A Very Naughty Girl

“But I am too glad of it,” said Sylvia. “It made me know you, and Evelyn too.”

“Don’t forget, Audrey,” said Evelyn at that moment, “that Sylvia is really my friend. It was I who first brought her to the Castle. – You do not forget that, do you, Sylvia?”

“No,” said Sylvia, smiling. “And I like you both awfully. But do tell me about your school – do, please.”

“Well,” said Audrey, “there is a rather exciting thing to tell – something unpleasant, too. Perhaps you ought not to know.”

“Please – please tell me. I am quite dying to hear about it.”

Audrey then described the mysterious damage done to Sesame and Lilies.

“Miss Henderson was told,” she said, “and yesterday morning she spoke to the entire school. She is going to punish the person who did it very severely if she can find her; and if that person does not confess, I believe the whole school is to be put more or less into Coventry.”

“But how does she know that any of the girls did it?” was Sylvia’s answer. “There are servants in the house. Has she questioned them?”

“She has; but it so happens that the servants are quite placed above suspicion, for the book was whole at a certain hour the very first day we came to school, and that evening it was found in its mutilated condition. During all those hours it happened to be in the Fourth Form schoolroom.”

“Yes,” said Evelyn in a careless tone. “It is quite horrid for me, you know, for I am a Fourth Form girl. I ought not to be. I ought to be in the Sixth Form with Audrey. But there! those unpleasant mistresses have no penetration.”

“But why should you wish to be in a higher form than your acquirements warrant?” replied Sylvia. “Oh,” she added, with enthusiasm, “don’t I envy you both your luck! Should I not love to be at school in order to work hard!”

“By the way, Sylvia,” said Audrey suddenly, “how have you been educated?”

“Why, anyhow,” said the girl. “I have taught myself mostly. But please do not ask me any questions. I don’t want to think of my own life at all to-day; I am so very happy at being with you two.”

Audrey immediately turned the conversation; but soon, by a sort of instinct, it crept back again to the curious occurrence which had taken place at Miss Henderson’s school.

“Please do not speak of it at lunch,” said Audrey, “for we have not told mother or father anything about it. We hope that this disgraceful thing will not be made public, but that the culprit will confess.”

“Much chance of that!” said Evelyn; and she nudged Sylvia’s arm, on which she happened to be leaning.

The girls presently went into the house. Lunch followed. Lady Frances was extremely kind to Sylvia – in fact, she made a pet of her. She looked with admiration at the pretty and suitable costume, and wondered in her own heart what she could do for the little girl.

“I like her,” she said to herself. “She suits me better than any girl I have ever met except my own dear Audrey. Oh, how I wish she were the heiress instead of Evelyn!”

Evelyn was fairly well behaved; she had learnt to suppress herself. She was now outwardly dutiful to Lady Frances, and was, without any seeming in the matter, affectionate to her uncle. The Squire was always specially kind to Evelyn; but he liked young girls, and took notice of Sylvia also, trying to draw her out. He spoke to her about her father. He told her that he had once known a distinguished man of the name, and wondered if it could be the same. Sylvia colored painfully, and showed by many signs that the conversation distressed her.

“It cannot be the same, of course,” said the Squire lightly, “for my friend Robert Leeson was a man who was likely to rise to the very top of his profession. He was a barrister of extreme eminence. I shall never forget the brilliant way he spoke in a cause célèbre which occupied public attention not long ago. He won the case for his clients, and covered himself with well-earned glory.”

Sylvia’s eyes sparkled; then they grew dim with unshed tears. She lowered her eyes and looked on her plate. Lady Frances nodded softly to herself.

“The same – doubtless the same,” she said to herself. “A most distinguished man. How terribly sad! I must inquire into this; Edward has unexpectedly given me the clue.”

The girls went for a ride after lunch, and the rest of the delightful day passed swiftly. Sylvia counted the hours. Whenever she looked at the clock her face grew a little sadder. Half-hour after half-hour of the precious time was going by. When should she have such a grand treat again? At last it was time to go up-stairs to dress for dinner.

“Now, you must come to my room, Sylvia,” said Evelyn. “Yes, I insist,” she added, “for I was in reality your first friend.”

Sylvia was quite willing to comply. She soon found herself in Evelyn’s extremely pretty blue-and-silver room. How comfortable it looked – how luxurious, how sweet, how refreshing to the eyes! The cleanliness and perfect order of the room, the brightness of the fire, the calm, proper look of Read as she stood by waiting to dress Evelyn for dinner, all impressed Sylvia.

