A Very Naughty Girl
by L. T. Meade · English · Gutenberg #36853 · 535,551 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: A Very Naughty Girl
Author: L. T. Meade
Release date: July 25, 2011 [eBook #36853]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36853
Credits: Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A VERY NAUGHTY GIRL ***
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
A VERY NAUGHTY GIRL
By L. T. MEADE
Author of "Palace Beautiful," "Sweet Girl Graduate,"
"Wild Kitty," "World of Girls," etc., etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Sylvia and Audrey 1
II. Arrival of Evelyn 10
III. The Cradle Life of Wild Eve 25
IV. "I Draw the Line at Uncle Ned" 36
V. Frank's Eyes 43
VI. The Hungry Girl 57
VII. Staying to Dinner 68
VIII. Evening-Dress 78
IX. Breakfast in Bed 106
X. Jasper was to Go 117
XI. I Cannot Alter my Plans 126
XII. Hunger 143
XIII. Jasper to the Rescue 163
XIV. Change of Plans 169
XV. School 184
XVI. Sylvia's Drive 198
XVII. The Fall in the Snow 213
XVIII. A Red Gipsy Cloak 228
XIX. "Why Did you Do it?" 242
XX. "Not Good Nor Honourable" 253
XXI. The Torn Book 264
XXII. "Stick to your Colors, Evelyn" 276
XXIII. One Week of Grace 281
XXIV. "Who is E.W.?" 295
XXV. Uncle Edward 311
XXVI. Tangles 330
XXVII. The Strange Visitor in the Back Bedroom 343
XXVIII. The Room with the Light that Flickered 362
XXIX. What Could it Mean? 368
XXX. The Loaded Gun 377
XXXI. For Uncle Edward's Sake 391
A VERY NAUGHTY GIRL
CHAPTER I.--SYLVIA AND AUDREY.
It was a day of great excitement, and Audrey Wynford stood by her
schoolroom window and looked out. She was a tall girl of sixteen, with
her hair hanging in a long, fair plait down her back. She stood with her
hands folded behind her and an expectant expression on her face.
Up the avenue a stream of people were coming. Some came in cabs, some on
bicycles; some walked. They all turned in the direction of the front
entrance, and Audrey heard their voices rising and falling as they
entered the house, walked down the hall, and disappeared into some
region at the other end.
"It is all detestable," she muttered; "and just when Evelyn is coming,
too. How strange she will think it! I wish father would drop this horrid
custom. I do not approve of it at all."
Just then her governess, a bright-looking girl about six years Audrey's
senior, came into the room.
"Well," she cried, "and what are you doing here? I thought you were
going to ride this afternoon."
"How can I?" said Audrey, shrugging her shoulders. "I shall be met at
every turn."
"And why not?" said Miss Sinclair. "You are not ashamed of being seen."
"It is quite detestable," said Audrey.
She crossed the room, flung herself into a deep straw armchair in front
of a blazing log fire, and took up a magazine.
"It is all horrid," she continued as she rapidly turned the pages; "you
know it, Miss Sinclair, as well as I do."
"If I were you," said Miss Sinclair, "I should be proud--very proud--to
belong to an old family who had kept a custom like this in vogue."
"If you belonged to the old family you would not," said Audrey. "Every
one laughs at us. I call it perfectly horrid. What possible good can it
do that all the people of the neighborhood, and the strangers who come
to stay in the town, should make free of Wynford Castle on New Year's
Day? It makes me cross anyhow. I am sorry to be cross to you, Miss
Sinclair; but I am, and that is a fact."
Miss Sinclair sat down on another chair.
"I like it," she said after a pause.
"Why?" asked Audrey.
"There were some quite hungry people passing through the hall as I came
to you just now."
"Let them be hungry somewhere else, not here," said the angry girl. "It
was all very well when some ancestor of mine first started the custom;
but that father, a man of the present day, up-to-date in every sense of
the word, should carry it on--that he should keep open house for every
individual who chooses to come here on New Year's Day--is past endurance.
Last year between two and three hundred people dined or supped or had
tea at the Castle, and I believe, from the appearance of the avenue,
there will be still more to-day. The house gets so dirty, for one thing,
for half of them don't think of wiping their feet; and then we run a
chance of being robbed, for how do we know that there are not
adventurers in the throng? If I were the country-folk I would be too
proud to come; but they are not--not a bit."
