A Very Naughty Girl

“Evelyn,” said Audrey, “I will wait for you in the dressing-room if Miss Henderson has no objection.”

“But I have, for it may be necessary for me to detain your cousin for a short time,” said Miss Henderson. “Go, Audrey; do not keep me any longer.”

Evelyn stood sullenly and perfectly still in the hall; Audrey disappeared in the direction of the schoolrooms. Miss Henderson now took Evelyn’s hand and led her into her private sitting-room.

“What do you want me for?” asked the little girl.

“I want to say something to you, Evelyn.”

“Then say it, please.”

“You must not be pert.”

“I do not know what ‘pert’ is.”

“What you are now. But there, my dear child, please control yourself; believe me, I am truly sorry for you.”

“Then you need not be,” said Evelyn, with a toss of her head. “I do not want anybody to be sorry for me. I am one of the most lucky girls in the world. Sorry for me! Please don’t. Mothery could never bear to be pitied, and I won’t be pitied; I have nothing to be pitied for.”

“Who did you say never cared to be pitied?” asked Miss Henderson.

“Never you mind.”

“And yet, Evelyn, I think I have heard the words. You allude to your mother. I understand from Lady Frances that your mother is dead. You loved her, did you not?”

Evelyn gave a quick nod; her face seemed to say, “That is nothing to you.”

“I see you did, and she was fond of you.”

In spite of herself Evelyn gave another nod.

“Poor little girl; how sad to be without her!”

“Don’t,” said Evelyn in a strained voice.

“You lived all your early days in Tasmania, and your mother was good to you because she loved you, and you loved her back; you tried to please her because you loved her.”

“Oh, bother!” said Evelyn.

“Come here, dear.”

Evelyn did not budge an inch.

“Come over to me,” said Miss Henderson.

Miss Henderson was not accustomed to being disobeyed. Her tone was not loud, but it was quiet and determined. She looked full at Evelyn. Her eyes were kind. Evelyn felt as if they mesmerized her. Step by step, very unwillingly, she approached the side of the head-mistress.

“I love girls like you,” said Miss Henderson then.

“Bother!” said Evelyn again.

“And I do not mind even when they are sulky and rude and naughty, as you are now; still, I love them – I love them because I am sorry for them.”

“You need not be sorry for me; I won’t have you sorry for me,” said Evelyn.

“If I must not be sorry for you I must be something else.”

“What?”

“Angry with you.”

“Why so? I never! What do you mean now?”

“I must be angry with you, Evelyn – very angry. But I will say no more by way of excusing my own conduct. I will say nothing of either sorrow or anger. I want to state a fact to you.”

“Get it over,” said Evelyn.

Miss Henderson now approached the table; she opened the History at the reign of Edward I., and taking two tiny fragments of torn paper from the pages of the book, she laid them in her open palm. In her other hand she held the mutilated copy of Sesame and Lilies. The print on the torn scrap exactly corresponded with the print in the injured volume. Miss Henderson glanced from Evelyn to the scraps of paper, and from Evelyn to the copy of Ruskin.

“You have intelligence,” she said; “you must see what this means.”

She then carefully replaced the bits of paper in the History and laid it on the table by her side.

“Between now,” she said, “and this time yesterday Miss Thompson discovered these scraps of paper in the copy of the History which you had to read on the morning of the day when you first came to school. The scraps are evidently part of the pages torn from the injured book. Have you anything to say with regard to them?”

Evelyn shook her head; her face was white and her eyes bright. But there was a small red spot on each cheek – a spot about the size of a farthing. It did not grow any larger. It gave a curious effect to the pallid face. The obstinacy of the mouth was very apparent. The cleft in the chin still further showed the curious bias of the girl’s character.

“Have you anything to say – any remark to make?”

Again the head was slowly shaken.

“Is there any reason why I should not immediately after prayers to-day explain these circumstances to the whole school, and allow the school to draw its own conclusions?”

Evelyn now raised her eyes and fixed them on Miss Henderson’s face.

“You will not do that, will you?” she asked.

“Have you ever, Evelyn, heard of such a thing as circumstantial evidence?”

“No. What is it?”

“You are very ignorant, my dear child – ignorant as well as wilful; wilful as well as wicked.”

“No, I am not wicked; you shall not say it!”

