with me now? Do! come at once.”

Sylvia laughed. She looked full at Evelyn; then she said abruptly:

“May I ask you a very straight question?”

“I love straight questions,” replied Evelyn.

“Can you give me a right, good, big lunch? Do you know that I am very hungry? Were you ever very hungry?”

“Oh, sometimes,” replied Evelyn, staring very hard at her. “I lived on a ranch, you know—or perhaps you don’t know.”

“I don’t know what a ranch is.”

“How funny! I thought everybody knew. You see, I am not English; I am Tasmanian. My father was an Englishman, but he died when I was a little baby, and I lived with mothery—the sweetest, the dearest, the darlingest woman on earth—on a ranch in Tasmania. Mothery is dead, and I have come here, and all the place will belong to me—not to Audrey—some day. Yes, I was hungry when we went on long expeditions, which we used to do in fine weather, but there was always something handy to eat. I have heard of people who are hungry and there is nothing handy to eat. Do you belong to that sort?”

“Yes, to that sort,” said Sylvia, nodding. “I will tell you about myself presently. Yes, take me to the house, please. I know he will be angry when he knows it, but I am going all the same.”

“Who is he?”

“I will tell you about him when you know the rest. Take me to the house, quick. I was there once before, on New Year’s Day, when every one—every one has a right to come. I hope you will keep up that splendid custom when you get the property. I ate a lot then. I longed to take some for him, but it was the rule that I must not do that. I told him about it afterwards: game-pie, two helpings; venison pasty, two ditto.”

“Oh, that is dull!” interrupted Evelyn. “Have you not forgotten yet about a lunch you had some days ago?”

“You would not if you were in my shoes,” said Sylvia. “But come; if we stay talking much longer some one will see us and prevent me from going to the house with you.”

“I should like to find the person who could prevent me from doing what I like to do!” replied Evelyn. “Come, Sylvia, come.”

Evelyn took the tall, dark girl’s hand, and they both set to running, and entered the house by the side entrance. They had the coast clear, as Evelyn expressed it, and ran up at once to her suite of rooms. Jasper was not in; the rooms were empty. They ran through the bedroom and found themselves in the beautifully furnished boudoir. A fire was blazing on the hearth; the windows were slightly open; the air, quite mild and fresh—for the day was like a spring one—came in at the open casement. Evelyn ran and shut it, and then turned and faced her companion.

“There!” she said. She came close up to Sylvia, and almost whispered, “Suppose Jasper brings lunch for both of us up here? She will if I command her. I will ring the bell and she’ll come. Would you not like that?”

“Yes, I’d like it much—much the best,” said Sylvia. “I am afraid of Lady Frances. And Miss Audrey can be very rude. She was very chuff with me on New Year’s Day.”

“She won’t be chuff with you in my presence,” said Evelyn. “Ah! here comes Jasper.”

Jasper, looking slightly excited, now appeared on the scene.

“Well, my darling!” she said. She rushed up to Evelyn and clasped her in her arms. “Oh, my own sweet Eve, and how are you getting on?” she exclaimed. “I am thinking this is not the place for you.”

“We will talk of that another time, please, Jasper,” said Evelyn, with unwonted dignity. “I have brought a friend to lunch with me. This young lady is called Miss Sylvia Leeson, and she is awfully hungry, and we’d both like a big lunch in this room. Can you smuggle things up, Jasper?”

“Her ladyship will be mad,” exclaimed Jasper. “I was told in the servants’ hall that she was downright annoyed at your not going to breakfast; if you are not at lunch she will move heaven and earth.”

“Let her; it will be fun,” said Evelyn. “I am going to lunch here with my friend Sylvia Leeson. Bring a lot of things up, Jasper—good things, rich things, tempting things; you know what sort I like.”

“I’ll try if there is a bit of pork and some mincepies and plum-pudding and cream and such-like down-stairs. And you’d fancy your chocolate, would you not?”

“Rather! Get all you can, and be as quick as ever you can.”

Jasper accordingly withdrew, and in a short time appeared with a laden tray in her hands.

“I had to run the gauntlet of the footman and the butler too; and what they will tell Lady Frances goodness knows, but I do not,” answered Jasper. “But there, if things have to come to a crisis, why, they must. You will not forget me when the storm breaks, will you, Evelyn?”

“I’ll never forget you,” said Evelyn, with enthusiasm. “You are the dearest and darlingest thing left now that mothery is in heaven; and Sylvia will love you too. I have been telling her all about you.—Now, Sylvia, you will not be hungry long.”

CHAPTER VII.—STAYING TO DINNER.

“Do let me find Evelyn, mother. I have been expecting her to join me the whole morning. She does not, of course, know about our rules yet.”

“No, Audrey,” said her mother; “I prefer that you should not leave the table.—Miss Sinclair, perhaps you will oblige me. Will you go to Evelyn’s room and tell her that we are at lunch?”