"I cannot agree with you," said Miss Sinclair. "It is a splendid old
custom, and I hope it will not be abolished."
"Perhaps Evelyn will abolish it when she comes in for the property,"
said Audrey in a low tone. Her face looked scarcely amiable as she said
the words.
Miss Sinclair regarded her with a puzzled expression.
"Audrey dear," she said after a pause, "I am very fond of you."
"And I of you," said Audrey a little unwillingly. "You are more friend
than governess. I should like best to go to school, of course; but as
father says that that is quite impossible, I have to put up with the
next best; and you are a very good next best."
"Then if I am, may I just as a friend, and one who loves you very
dearly, make a remark?"
"It is going to be something odious," said Audrey--"that goes without
saying--but I suppose I'll listen."
"Don't you think you are just a wee bit in danger of becoming selfish,
Audrey?" said her governess.
"Am I? Perhaps so; I am afraid I don't care."
"You would if you thought it over; and this is New Year's Day, and it is
a lovely afternoon, and you might come for a ride--I wish you would."
"I will not run the chance of meeting those folks on any consideration
whatever," said Audrey; "but I will go for a walk with you, if you
like."
"Done," said Miss Sinclair. "I have to go on a message for Lady Wynford
to the lodge; will you come by the shrubberies and meet me there?"
"All right," replied Audrey; "I will go and get ready."
She left the room.
After her pupil had left her, Miss Sinclair sat for a time gazing into
the huge log fire.
She was a very pretty girl, with a high-bred look about her. She had
received all the advantages which modern education could afford, and at
the age of three-and-twenty had left Girton with the assurance from all
her friends that she had a brilliant future before her. The first step
in that future seemed bright enough to the handsome, high-spirited girl.
Lady Wynford met her in town, took a fancy to her on the spot, and asked
her to conduct Audrey's education. Miss Sinclair received a liberal
salary and every comfort and consideration. Audrey fell quickly in love
with her, and a more delightful pupil governess never had. The girl was
brimming over with intelligence, was keenly alive to the
responsibilities of her own position, was absolutely original, and as a
rule quite unselfish.
"Poor Audrey! she has her trials before her, all the same," thought the
young governess now. "Well, I am very happy here, and I hope nothing
will disturb our present arrangement for some time. As to Evelyn, we
have yet to discover what sort of girl she is. She comes this evening.
But there, I am forgetting all about Audrey, and she must be waiting for
me."
It so happened that Audrey Wynford was doing nothing of the sort. She
had hastily put on her warm jacket and fur cap and gone out into the
grounds. The objectionable avenue, with its streams of people coming and
going, was to be religiously avoided, and Audrey went in the direction
of a copse of young trees, which led again through a long shrubbery in
the direction of the lodge gates.
It was the custom from time immemorial in the Wynford family to keep
open house on New Year's Day. Any wayfarer, gentle or simple, man or
woman, boy or girl, could come up the avenue and ring the bell at the
great front-door, and be received and fed and refreshed, and sent again
on his or her way with words of cheer. The Squire himself as a rule
received his guests, but where that was impossible the steward of the
estate was present to conduct them to the huge hall which ran across the
back of the house, where unlimited refreshments were provided. No one
was sent away. No one was refused admission on this day of all days. The
period of the reception was from sunrise to sundown. At sundown the
hospitality came to an end; the doors of the house were shut and no more
visitors were allowed admission. An extra staff of servants was
generally secured for the occasion, and the one and only condition made
by the Squire was, that as much food as possible might be eaten, that
each male visitor might drink good wine or sound ale to his heart's
content, that each might warm himself thoroughly by the huge log fires,
but that no one should take any food away. This, in the case of so
promiscuous an assemblage, was necessary. To Audrey, however, the whole
thing was more or less a subject of dislike. She regarded the first day
of each year as a penance; she shrank from the subject of the guests,
and on this special New Year's Day was more aggrieved and put out than
usual. More guests had arrived than had ever come before, for the people
of the neighborhood enjoyed the good old custom, and there was not a
villager, not a trades-person, nor even a landed proprietor near who did
not make it a point of breaking bread at Wynford Castle on New Year's
Day. The fact that a man of position sat down side by side with a tramp
or a laborer made no difference; there was no distinction of rank
amongst the Squire's guests on this day.
Audrey heard the voices now as she disappeared into the shelter of the
young trees. She heard also the rumble of wheels as the better class of
guests arrived or went away again.