“Tell me, is there any reason why I should not show what I have now shown you to the rest of the school, and allow the school to draw its own conclusion?”

“You won’t – will you?”

“Must I explain to you, Evelyn, what this means?”

“You can say anything you like.”

“These scraps of paper prove beyond doubt that you, for some extraordinary reason, were the person who tore the book. Why you did it is beyond my conception, is beyond Miss Thompson’s conception, is beyond the conception of my sister Lucy; but that you did do it we none of us for a moment doubt.”

“Oh, you are wicked! How dare you think such things of me?”

“Tell me, Evelyn – tell me why you did it. Come here and tell me. I will not be unkind to you, my poor little girl. I am sorry for one so ignorant, so wanting in all conceptions of right or wrong. Tell me, dear, and as there is a God in heaven, Evelyn, I will forgive you.”

“I will not tell you what I did not do,” said the angry child.

“You are vexed now and do not know what you are saying. I will go away, and come back again at the end of half an hour; perhaps you will tell me then.”

Evelyn stood silent. Miss Henderson, taking the History with her, left the room. She turned the key in the lock. Evelyn rushed to the window. Could she get out by it? She rushed to the door and tried to open it. Window and door defied her efforts. She was locked in. She was like a wild creature in a trap. To scream would do no good. Never before had the spoilt child found herself in such a position. A wild agony seized her; even now she did not repent.

If only mothery were alive! If only she were back on the ranch! If only Jasper were by her side!

“Oh mothery! oh Jasper!” she cried; and then a sob rose to her throat, tears burst from her eyes. The tension for the time was relieved; she huddled up in a chair, and sobbed as if her heart would break.

Miss Henderson came back again in half an hour. Evelyn was still sobbing.

“Well, Evelyn,” she said, “I am just going into the schoolroom now for prayers. Have you made up your mind? Will you tell me why you did it, and how you did it, and why you denied it? Just three questions, dear; answer truthfully, and you will have got over the most painful and terrible crisis of your life. Be brave, little girl; ask God to help you.”

“I cannot tell you what I do not know,” burst now from the angry child. “Think what you like. Do what you like. I am at your mercy; but I hate you, and I will never be a good girl – never, never! I will be a bad girl always – always; and I hate you – I hate you!”

Miss Henderson did not speak a word. The most violent passion cannot long retain its hold when the person on whom its rage is spent makes no reply. Even Evelyn cooled down a little. Miss Henderson stood quite still; then she said gently:

“I am deeply sorry. I was prepared for this. It will take more than this to subdue you.”

“Are you going into the schoolroom with those scraps of paper, and are you going to tell all the girls I am guilty?” said Evelyn.

“No, I shall not do that; I will give you another chance. There was to have been a holiday to-day, but because of that sin of yours there will be no holiday. There was to be a visit on Saturday to the museum at Chisfield, which the girls were all looking forward to; they are not to go on account of you. There were to be prizes at the break-up; they will not be given on account of you. The girls will not know that you are the cause of this deprivation, but they will know that the deprivation is theirs because there is a guilty person in the school, and because she will not confess. Evelyn, I give you a week from now to think this matter over. Remember, my dear, that I know you are guilty; remember that my sister Lucy knows it, and Miss Thompson; but before you are publicly disgraced we wish to give you a chance. We will treat you during the week that has yet to run as we would any other girl in the school. You will be treated until the week is up as though you were innocent. Think well whether you will indeed doom your companions to so much disappointment as will be theirs during the next week, to so dark a suspicion. During the next week the school will practically be sent to Coventry. Those who care for the girls will have to hold aloof from them. All the parents will have to be written to and told that there is an ugly suspicion hanging over the school. Think well before you put your companions, your schoolfellows, into this cruel position.”

“It is you who are cruel,” said Evelyn.

“I must ask God to melt your hard heart, Evelyn.”

“And are you really going to do all this?”

“Certainly.”

“And at the end of the week?”

“If you have not confessed before then I shall be obliged to confess for you before all the school. But, my poor child, you will; you must make amends. God could not have made so hard a heart!”

Evelyn wiped away her tears. She scarcely knew what she felt; she scarcely comprehended what was going to happen.

“May I bathe my eyes,” she said, “before I go with you into the schoolroom?”

“You may. I will wait for you here.”

The little girl left the room.

