A Very Naughty Girl

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

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

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

“Have you?” answered Sylvia.

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

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

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

“Yes – of course.”

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

“Unless?” questioned Sylvia.

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

Sylvia backed away, absolute terror creeping over her face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Supper, father – supper.”

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

“It is six hours ago, father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Leeson paused before replying:

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

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

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

“It is a week old, father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, father.”

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

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

“What do you mean by that?”

“Father, forgive me; I must speak.”

“What is wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Sylvia!”

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XIII. – JASPER TO THE RESCUE

The next evening, at the hour which she had named, Jasper walked down the road which led to The Priory. She walked with a confident step; she had very little doubt that Sylvia would be waiting for her. She was not far wrong in her expectations. A girl, wrapped in a cloak, was standing by a hedge. By the girl stood the mastiff Pilot. Pilot was not too well fed, but he was better fed than Sylvia. It was necessary, according to Mr. Leeson’s ideas, that Pilot should be strong enough to guard The Priory against thieves, against unwelcome, prying visitors – against the whole of the human race. But even Pilot could be caught by guile, and Sylvia was determined that he should be friends with Jasper. As Jasper came up the road Sylvia advanced a step or two to meet her.

“Well, dear,” said Jasper in a cheerful tone, “am I to come in, and am I to be welcome?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Step on the grass here, please.”

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

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

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

“And where are you going to put me?”

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

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

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

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

“Oh no; we do not keep a servant.”

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

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

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

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

“How delicious!” she said.

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

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

“What!”

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

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

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

“You cannot what, you poor child?”

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

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

“Yes; I get very hungry at times.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you – you?” said Sylvia.

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

CHAPTER XIV. – CHANGE OF PLANS

A whole month had gone by since Jasper had left Evelyn, and Evelyn after a fashion had grown accustomed to her absence. Considerable changes had taken place in the little girl during that time. She was no longer dressed in an outré style. She wore her hair as any other very young girl of her age would. She had ceased to consider herself grown-up; and although she knew deep down in her heart that she was the heiress – that by and by all the fine property would belong to her – and although she still gloried in the fact, either fear, or perhaps the dawnings of a better nature prevented her talking so much about it as she had done during the early days of her stay at Castle Wynford. The guests had all departed, and schoolroom life held sway over both the girls. Miss Sinclair was the very soul of order; she insisted on meals being served in the schoolroom to the minute, and schoolroom work being pursued with regularity and method. There were so many hours for work and so many hours for amusement. There were times when the girls might be present with the Squire and Lady Frances, and times when they only enjoyed the society of Miss Sinclair. There were masters for several accomplishments, and the girls had horses to ride, and a pony-carriage was placed at their disposal, and the hours were so full of occupation that they went by on wings. Evelyn looked fifty times better and happier than she had done when she first arrived at Castle Wynford, and even Lady Frances was forced to own that the child was turning out better than she expected. How long this comparatively happy state of things might have lasted it is hard to say, but it was brought to an abrupt conclusion by an event which occurred just then. This was no less than the departure of kind Miss Sinclair. Her mother had died quite suddenly; her father needed her at home. She could not even stay for the customary period after giving notice of her intention to leave. Lady Frances, under the circumstances, did not press her; and now the subject of how the two girls were best to be educated was ceaselessly discussed. Lady Frances was a born educationist; she had the greatest love for subjects dealing with the education of the young. She had her own theories with regard to this important matter, and when Miss Sinclair went away she was for a time puzzled how to act. To get another governess was, of course, the only thing to be done; but for a time she wavered much as to the advisability of sending Evelyn to school.