"It is horrid," she murmured for about the twentieth time to herself;
and then she began to run in order to get away from what she called the
disagreeable noise.
Audrey could run with the speed and grace of a young fawn, but she had
not gone half-through the shrubbery before she stopped dead-short. A
girl of about her own age was coming hurriedly to meet her. She was a
very pretty girl, with black eyes and a quantity of black hair and a
richly colored dark face. The girl was dressed somewhat fantastically in
many colors. Peeping out from beneath her old-fashioned jacket was a
scarf of deep yellow; the skirt of her dress was crimson, and in her hat
she wore two long crimson feathers. Audrey regarded her with not only
wonder but also disfavor. Who was she? What a vulgar, forward,
insufferable young person!
"I say," cried the girl, coming up eagerly; "I have lost my way, and it
is so important! Can you tell me how I can get to the front entrance of
the Castle?"
"You ought not to have come by the shrubbery," said Audrey in a very
haughty tone. "The visitors who come to the Castle to-day are expected
to use the avenue. But now that you have come," she added, "if you will
take this short cut you will find yourself in the right direction. You
have then but to follow the stream of people and you will reach the hall
door."
"Oh, thank you!" said the girl. "I am so awfully hungry! I do hope I
shall get in before sunset. Good-by, and thank you so much! My name is
Sylvia Leeson; who are you?"
"I am Audrey Wynford," replied Audrey, speaking more icily than ever.
"Then you are the young lady of the Castle?"
"I am Audrey Wynford."
"How strange! One would think to meet you here, and one would think to
see me here, that we both belonged to Shakespeare's old play _As You
Like It_. But I must not stay another minute. It is so sweet of your
father to invite us all, and if I am not quick I shall lose the fun."
She nodded with a flash of bright eyes and white teeth at the amazed
Audrey, and the next moment was lost to view.
"What a girl!" thought Audrey as she pursued her walk. "How dared she!
She did not treat me with one scrap of respect, and she seemed to
think--a girl of that sort!--that she was my equal; she absolutely spoke
of us in the same breath. It was almost insulting. Sylvia and Audrey! We
meet in a wood, and we might be characters out of _As You Like It_.
Well, she is awfully pretty, but---- Oh dear! what a creature she is when
all is said and done--that wild dress, and those dancing eyes, and that
free manner! And yet--and yet she was scarcely vulgar; she was only--only
different from anybody else. Who is she, and where does she come from?
Sylvia Leeson. Rather a pretty name; and certainly a pretty girl. But to
think of her partaking of hospitality--all alone, too--with the _canaille_
of Wynford!"
CHAPTER II.--ARRIVAL OF EVELYN.
Audrey met her governess at the lodge gates, and the two plunged down a
side-path, and were soon making for the wonderful moors about a mile
away from Wynford Castle.
"What are you thinking about, Audrey?" said Miss Sinclair.
"Do you happen to know," said Audrey, "any people in the village or
neighborhood of the name of Leeson?"
"No, dear, certainly not. I do not think any people of the name live
here. Why do you ask?"
"For such a funny reason!" replied Audrey. "I met a girl who had come by
mistake through the shrubberies. She was on her way to the Castle to get
a good meal. She told me her name was Sylvia Leeson. She was pretty in
an _outré_ sort of style; she was also very free. She had the cheek to
compare herself with me, and said that as my name was Audrey and hers
Sylvia we ought to be two of Shakespeare's heroines. There was something
uncommon about her. Not that I liked her--very far from that. But I
wonder who she is."
"I don't know," said Miss Sinclair. "I certainly have not the least idea
that there is any one of that name living in our neighborhood, but one
can never tell."
"Oh, but you know everybody round here," said Audrey. "Perhaps she is a
stranger. I think on the whole I am glad."
"I heard a week ago that some people had taken The Priory," said Miss
Sinclair.
"The Priory!" cried Audrey. "It has been uninhabited ever since I can
remember."
"I heard the rumor," continued Miss Sinclair, "but I know no
particulars, and it may not be true. It is just possible that this girl
belongs to them."
"I should like to find out," replied Audrey. "She certainly interested
me although----Oh, well, don't let us talk of her any more. Jenny
dear"--Audrey in affectionate moments called her governess by her
Christian name--"are you not anxious to know what Evelyn is like?"