“I never met such a character,” said Miss Henderson to herself. “God help me, what am I to do with her? If at the end of a week she has not confessed her sin, I shall be obliged to ask Lady Frances to remove her. Poor child – poor child!”

Evelyn came back looking pale but serene. She held out her hand to Miss Henderson.

“I do not want your hand, Evelyn.”

“You said you would treat me for a week as if I were innocent.”

“Very well, then; I will take your hand.”

Miss Henderson entered the schoolroom holding Evelyn’s hand. Evelyn was looking as if nothing had happened; the traces of her tears had vanished. She sat down on her form; the other girls glanced at her in some wonder. Prayers were read as usual; the head-mistress knelt to pray. As her voice rose on the wings of prayer it trembled slightly. She prayed for those whose hearts were hard, that God would soften them. She prayed that wrong might be set right, that good might come out of evil, and that she herself might be guided to have a right judgment in all things. There was a great solemnity in her prayer, and it was felt throughout the hush in the big room. When she rose from her knees she ascended to her desk and faced the assembled girls.

“You know,” she said, “what an unpleasant task lies before me. The allotted time for the confession of the guilty person who injured my book, Sesame and Lilies, has gone by. The guilty person has not confessed, but I may as well say that the injury has been traced home to one of your number – but to whom, I am at present resolved not to tell. I give that person one week in order to make her confession. I do this for reasons which my sister and I consider all-sufficient; but during that week, I am sorry to say, my dear girls, you must all bear with her and for her the penalty of her wrong-doing. I must withhold indulgences, holidays, half-holidays, visits from friends; all that makes life pleasant and bright and home-like will have to be withdrawn. Work will have to be the order of the hour – work without the impetus of reward – work for the sake of work. I am sorry to have to do this, but I feel that such a course of conduct is due to myself. In a week’s time from now, if the girl has not confessed, I must take further steps; but I can assure the school that the cloud of my displeasure will then alone visit the guilty person, on whom it will fall with great severity.”

There was a long, significant pause when Miss Henderson ceased speaking. She was about to descend from her seat when Brenda Fox spoke.

“Is this quite fair?” she said. “I hope I am not asking an impertinent question, but is it fair that the innocent should suffer for the guilty?”

“I must ask you all to do so. Think of the history of the past, girls. Take courage; it is not the first time.”

“I think,” said Brenda Fox later on that same day to Audrey, “that Miss Henderson is right.”

“Then I think her wrong,” answered Audrey. “Of course I do not know her as well as you do, Brenda, and I am also ignorant with regard to the ordinary rules of school-life, but I cannot but feel it would be much better, if the guilty girl will not confess, to punish her at once and put an end to the thing.”

“It would be pleasanter for us,” replied Brenda Fox; “but then, Miss Henderson never thinks of that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that Miss Henderson is the sort of woman who would think very little of small personal pain and inconvenience compared with the injury which might be permanently inflicted on a girl who was harshly dealt with.”

“Still I do not quite understand. If any girl in the school did such a disgraceful thing it ought to be known at once.”

“Miss Henderson evidently does know, but for some reason she hopes the girl will repent.”

“And we are to be punished?”

“Is it not worth having a little discomfort if the girl’s character can be saved?”

“Yes, of course; if it does save her.”

“We must hope for that. For my part,” said Brenda in a reverent tone, “I shall pray about it. I believe in prayer.”

“And so do I,” answered Audrey. “But do you know, Brenda, that I think Miss Henderson was greatly wanting in tact when she mentioned my poor little cousin’s name two days ago.”

“Why so? Your cousin did happen to be alone in the room.”

“But it seemed to draw a very unworthy suspicion upon her head.”

“Oh no, no, Audrey!” answered Brenda. “Who could think that your cousin would do it? Besides, she is quite a stranger; it was her first day at school.”

“Then have you the least idea who did it?”

“None; no one has. We are all very fond of Miss Thompson. We are all fond of Miss Henderson; we respect her and Miss Lucy as most able and worthy mistresses. We enjoy our school-life. Who could have been so unkind?”

Audrey had an uncomfortable sensation at her heart that Evelyn at least did not enjoy her school-life; that Evelyn disliked Miss Thompson, and openly said that she hated Miss Henderson. Still, that Evelyn could really be guilty did not for an instant visit her brain.