“I like this life,” she said suddenly. “Perhaps it is bad for me even to see it, but I like it; I confess as much.”

“Perhaps, Miss Leeson,” said Read just then in a very courteous voice, “you will not object to Miss Audrey lending you the same dress you wore the last time you were here? It has been nicely made up, and looks very fresh and new.”

As Read spoke she pointed to the lovely Indian muslin robe which lay across Evelyn’s bed.

“Please, Read,” said Evelyn suddenly, “don’t stay to help me to dress to-night; Sylvia will do that. I want to have a chat with her; I have a lot to say.”

“I will certainly help Evelyn if I can,” replied Sylvia.

“Very well, miss,” replied Read. “To tell you the truth, I shall be rather relieved; my mistress requires a fresh tucker to be put into the dress she means to wear this evening, and I have not quite finished it. Then you will excuse me, young ladies. If you want anything, will you have the goodness to ring?”

The next moment Read had departed.

“Now, that is right,” said Evelyn. “Now we shall have a cozy time; there is nearly an hour before we need go down-stairs. How do you like my room, Sylvia?”

“Very much indeed. I see the second bed has gone.”

“Oh yes. I do not mind a scrap sleeping alone now; in fact, I rather prefer it. Sylvia, I want so badly to confide in you!”

“To confide in me! How? Why?”

“I want to ask you about Jasper. Oh yes, she wants to see me. I can manage to slip out about nine o’clock on Tuesday next; we are not to dine down-stairs on Tuesday night, for there is a big dinner party. She can come to meet me then; I shall be standing by the stile in the shrubbery.”

“But surely Lady Frances will not like you to be out so late!”

“As if I minded her! Sylvia, for goodness’ sake don’t tell me that you are growing goody-goody.”

“No; I never was that,” replied Sylvia. “I don’t think I could be; it is not in me, I am afraid.”

“I hope not; I don’t think Jasper would encourage that sort of thing. Yes, I have a lot to tell her, and you may say from me that I don’t care for school.”

“Oh, I am so sorry! It is incomprehensible to me, for I should think that you would love it.”

“For some reasons I might have endured it; but then, you see, there is that awkward thing about the Ruskin book.”

“The Ruskin book!” said Sylvia. She turned white, and her heart began to beat. “Surely – surely, Evelyn, you have had nothing to do with the tearing out of the first pages of Sesame and Lilies!”

“You won’t tell – you promise you won’t tell?” said Evelyn, nodding her head, and her eyes looking very bright.

“Oh! I don’t know. This is dreadful; please relieve my anxiety.”

“You will not tell; you dare not!” said Evelyn, with passion. “If you did I would tell about Jasper – I would. Oh! I would not leave a stone unturned to make your life miserable. There, Sylvia, forgive me; I did not mean to scold. I like you so much, dear Sylvia; and I am so glad you have Jasper with you, and it suits me to perfection. But I did tear the leaves out of the book; yes, I did, and I am glad I did; and you must never, never tell.”

“But, Eve – oh, Eve! why did you do such a dreadful thing?”

“I did it in a fit of temper, to spite that horrid Miss Thompson; I hate her so! She was so intolerably cheeky; she made me stay in during recreation on the very first day, and she accused me of telling lies, and when she had left the room I saw the odious book lying on the table. I had seen her reading it before, and I thought it was her book; and almost before I had time to think, the pages were out and torn up and in the fire. If I had known it was Miss Henderson’s book, of course, I should not have done it. But I did not know. I meant to punish horrid old Thompson, and it seems I have succeeded better than I expected.”

“But, Eve – Eve, the whole school is suspected now. What are you going to do?”

“Do!” replied Evelyn. “Nothing.”

“But you have been asked, have you not, whether you knew anything about the injury to the book?”

“I have, and I told a nice little whopper – a nice pretty little whopper – a dear, charming little whopper – and I mean to stick to it.”

“Eve!”

“You look shocked. Well, cheer up; it has not been your fault. I must confide in some one, so I have told you, and you may tell Jasper if you like. Dear old Jasper! she will applaud me for my spirit. Oh dear! do you know, Sylvia, I think you are rather a tiresome girl. I thought you too would have admired the plucky way I have acted.”

“How can I admire deceit and lies?” replied Sylvia in a low tone.