"I suppose I am," replied Miss Sinclair.
"I think of her so much!" continued Audrey. "It seems so odd that she, a
stranger, should be the heiress, and I, who have lived here all my days,
should inherit nothing. Oh, of course, I shall have plenty of money, for
mother had such a lot; but it does seem so unaccountable that all
father's property should go to Evelyn. And now she is to live here, and
of course take the precedence of me, I do not know that I quite like it.
Sometimes I feel that she will rub me the wrong way; if she is very
masterful, for instance. She can be--can't she, Jenny?"
"But why should we suppose that she will be?" replied Miss Sinclair.
"There is no good in getting prejudiced beforehand."
"I cannot help thinking about it," said Audrey. "You know I have never
had any close companions before, and although you make up for everybody
else, and I love you with all my heart and soul, yet it is somewhat
exciting to think of a girl just my own age coming to live with me."
"Of course, dear; and I am so glad for your sake!"
"But then," continued Audrey, "she does not come quite as an ordinary
guest; she comes to the home which is to be hers hereafter. I wonder
what her ideas are, and what she will feel about things. It is very
mysterious. I am excited; I own it. You may be quite sure, though, that
I shall not show any of my excitement when Evelyn does come. Jenny, have
you pictured her yet to yourself? Do you think she is tall or short, or
pretty or ugly, or what?"
"I have thought of her, of course," replied Miss Sinclair; "but I have
not formed the least idea. You will soon know, Audrey; she is to arrive
in time for dinner."
"Yes," said Audrey; "mother is going in the carriage to meet her, and
the train is due at six-thirty. She will arrive at the Castle a little
before seven. Mother says she will probably bring a maid, and perhaps a
French governess. Mother does not know herself what sort she is. It is
odd her having lived away from England all this time."
Audrey chatted on with her governess a little longer, and presently they
turned and went back to the house. The sun had already set, and the big
front-door was shut; the family never used it except on this special day
or when a wedding or a funeral left Wynford Castle. The pretty
side-door, with its sheltered porch, was the mode of exit and ingress
for the inhabitants of Wynford Castle. Audrey and her governess now
entered, and Audrey stood for a few moments to warm her hands by the
huge log fire on the hearth. Miss Sinclair went slowly up-stairs to her
room; and Audrey, finding herself alone, gave a quick sigh.
"I wonder--I do wonder," she said half-aloud.
Her words were evidently heard, for some one stirred, and presently a
tall man with a slight stoop came forward and stood where the light of
the big fire fell all over him.
"Why, dad!" cried Audrey as she put her hand inside her father's arm.
"Were you asleep?" she asked. "How was it that Miss Sinclair and I did
not see you when we came in?"
"I was sound asleep in that big chair. I was somewhat tired. I had
received three hundred guests; don't forget that," replied Squire
Wynford.
"And they have gone. What a comfort!" said Audrey.
"My dear little Audrey, I have fed them and warmed them and sent them on
their way rejoicing, and I am a more popular Squire Wynford of Castle
Wynford than ever. Why should you grumble because your neighbors, every
mother's son of them, had as much to eat and drink as they could desire
on New Year's Day?"
"I hate the custom," said Audrey. "It belongs to the Middle Ages; it
ought to be exploded."
"What! and allow the people to go hungry?"
"Those who are likely to go hungry," continued Audrey, "might have money
given to them. We do not want all the small squires everywhere round to
come and feed at the Castle."
"But the small squires like it, and so do the poor people, and so do I,"
said Squire Wynford; and now he frowned very slightly, and Audrey gave
another sigh.
"We must agree to differ, dad," she said.
"I am afraid so, my dear. Well, and how are you, my pet? I have not seen
you until now. Very happy at the thought of your cousin's arrival?"
"No, dad, scarcely happy, but excited all the same. Are not you a
little, wee bit excited too, father? It seems so strange her coming all
the way from Tasmania to take possession of her estates. I wonder--I do
wonder--what she will be like."
"She takes possession of no estates while I live," said the Squire, "but
she is the next heiress."
"And you are sorry it is not I; are you not, father?"
"I don't think of it," said the Squire. "No," he added thoughtfully a
moment later, "that is not the case. I do think of it. You are better
off without the responsibility; you would never be suited to a great
estate of this sort. Evelyn may be different. Anyhow, when the time
comes it is her appointed work. Now, my dear"--he took out his
watch--"your cousin will arrive in a moment. Your mother has gone to meet
her. Do you intend to welcome her here or in one of the sitting-rooms?"