Miss Sinclair rose at once. She was absent for about five minutes. When she came back there was a distressed look on her face.

“Well, Jenny, well?” said Audrey in a voice of suppressed excitement. “Is she coming?”

“I think not,” said Miss Sinclair.—“I will explain matters to you, Lady Frances, afterwards.”

“Dear, dear!” said the Squire. “What a lot of explanations seem to be necessary with regard to the conduct of one small girl!”

“But she is a very important small girl, is she not, father?” said Audrey.

“Well, yes, dear; and I should like to say now that I take an interest in her—in fact,” he added, looking round him, for the servants had withdrawn, “I am prepared to love little Eve very much indeed.”

Lady Frances’s eyes flashed a somewhat indignant fire. Then she said slowly:

“As you speak so frankly, Edward, I must do likewise. I never saw a more hopeless child. There seems to be nothing whatever for it but to send her to school for a couple of years.”

“No,” said the Squire, “I will not allow that. We never sent Audrey to school, and I will have no difference made with regard to Evelyn’s education. All that money can secure must be provided for her, but I do not care for school-life for girls.”

Lady Frances said nothing further. She was a woman with tact, and would not on any consideration oppose her husband in public. All the same, she secretly made up her mind that if Evelyn proved unmanageable she was not to stay at Wynford Castle.

“And there is another thing,” continued the Squire. “This is her first day in her future home. I do not wish her to be punished whatever she may have done. I should like her to have absolute freedom until to-morrow morning.”

“It shall be exactly as you wish, Edward,” said Lady Frances. “I did intend to seek Evelyn out; I did intend further to question Miss Sinclair as to the reason why Evelyn did not appear at lunch; but I will defer these things. It happens to be somewhat convenient, as I want to pay some calls this afternoon; and really, with that child on my brain, I should not enjoy my visits. You, Audrey dear, will see to your cousin’s comforts, and when she is inclined to give you her society you will be ready to welcome her. Your young friends will not arrive until just before dinner. Please, at least use your influence, Audrey, to prevent Evelyn making a too extraordinary appearance to-night. Now I think that is all, and I must run off if I am to be in time to receive my guests.”

Lady Frances left the room, and Audrey went to her governess’s side.

“What is it?” she said. “You did look strange, Jenny, when you came into the room just now. Where is Evelyn? Why did she not come to lunch?”

“It is the greatest possible mercy,” said Miss Sinclair, “that Evelyn is allowed to have one free day, for perhaps—although I feel by no means sure—you and I may influence her for her own good to-night. But what do you think has happened? I went to her room and knocked at the door of the boudoir. I heard voices within. The door was immediately opened by the maid Jasper, and I saw Evelyn seated at a table, eating a most extraordinary kind of lunch, in the company of a girl whom I have never seen before.”

“Oh Jenny,” cried Audrey, “how frightfully exciting! A strange girl! Surely Evelyn did not bring a stranger with her and hide her somewhere last night?”

“No, dear, no,” said Miss Sinclair, laughing; “she did nothing of that sort. I fancy the girl must live in the neighborhood, although her face is unfamiliar to me. She is rather a pretty girl, but by no means the sort that your mother would approve of as a companion for your cousin.”

“What is she like?” asked Audrey in a grave voice.

Miss Sinclair proceeded to describe Sylvia’s appearance. She was interrupted in the middle of her description by a cry from Audrey.

“Oh dear!” she exclaimed, “you must have seen that curious girl, Sylvia Leeson. Your description is exactly like her. Well, as this is a free day, and we can do pretty much what we like, I will run straight up to Evelyn’s room and look for myself.”

“Do Audrey; I think on the whole it would be the best plan.”

So Audrey ran up-stairs, and soon her tap was heard on Evelyn’s door; the next moment she found herself in the presence of a very untidy, disheveled-looking cousin, and also in that of handsome Sylvia Leeson.

Sylvia dropped a sort of mock courtesy when she saw Audrey.

“My Shakespearian contemporary!” was her remark. “Well, Audrey, and how goes the Forest of Arden? And have you yet met Touchstone?”

Audrey colored very high at what she considered a direct impertinence.

“What are you doing here?” she said. “My mother does not know your mother.”

Sylvia gave a ringing laugh.

“I met this lady,” she said—and she pointed in Evelyn’s direction—“and she invited me here. I have had lunch with her, and I am no longer hungry. This is her room, is it not?”

“I should just think it is,” said Evelyn; “and I only invite those people whom I care about to come into it.” She said the words in a very pointed way, but Audrey had now recovered both her dignity and good-nature.

She laughed.

“Really we three are too silly,” she said. “Evelyn, you cannot mean the ridiculous words you say! As if any room in my father’s house is not free to me when I choose to go there! Now, whether you like it or not, I am determined to be friends with you. I do not want to scold you or lecture you, for it is not my place, but I intend to sit down although you have not the civility to offer me a chair; and I intend to ask again why Miss Leeson is here.”