“You dare say those words to me!”

“Yes, I dare. Oh, you have made me unhappy! Oh, you have destroyed my day! Oh Eve, Eve, why did you do it?”

“You won’t tell on me, please, Sylvia? You have promised that, have you not?”

“Oh, why should I tell? It is not my place. But why did you do it?”

“If you will not tell, nothing matters. I have done it, and it is not your affair.”

“Yes, it is, now that you have confided in me. Oh, you have made me unhappy!”

“You are a goose! But you may tell dear Jasper; and tell her too that her little Eve will wait for her at the turnstile on Tuesday night at nine o’clock. Now then, let’s get ready or we shall be late for dinner.”

CHAPTER XX. – “NOT GOOD NOR HONORABLE.”

It was very late indeed when Sylvia got home. On this occasion she was not allowed to return to The Priory unaccompanied; Lady Frances insisted on Read going with her. Read said very little as the two walked over the roads together; but she was ever a woman of few words. Sylvia longed to question her, as she wanted to take as much news as possible to Jasper, but Read’s face was decidedly uninviting. As soon as the woman had gone, Sylvia slipped round to the back entrance, where Jasper was waiting for her. Jasper had the gate ajar, and Pilot was standing by her side.

“Come, darling – come right in,” she said. “The coast is clear, and, oh! I have a lot to tell you.”

She fastened the back gate, making it look as though it had not been disturbed for years, and a moment later the woman and the girl were standing in the warm kitchen.

“The door is locked, and he will not come,” said Jasper. “He is quite well, and I heard him go up-stairs to his bed an hour ago.”

“And did he eat anything, Jasper?”

“Oh, did he not, my love? Oh, I am fit to die with laughter when I think of it! He imagines that he has demolished one quarter of the scraggiest hen in the hen-house.”

“What! old Wallaroo?” replied Sylvia, a smile breaking over her face.

“Wallaroo, or whatever outlandish name you like to call the bird.”

“Please tell me all about it.”

Sylvia sank down as she spoke into a chair. Jasper related her morning’s adventure, and the two laughed heartily.

“Only it seems a shame to deceive him,” said Sylvia at last. “And so Wallaroo has really gone! Do you know, I shall miss her; I have stood and watched her antics for so many long days. She was the most outrageous flirt of any bird I have ever come across, and so indignant when old Roger paid the least attention to any of his other wives.”

“She has passed her flirting days,” replied Jasper, “and is now the property of little Tim Donovan in the village; perhaps, however, she will get more food there. My dear Miss Sylvia, you must make up your mind that each one of those birds has to be disposed of in secret, and that I in exchange get in sleek and fat young fowls for your father’s benefit. But now, that is enough on the subject for the present. Tell me all about Miss Evelyn; I am just dying to hear.”

“She will meet you on Tuesday evening at nine o’clock by the turnstile in the shrubbery,” replied Sylvia.

“That is right. What a brave, dear, plucky pet she is!”

Sylvia was silent.

“What is the matter with you, Miss Sylvia? Had you not a happy day?”

“I had – very, very happy until just before dinner.”

“And what happened then?”

“I will tell you in the morning, Jasper – not to-night. Something happened then. I am sorry and sad, but I will tell you in the morning. I must slip up to bed now without father knowing it.”

“Your father thinks that you are in bed, for I went up, just imitating your step to perfection, an hour before he did, and I went into your room and shut the door; and when he went up he knocked at the door, and I answered in your voice that I had a bit of a headache and had gone to bed. He asked me if I had had any supper, and I said no; and he said the best thing for a headache was to rest the stomach. Bless you! he is keen on that, whatever else he is not keen on. He went off to his bed thinking you were snug in yours. When I made sure that he was well in his bed, which I could tell by the creaking of the bedstead, I let myself out. I had oiled the lock previously. I shut the door without making a sound loud enough to wake a mouse, and crept down-stairs; and here I am. You must not go up to-night or you will give me away, and there will be a fine to-do. You must sleep in my cozy room to-night.”

“Well, I do not mind that,” replied Sylvia. “How clever you are, Jasper! You really did manage most wonderfully; only again I must say it seems a shame to deceive my dear old father.”

“It is a question of dying in the cause of your dear old father or deceiving him,” replied Jasper in blunt tones. “Now then, come to bed, my love, for if you are not dead with sleep I am.”

The next morning Mr. Leeson was in admirable spirits. He met Sylvia at breakfast, and congratulated her on the long day she had spent in the open air.