"I will stay in the hall, of course," said Audrey a little fretfully.
"I will leave you, then, my love. I have neglected a sheaf of
correspondence, and would like to look through my letters before
dinner."
The Squire moved away, walking slowly. He pushed aside some heavy
curtains and vanished. Audrey still stood by the fire. Presently a
restless fit seized her, and she too flitted up the winding white marble
stairs and disappeared down a long corridor. She entered a pretty room
daintily furnished in blue and silver. A large log fire burned in the
grate; electric light shed its soft gleams over the furniture; there was
a bouquet of flowers and a little pot of ivy on a small table, also a
bookcase full of gaily-bound story-books. Nothing had been neglected,
even to the big old Bible and the old-fashioned prayer-book.
"I wonder how she will like it," thought Audrey. "This is one of the
prettiest rooms in the house. Mother said she must have it. I wonder if
she will like it, and if I shall like her. Oh, and here is her
dressing-room, and here is a little boudoir where she may sit and amuse
herself and shut us out if she chooses. Lucky Evelyn! How strange it all
seems! For the first time I begin to appreciate my darling, beloved
home. Why should it pass away from me to her? Oh, of course I am not
jealous; I would not be mean enough to entertain feelings of that sort,
and---- I hear the sound of wheels. She is coming; in a moment I shall see
her. Oh, I do wonder--I do wonder! I wish Jenny were with me; I feel
quite nervous."
Audrey dashed out of the room, rushed down the winding stairs, and had
just entered the hall when a footman pushed aside the heavy curtains,
and Lady Frances Wynford, a handsome, stately-looking woman, entered,
accompanied by a small girl.
The girl was dragging in a great pile of rugs and wraps. Her hat was
askew on her head, her jacket untidy. She flung the rugs down in the
center of a rich Turkey carpet; said, "There, that is a relief;" and
then looked full at Audrey.
Audrey was a head and shoulders taller than the heiress, who had thin
and somewhat wispy flaxen hair, and a white face with insignificant
features. Her eyes, however, were steady, brown, large, and intelligent.
She came up to Audrey at once.
"Don't introduce me, please, Aunt Frances," she said. "I know this is
Audrey.--I am Evelyn. You hate me, don't you?"
"No, I am sure I do not," said Audrey.
"Well, I should if I were you. It would be much more interesting to be
hated. So this is the place. It looks jolly, does it not? Aunt Frances,
do you know where my maid is? I must have her--I must have her at once.
Please tell Jasper to come here," continued the girl, turning to a
man-servant who lingered in the background.
"Desire Miss Wynford's maid to come into the hall," said Lady Frances in
an imperious tone; "and bring tea, Davis. Be quick."
The man withdrew, and Evelyn, lifting her hand, took off her ugly felt
hat and flung it on the pile of rugs and cushions.
"Don't touch them, please," she said as Audrey advanced. "That is
Jasper's work.--By the way, Aunt Frances, may Jasper sleep in my room? I
have never slept alone, not since I was born, and I could not survive
it. I want a little bed just the ditto of my own for Jasper. I cannot
live without Jasper. May she sleep close to me, please, Aunt Frances?
And, oh! I do hope and trust this house is not haunted. It does look
eerie. I am terrified at the thought of ghosts. I know I shall not be a
very pleasant inmate, and I am sorry for you all--and for you in special,
Audrey. What a grand, keep-your-distance sort of air you have! But I am
not going to be afraid of you. I do not forget that the place will
belong to me some day. Hullo, Jasper!"
Evelyn flitted in a curious, elf-like way across the hall, and went up
to a dark woman who stood just by the velvet curtain.
"Don't be shy, Jasper," she said. "You have nothing to be afraid of
here. It is all very grand, I know; but then it is to be mine some day,
and you are never to leave me--never. I was speaking to my aunt, Lady
Frances, and you are to have your little bed near mine. See that it is
arranged for to-night. And now, please, pick up these rugs and cushions
and my old hat, and take them to my room. Don't stare so, Jasper; do
what I tell you."
Jasper somewhat sullenly obeyed. She was as graceful and deft in all her
actions as Evelyn was the reverse. Evelyn stood and watched her. When
she went slowly up the marble stairs, the heiress turned with a laugh to
her two companions.