Meanwhile Evelyn went recklessly on her way. The dénouement, of whatever nature, was still a week off. For a week she could be gay or impertinent or rude or defiant or good, just as the mood took her; at the end of the week, or towards the end, she would run away. She would go to Jasper and tell her she must hide her. This was her resolve. She was as inconsequent as an infant. To save herself trouble and pain was her one paramount idea; even her schoolfellows’ annoyance and distress scarcely worried her. As she and Audrey always spent their evenings at home, the dulness of the school, the increase of lessons and the absence of play, the walks two and two in absolute silence, scarcely depressed her; she could laugh and play at home, and talk to her uncle and draw him out to tell her stories of her father. The one redeeming trait in her character was her love for Uncle Edward. She was certainly going downhill very rapidly at this time. Poor child! who was there to understand her, to bring her to a standstill, to help her to choose right?

CHAPTER XXIV. – “WHO IS E. W.?”

The one person who might have helped Evelyn was too busy with her own troubles just then to think a great deal about her. Poor Sylvia was visited with a very great dread. Her father’s manner was strange; she began to fear that he suspected Jasper’s presence in the house. If Jasper left, Sylvia felt that things must come to a crisis; she could not stand the life she had lived before the comfortable advent of this kindly but ill-informed woman. Sylvia was really very much attached to Jasper, and although she argued much over Evelyn, and disagreed strongly with her with regard to the best way to treat this unruly little member of society, Sylvia’s very life depended on Jasper’s purse and Jasper’s tact.

One by one the fowls disappeared, the same boy receiving them over the hedge day by day from Jasper. The boy sold each of the old hens for sixpence, and reaped quite a harvest in consequence. He was all too willing to keep Jasper’s secret. Jasper bought tender young cockerels from a neighbor in the village, conveyed them home under her arm, killed them, and dressed them in various and dainty manners for Mr. Leeson’s meals. He was loud in his praise of Sylvia, and told her that if the worst came to the worst she could go out as a lady cook.

“Nothing could give me such horror, my dear child,” he said, “as to think that a Leeson, and a member of one of the proudest families in the kingdom, should ever demean herself to earn money; but, my dear girl, in these days of chance and change one must be prepared for the worst – there never is any telling. Sylvia, I go through anxious moments – very, very anxious moments.”

“You do, father,” answered the girl. “You watch the post too much. I cannot imagine,” she continued, “why you are so fretted and so miserable, for surely we must spend very, very little indeed.”

“We spend more than we ought, Sylvia – far more. But there, dear, I am not complaining; I suppose a young girl must have dainties and fine dress.”

“Fine dress!” said Sylvia. She looked down at her shabby garment and colored painfully.

Mr. Leeson faced her with his bright and sunken dark eyes.

“Come here,” he said.

She went up to him, trembling and her head hanging.

“I saw you two days ago; it was Sunday, and you went to church. I was standing in the shrubbery. I was lost – yes, lost – in painful thoughts. Those recipes which I was about to give to the world were occupying my mind, and other things as well. You rushed by in your shabby dress; you went into the house by the back entrance. Sylvia dear, I sometimes think it would be wise to lock that door. With you and me alone in the house it might be safest to have only one mode of ingress.”

“But I always lock it when I go out,” said Sylvia; “and it saves so much time to be able to use the back entrance.”

“It is just like you, Sylvia; you argue about every thing I say. However, to proceed. You went in; I wondered at your speed. You came out again in a quarter of an hour transformed. Where did you get that dress?”

“What dress, father?”

“Do not prevaricate. Look me straight in the face and tell me. You were dressed in brown of rich shade and good material. You had a stylish and fanciful and hideous hat upon your head; it had feathers. My very breath was arrested when I saw the merry-andrew you made of yourself. You had furs, too – doubtless imitations, but still, to all appearance, rich furs – round neck and wrist. Sylvia, have you during these months and years been secretly saving money?”

“No, father.”

“You say ‘No, father,’ in a very strange tone. If you had no money to buy the dress, how did you get it?”

“It was – given to me.”

“By whom?”

“I would rather not say.”

“But you must say.”

Here Mr. Leeson took Sylvia by both her wrists; he held them tightly in his bony hands. He was seated, and he pulled her down towards him.

“Tell me at once. I insist upon knowing.”

“I cannot – there! I will not.”

“You defy me?”

“If that is defying you, father, yes. The dress was given to me.”