“And you look all the better for it,” he said. “I was too busy to think about you at tea-time; indeed, I did not have any tea, having consumed a most admirable luncheon some time before one o’clock. I was so very busy attending to my accounts all the afternoon that I quite forgot my dear little girl. Well, I have made arrangements, dearest, to buy shares in the Kilcolman Gold-mines. The thing may or may not turn up trumps, but in any case I have made an effort to spare a little money to buy some of the shares. That means that we must be extra prudent and careful for the next year or so. You will aid me in that, will you not, Sylvia? You will solemnly promise me, my dear and only child, that you will not give way to recklessness; when you see a penny you will look at it two or three times before you spend it. You have not the least idea how careful it makes you to keep what I call close and accurate accounts, every farthing made to produce its utmost value, and, if possible – if possible, my dear Sylvia – saved. It is surprising how little man really wants here below; the luxuries of the present day are disgusting, enervating, unnecessary. I speak to you very seriously, for now and then, I grieve to say, I have seen traces in you of what rendered my married life unhappy.”

“Father, you must not speak against mother,” said Sylvia. Her face was pale and her voice trembled. “There was no one like mother,” she continued, “and for her sake I – ”

“Yes, Sylvia, what do you do for her sake?”

“I put up with this death in life. Oh father, father, do you think I really – really like it?”

Mr. Leeson looked with some alarm at his child. Sylvia’s eyes were full of tears; she laid her hands on the table, bent forward, and looked full across at her father.

“For mother’s sake I bear it; you cannot think that I like it!” she repeated.

Mr. Leeson’s first amazement now gave place to cold displeasure.

“We will not pursue this topic,” he said. “I have something more to tell you. I made a pleasant discovery yesterday. During your absence a strange thing occurred. A gipsy woman entered the avenue and walked up to the front door, unmolested by Pilot. She seemed to have a strange power over Pilot, for the dog did not bar her entrance in the least. I naturally went to see what she wanted, and she told me that she had come, thinking I might have some fowls for sale. Now, you know, my dear, those old birds in the hen-house have long been eating their heads off, and I rather hailed an opportunity of getting rid of them; they only lay eggs – and that but a few – in the warm weather, and during the winter we are at a loss by our efforts to keep them alive.”

“I know plenty about fowls,” said Sylvia then. “They need hot suppers and all sorts of good things to make them lay eggs in cold weather.”

“We can do without eggs, but we cannot afford to give the fowls hot suppers,” said Mr. Leeson in a tone of great dignity. “But now, Sylvia, to the point. The woman offered a ludicrous price for the birds, and of course I would not part with them; at the same time she incidentally – silly person – gave herself away. She let me understand that she wanted the fowls to stew down in the gipsy pot. Now, of late, when arranging my recipes for publication, I have often thought of the gipsies and the delicious stews they make out of all sorts of things which other people would throw away. It occurred to me, therefore, to question her; and the result was, dear, not to go too much into particulars, that she killed one of the fowls, and in a very short time brought me a delicious stew made out of the bird, really as tasty and succulent as anything I have ever swallowed. I paid her a trifle for her services, and the remainder of the fowl is at the present moment lying in the cupboard in our sitting-room. I should like it to be warmed up for our midday repast; there is a great deal more there than we can by any possibility consume, but we can have a dainty meal out of part of the stew, and the rest can be saved for supper. I have further decided that we must get some one to kill the rest of the birds, and we will have them one by one on the table. Do you ever, my dear Sylvia, in your perambulations abroad, go near any of the gipsies? – for, if so, I should not mind giving you a shilling to purchase that woman’s recipe.”

Sylvia at this juncture rose from the table. She had with the utmost difficulty kept her composure while her father was so innocently talking about the gipsy’s stew.

“I will see – I will see, father. I quite understand,” she said; and the next instant she ran out of the room.

“Really,” thought Mr. Leeson when she had gone, “Sylvia talks a little strangely at times. Just think how she spoke just now of her happy home! Death in life, she called it – a most wrong and exaggerated term; and exaggeration of speech leads to extravagance of mind, and extravagance of mind means most reckless expenditure. If I am not very careful my poor child will soon be on the road to ruin. I doubt if I ought to feed her up with dainties – and really that stewed fowl made a rare and delicious dish – but it is the most saving thing I can do; there are enough birds in the hen-house to last Sylvia and me for several weeks to come.”