"How you stare!" she said; and she looked full at Audrey. "Do you regard
me as barbarian, or a wild beast, or what?"
"I am interested in you," said Audrey in her low voice. "You are
decidedly out of the common."
"Come," said Lady Frances, "we have no time for analyzing character just
now. Audrey, take your cousin to her room, and then go yourself and get
dressed for dinner."
"Will you come, Evelyn?" said Audrey.
She crossed the hall, Evelyn following her slowly. Once or twice the
heiress stopped to examine a mailed figure in armor, or an old picture
on which the firelight cast a fitful gleam. She said, "How ugly! A queer
old thing, that!" to the figure in armor, and she scowled up at the
picture.
"You are not going to frighten me, you old scarecrow," she said; and
then she ran up-stairs by Audrey's side.
"So this is what they call English grandeur!" she remarked. "Is not this
house centuries old?"
"Parts of the house are," answered Audrey.
"Is this part?"
"No; the hall and staircase were added about seventy years ago."
"Is my room in the old part or the new part?"
"Your room is in what is called the medium part. It is a lovely room;
you will be charmed with it."
"I by no means know that I shall. But show it to me."
Audrey walked a little quicker. She began to feel a curious sense of
irritation, and knew that there was something about Evelyn which might
under certain conditions try her temper very much. They reached the
lovely blue-and-silver room, and Audrey flung open the door, expecting a
cry of delight from Evelyn. But the heiress was not one to give herself
away; she cast cool and critical eyes round the chamber.
"Dear, dear!" she said--"dear, dear! So this is your idea of an English
bedroom!"
"It is an English bedroom; there is no idea about it," said Audrey.
"You are cross, are you not, Audrey?" was Evelyn's remark. "It is very
trying for you my coming here. I know that, of course; Jasper has told
me. I should be ignorant and quite lost were it not for Jasper, but
Jasper puts me up to things. I do not think I could live without her.
She has often described you--often and often. It would make you scream to
listen to her. She has taken you off splendidly. Really, all things
considered, you are very like what she has pictured you. I say, Audrey,
would you like to come up here after your next meal, whatever you call
it, and watch Jasper as she takes you off? She is the most splendid
mimic in all the world. In a day or two she will be able to imitate Aunt
Frances and every one in the house. Oh, it is killing to watch her and
to listen to her! You would like to see yourself through Jasper's eyes,
would you not, Audrey?"
"No, thank you," replied Audrey.
"How you kill me with that 'No, thank you,' of yours! Why, they are the
very words Jasper said you would be certain to say. Oh dear! this is
quite amusing." Evelyn laughed long and loud, wiping her eyes with her
handkerchief as she did so. "Oh dear! oh dear!" she said. "Don't look
any crosser, Audrey, or I shall die with laughing! Why, you will make me
scream."
"That would be bad for you after your journey," said Audrey. "I see you
have hot water, and your maid is in the dressing-room. I will leave you
now. That is the dressing-bell; the bell for dinner will ring in half an
hour. I must go and dress."
Audrey rushed out of the room, very nearly, but not quite, banging the
door after her.
"If I stayed another moment I should lose my temper. I should say
something terrible," thought the girl. Her heart was beating fast; she
pressed her hand to her side. "If it were not for Jenny I do not believe
I could endure the house with that girl," was her next ejaculation. "To
think that she is a Wynford, and that the Castle--the lovely, beautiful
Castle--is to belong to her some day. Oh, it is maddening! Our darling
knight in armor--Sir Galahad I have always called him--and our Rembrandt:
one is a scarecrow, and the other a queer old thing. Oh Evelyn, you are
almost past bearing!"
Audrey ran away to her room, where her maid, Eleanor, was waiting to
attend on her. Audrey was never in the habit of confiding in her maid;
and the girl, who was brimful of importance, curiosity, and news, did
not dare to express any of her feelings to Miss Audrey in her present
mood.
"Put on my very prettiest frock to-night, please, Eleanor," said the
young lady. "Dress my hair to the best advantage. My white dress, did
you say? No, not white, but that pale, very pale, rose-colored silk with
all the little trimmings and flounces."
"But that is one of your gayest dresses, Miss Audrey."
"Never mind; I choose to look gay and well dressed."