“You refuse to say by whom?”

“Yes, father.”

“Then leave my presence. I am angry, hurt. Sylvia, you must return it.”

“Again, no, father.”

“Sylvia, have you ever heard of the Fifth Commandment?”

“I have, father; but I will break it rather than return the dress. I have been a good daughter to you, but there are limits. You have no right to interfere. The dress was given to me; I did not steal it.”

“Now you are intolerable. I will not be agitated by you; I have enough to bear. Leave me this minute.”

Sylvia left the room. She did not go to Jasper; she felt that she could not expose her father in the eyes of this woman. She ran up to her own bedroom, locked the door, and flung herself on her bed. Of late she had not done this quite so often. Circumstances had been happier for her of late: her father had been strange, but at the same time affectionate; she had been fed, too, and warmed; and, oh! the pretty dress – the pretty dress – she had liked it. She was determined that she would not give it up; she would not submit to what she deemed tyranny. She wept for a little; then she got up, dried her tears, put on her cloak (sadly thin from wear), and went out. Pilot came, looked into her face, and begged for her company. She shook her head.

“No, darling; stay at home – guard him,” she whispered.

Pilot understood, and turned away. Sylvia found herself on the high-road. As she approached the gate, and as she spoke to Pilot, eager eyes watched her over the wire screen which protected the lower part of Mr. Leeson’s sitting-room.

“What can all this mean?” he said to himself. “There is a mystery about Sylvia. Sometimes I feel that there is a mystery about this house. Sylvia used to be a shocking cook; now the most dainty chef who has ever condescended to cook meals for my pampered palate can scarcely excel her. She confessed that she did not get the recipe from the gipsy; the gipsies had left the common, so she could not get what I gave her a shilling to obtain. Or, did I give her the shilling? I think not – I hope not. Oh, good gracious! if I did, and she lost it! I did not; I must have it here.”

He fumbled anxiously in his waistcoat pocket.

“Yes, yes,” he said, with a sigh of relief. “I put it here for her, but she did not need it. Thank goodness, it is safe!”

He looked at it affectionately, replaced it in its harbor of refuge, and thought on.

“Now, who gave her those rich and extravagant clothes? Can she possibly have been ransacking her mother’s trunks? I was under the impression that I had sold all my poor wife’s things, but it is possible I may have overlooked something. I will go and have a look now in the attics. I had her trunks conveyed there. I will go and have a look.”

When Mr. Leeson was engaged in what he was pleased to call a voyage of discovery, he, as a rule, stepped on tiptoe. As he wore, for purposes of economy, felt slippers when in the house, his steps made no noise. Now, it so happened that when Jasper arrived at The Priory she brought not only her own luggage, which was pretty considerable, but two or three boxes of Evelyn’s finery. These trunks having filled up Jasper’s bedroom and the kitchens to an unnecessary extent, she and Sylvia had contrived to drag them up to the attics in a distant part of the house without Mr. Leeson hearing. The trunks, therefore, mostly empty, which had contained the late Mrs. Leeson’s wardrobe and Evelyn’s trunks were now all together, in what was known as the back attic – that attic which stood, with Sylvia’s room between, exactly over the kitchen.

Mr. Leeson knew, as he imagined, every corner of the house. He was well aware of the room where his wife’s trunks were kept, and he went there now, determined, as he expressed it, to ferret out the mystery which was unsettling his life.

He reached the attic in question, and stared about him. There were the trunks which he remembered so well. Many marks of travel were on them – names of foreign hotels, names of distant places. Here was a trophy of a good time at Florence; here a remembrance of a delightful fortnight at Rome; here, again, of a week in Cairo; here, yet more, of a never-to-be-forgotten visit to Constantinople. He stared at the hall-marks of his past life as he gazed at his wife’s trunks, and for a time memory overpowered the lonely man, and he stood with his hands clasped and his head slightly bent, thinking – thinking of the days that were no more. No remorse, it is true, seized his conscience. He did not recognize how, step by step, the demon of his life had gained more and more power over him; how the trunks became too shabby for use, but the desire for money prevented his buying new ones. Those labels were old, and the places he and his wife had visited were much changed, and the hotels where they had stayed had many of them ceased to exist, but the labels put on by the hall porters remained on the trunks and bore witness against Mr. Leeson. He turned quickly from the sight.