Meanwhile Sylvia had rushed off to Jasper.

“Oh Jasper!” she said, “I nearly died with laughter, and yet it is horrid to deceive him. Oh! please do not kill any more of the birds for a long time; it is more than I can stand. Father is so delighted; and he has offered me a shilling to buy the recipe from you.”

“Bless you, dear!” replied Jasper, “and I think what I am doing for your father is well worth a shilling, so you had better give it to me.”

“I have not got it yet,” replied Sylvia. “You must live on trust, Jasper; but, oh, it is quite too funny!”

“Now, you sit down just there,” said Jasper, “and tell me what troubled you last night.”

Sylvia’s face changed utterly when Jasper spoke.

“It is about Eve,” she said. “She has done very wrong – very wrong indeed.” And then Sylvia related exactly what had occurred at school.

Jasper stood and listened with her arms akimbo; her face more than once underwent a curious expression.

“And so you blame my little Eve very much?” she said when Sylvia had ceased speaking.

“How can I help it? To get the whole school accused – to tell a lie to do it! Oh Jasper, how can I help myself?”

“You were brought up so differently,” said Jasper. “Maybe if I had had the rearing of you and the loving of you from your earliest days I might have thought with you; as it is, I think with Eve. I could not counsel her to tell. I cannot but admire her spirit when she did what she did.”

“Jasper! Jasper!” said Sylvia in a tone of horror, “you cannot – cannot mean what you are saying! Oh, please unsay those dreadful words! I was hoping – hoping – hoping that you might put things right. What is to be done? There is going to be a great fuss – a great commotion – a great trouble at Miss Henderson’s school. Evelyn can put it right by confessing; are you not going to urge her to confess?”

“I urge my darling to lower herself! Miss Sylvia, if you say that kind of thing to me again, you and I can scarcely be friends.”

“Jasper! Jasper!”

“We won’t talk about it,” said Jasper, with decision. “I love you, miss, and what is more, I respect and admire you, but I cannot rise as high as you, Miss Sylvia; I was not reared so. I do not think that my little Eve could have done other than she did when she was so tempted.”

“Then, Jasper, you are a bad friend to Evelyn – a very bad friend; and what is more, if there is great trouble at the school, and if Audrey gets into it, and if Evelyn herself will never tell, why, I must.”

“Oh, good gracious! you would not be so mean as that; and the poor, dear little innocent confided in you!”

“I do not want to be so mean, and I will not tell for a long, long time; but I will tell – I will – if no one else can put it right, for it is quite too cruel.”

Jasper looked long and full at Sylvia.

“This may mean a good deal,” she said – “more than you think. And have you no sense of honor, miss? What you are told in confidence, have you any right to give to the world?”

“I will not tell if I can help myself, but this matter has made me very unhappy indeed.”

Then Sylvia put on her shabby hat and went out. She passed the fowl-house, and stood for a moment, a sad smile on her face, looking down at the ill-fed birds. Then she went along the tiny shrubbery to the front entrance, and, accompanied as usual by her beloved Pilot, started forth. She was in her very shabbiest and oldest dress to-day, and the joy and brightness of her appearance of twenty-four hours ago had absolutely left her young face. It was Sunday morning, but Sylvia never went to church. She heard the bells ringing now. Sweetly they pealed across the valley, and one little church on the top of the hill sent forth a low and yet joyful chime. Sylvia longed to press her hands to her ears; she did not want to listen to the church bells. Those who went to church did right, not wrong; those who went to church listened to God’s Word, and followed the ways – the good and holy ways – of religion.

“And I cannot go because of my shabby, shabby dress,” she thought. “But why should I not wear the beautiful dress I had yesterday and venture to church?”

No sooner had the thought come to her than she returned, dashed in by the back entrance, desired Pilot to stay where he was, flew up-stairs, dressed herself recklessly in her rich finery of yesterday, and started off for church. She had a fancy to go to the church on the top of the hill, but she had to walk fast to reach it. She did arrive there a little late. The verger showed her into a pew half-way up the church. One or two people turned to stare at the handsome girl. The brilliant color was in her cheeks from the quickness of her walk. She dropped on her knees and covered her face; all was confusion in her mind. In the Squire’s pew, a very short distance away, sat Audrey and Evelyn. Could Evelyn indeed mean to pray? Of what sort of nature was Evelyn made? Sylvia felt that she could not meet her eyes.