The girl proceeded with her young mistress's toilet, and a minute or two
before the second bell rang Audrey was ready. She made a lovely and
graceful picture as she looked at herself for a moment in the long
mirror. Her figure was already beautifully formed; she was tall,
graceful, dignified. The set of her young head on her stately neck was
superb. Her white shoulders gleamed under the transparent folds of her
lovely frock. Her rounded arms were white as alabaster. She slipped a
small diamond ring on one of her fingers, looked for a moment longingly
at a pearl necklace, but finally decided not to wear any more adornment,
and ran lightly down-stairs.
The big drawing-room was lit with the softest light. The Squire stood by
the hearth, on which a huge log blazed. Lady Frances, in full
evening-dress, was carelessly turning the leaves of a novel.
"What a quiet evening we are likely to have!" she said, looking up at
the Squire as she spoke. "To-morrow there are numbers of guests coming;
we shall be a big party, and Audrey and Evelyn will, I trust, have a
pleasant time.--My dear Audrey, why that dress this evening?"
"I took a fancy to wear it, mother," said Audrey in a light tone.
There was more color than usual in her cheeks, and her eyes were
brighter than her mother had ever seen them. Lady Frances was not a
woman of any special discernment. She was an excellent mother and a
splendid hostess. She was good to look at, and was just the sort of
_grande dame_ to keep up all the dignity of Wynford Castle, but she
never even pretended to understand her only child. The Squire, a
sensitive man in many ways, was also more or less a stranger to Audrey's
real character. He looked at her, it is true, a little anxiously now,
and a slight curiosity stirred his breast as to the possible effect
Evelyn's presence in the house might have on his beautiful young
daughter. As to Evelyn herself, he had not seen her, and did not even
care to inquire of his wife what sort of girl she was. He was deeply
absorbed over the silver currency question, and was writing an
exhaustive paper on it for the _Nineteenth Century_; he had not time,
therefore, to worry about domestic matters. Just then the drawing-room
door was flung open, and the footman announced, as though she were a
stranger:
"Miss Evelyn Wynford."
If Audrey was, according to Lady Frances's ideas, slightly overdressed
for so small a party, she was quite outshone by Evelyn, whose dress was
altogether unsuitable for her age. She wore a very thick silk, bright
blue in color, with a quantity of colored embroidery thrown over it. Her
little fat neck was bare, and her sleeves were short. Her scanty fair
hair was arranged on the top of her head, two diamond pins supporting it
in position; a diamond necklace was clasped round her neck, and she had
bracelets on her arms. She was evidently intensely pleased with herself,
and looked with the utmost confidence from Lady Frances to her uncle.
With a couple of long strides the Squire advanced to meet her. He looked
into her queer little face and all his indifference vanished. She was
his only brother's only child. He had loved his brother better than any
one on earth, and, come what might, he would give that brother's child a
welcome. So he took both of Evelyn's tiny hands, and suddenly stooping,
he lifted her an inch or so from the ground and kissed her twice.
Something in his manner made the little girl give a sort of gasp.
"Why, it is just as if you were father come to life," she said. "I am
glad to see you, Uncle Ned."
Still holding her hand, the Squire walked up to the hearth and stood
there facing Audrey and his wife.
"You have been introduced to Audrey, have you not, Evelyn?" he said.
"I did not need to be introduced. I saw a girl in the hall, and I
guessed it must be Audrey. 'Cute of me, was it not? Do you know, Uncle
Ned, I don't much like this place, but I like you. Yes, I am right-down
smitten with you, but I don't think I like anything else. You don't mind
if I am frank, Uncle Ned; it always was my way. We are brought up like
that in Tasmania--Audrey, don't frown at me; you don't look pretty when
you frown. But, oh! I say, the bell has gone, has it not?"
"Yes, my dear," said Lady Frances.
"And it means dinner, does it not?"
"Certainly, Evelyn," said her uncle, bending towards her with the most
polished and stately grace. "Allow me, my niece, to conduct you to the
dining-room."
"How droll you are, uncle!" said Evelyn. "But I like you all the same.
You are a right-down good old sort. I am awfully peckish; I shall be
glad of a round meal."
CHAPTER III.--THE CRADLE LIFE OF WILD EVE.
Eighteen years before the date of this story, two brothers had parted
with angry words. They were both in love with the same woman, and the
younger brother had won. The elder brother, only one year his senior,
could not stand defeat.
"I cannot stay in the old place," he said. "You can occupy the Castle
during my absence."