“I came because Evelyn asked me,” said Sylvia; and then, all of a sudden, an unexpected change came over her face. Her pretty, bright eyes, with a sort of robin-redbreast look in them, softened and melted, and then grew brighter than ever through tears. She went up to Audrey and knelt at her feet.

“Why should not I come? Why should not I be happy?” she said. “I am a very lonely girl; why should you grudge me a little happiness?”

Audrey looked at her in amazement; then a change came over her own face. She allowed her hand just for an instant to touch the hand of Sylvia, and her eyes looked into the wild eyes of the shabby girl who was kneeling before her.

“Get up,” she said. “You have no right to take that attitude to me. As you are here, sit down. I do not want to be rude to you; far from that. I should like to make you happy.”

“Should you really?” answered Sylvia. “You can do it, you know.”

“Sylvia,” interrupted Evelyn, “what does this mean? You and I have been talking in a very frank way about Audrey. We have neither of us been expressing any enthusiastic opinions with regard to her; and yet now—and yet now——”

“Oh, let me be, Eve,” replied Sylvia. “I like Audrey. I liked her the other day. It is true I was afraid of her, and I was crushed by her, but I liked her; and I like her better now, and if she will be my friend I am quite determined to be hers.”

“Then you do not care for me?” said Evelyn, getting up and strutting across the room.

Sylvia looked at Audrey, whose eyes, however, would not smile, and whose face was once more cold and haughty.

“Evelyn,” she said, “I must ask you to try and remember that you are a lady, and not to talk in this way before anybody but me. I am your cousin, and when you are alone with me I give you leave to talk as you please. But now the question is this: I do not in the least care what Sylvia said of me behind my back. I hope I know better than to wish to find out what I was never meant to hear. This is a free country, and any girl in England can talk of me as she pleases—I am not afraid—that is, she can talk of me as she pleases when I am absent. But what I want to do now is to answer Sylvia’s question. She is unhappy, and she has thrown herself on me.—What can I do, Sylvia, to make you happy?”

Sylvia was standing huddled up against the wall. Her pretty shoulders were hitched to her ears; her hair was disheveled and fell partly over her forehead; her eyes gleamed out under their thick thatch of black hair like wild birds in a nest; her coral lips trembled, there was just a gleam of snowy teeth, and then she said impulsively:

“You are a darling, and you can do one thing. Let me for to-day forget that I am poor and hungry and very lonely and very sad. Let me share your love and Evelyn’s love for just one whole day.”

“But there are people coming to-night, Sylvia,” said Evelyn. “I heard Jasper speak of it. Lots of people—grandees, you know.”

Sylvia shuddered slightly.

“We never say that sort of word now in England,” she remarked; and she added: “I am well-born too. There was a time when I should not have been at all shy of Audrey Wynford.”

“You are very queer,” said Evelyn. “I do not know that I particularly want you for a friend.”

“Well, never mind; I think I can get you to love me,” said Sylvia. “But now the question is this: Will Audrey let me stay or will she not? Will you, Audrey—will you—just because my name is Sylvia and we have met in the Forest of Arden?”

“Oh dear,” said Audrey, “what a difficult question you ask! And how can I answer it? I dare not give you leave all by myself, but I will go and inquire.”

Audrey ran immediately out of the room.

“What a wonderful change has come into my life!” she said to herself as she flew down-stairs and looked into different rooms, but all in vain, for Miss Sinclair.

Her mother was out; it was hopeless to think of appealing to her. Without the permission of some one older than herself she could not possibly ask Sylvia to stay. Sylvia could be more or less lost in the crowd of children who would be at the Castle that evening, but her mother’s eyes would quickly seek out the unfamiliar face, inquiries would be made, and—in short, Audrey did not dare to take this responsibility on herself. She was rushing up-stairs again, prepared to tell Sylvia that she could not grant her request, when she came plump up against her father.

“My dear girl, what a hurry you are in!” he exclaimed.

“Oh yes, father,” replied Audrey. “I am excited. The house is full of life and almost mystery.”

“Then you like your cousin to be here?” said the Squire, and his face brightened.

“Yes and no,” answered Audrey truthfully. “But, father, I have a great request to make. You know you said that Evelyn was to have a free day to-day in which she could do as she pleased. She has a guest up-stairs whom she would like to ask to stay. May she ask her, father? She is a girl, and lonely and pretty, and, I think, on the whole, a lady. May we both ask her to dinner and to spend the evening? And will you, father, take the responsibility?”

“Of course—of course,” said the Squire.

“Will you explain to mother when she returns?”

“Yes, my dear—certainly. Ask anybody you please; I never restrain you with regard to your friends. Now do not keep me, my love; I am going out immediately.”