To this arrangement Edward Wynford agreed.
"Where are you going?" he said to his brother Frank.
"To the other side of the world--Australia probably. I don't know when I
shall return. It does not much matter. I shall never marry. The estate
will be yours. If Lady Frances has a son, it will belong to him."
"You must not think of that," said Edward. "I will live at the Castle
for a few years in order to keep it warm for you, but you will come
back; you will get over this. If she had loved you, old man, do you
think I would have taken her from you? But she chose me from the very
first."
"I don't blame you, Ned," said Frank. "You are as innocent of any
intention of harm to me as the unborn babe, but I love her too well to
stay in the old country. I am off. I don't want her ever to know. You
will promise me, won't you, that you will never tell her why I have
skulked off and dropped my responsibilities on to your shoulders?
Promise me that, at least, will you not?"
Edward Wynford promised his brother, and the brother went away.
In the former generation father and son had agreed to break off the
entail, and although there was no intention of carrying this action into
effect, and Frank, as eldest son, inherited the great estates of Wynford
Castle, yet at his father's death he was in the position of one who
could leave the estates to any one he pleased.
During his last interview with his brother he said to him distinctly:
"Remember, if Lady Frances has a son I wish him to be, after yourself,
the next heir to the property."
"But if she has not a son?" said Edward.
"In that case I have nothing to say. It is most unlikely that I shall
marry. The property will come to you in the ordinary way, and as the
entail is out off, you can leave it to whom you please."
"Do not forget that at present you can leave the estate and the Castle
to whomever you please, even to an utter stranger," said Edward, with a
slight smile.
To this remark Frank made no answer. The next day the brothers parted--as
it turned out, for life. Edward married Lady Frances, and they went to
live at Wynford Castle. Edward heard once from Frank during the voyage,
and then not at all, until he received a letter which must have been
written a couple of months before his brother's death. It was forwarded
to him in a strange hand, and was full of extraordinary and painful
tidings. Frank Wynford had died suddenly of acute fever, but before his
death he had arranged all his affairs. His letter ran as follows:
"My dear Edward,--If I live you will never get this letter; if I die
it reaches you all in good time. When last we parted I told you I
should never marry. So much for man's proposals. When I got to
Tasmania I went on a ranch, and now I am the husband of the farmer's
daughter. Her name is Isabel. She is a handsome woman, and the
mother of a daughter. Why I married her I can not tell you, except
that I can honestly say it was not with any sense of affection. But
she is my wife, and the mother of a little baby girl. Edward, when I
last heard from you, you told me that you also had a daughter. If a
son follows all in due course, what I have to say will not much
signify; but if you have no son I should wish the estates eventually
to come to my little girl. I do not believe in a woman's
administration of large and important estates like mine, but what I
say to myself now is, as well my girl as your girl. Therefore,
Edward, my dear brother, I leave all my estates to you for your
lifetime, and at your death all the property which came to me by my
father's will goes to my little girl, to be hers when you are no
longer there. I want you to receive my daughter, and to ask your
wife to bring her up. I want her to have all the advantages that a
home with Lady Frances must confer on her. I want my child and your
child to be friends. I do no injustice to your daughter, Edward,
when I make my will, for she inherits money on her mother's side. I
will acquaint my wife with particulars of this letter, and in case I
catch the fever which is raging here now she will know how to act.
My lawyer in Hobart Town will forward this, and see that my will is
carried into effect. There is a provision in it for the maintenance
of my daughter until she joins you at Castle Wynford. Whenever that
event takes place she is your care. I have only one thing to add.
The child might go to you at once (I have a premonition that I am
about to die very soon), and thus never know that she had an
Australian mother, but the difficulty lies in the fact that the
mother loves the child and will scarcely be induced to part with
her. You must not receive my poor wife unless indeed a radical
change takes place in her; and although I have begged of her to give
up the child, I doubt if she will do it. I cannot add any more, for
time presses. My will is legal in every respect, and there will be
no difficulty in carrying it into effect."
This strange letter was discovered by Frank Wynford's widow a month
after his death. It was sealed and directed to his brother in England.
She longed to read it, but restrained herself. She sent it on to her
husband's lawyer in Hobart Town, and in due course it arrived at Castle
Wynford, causing a great deal of consternation and distress both in the
minds of the Squire and Lady Frances.
Edward immediately went out to Tasmania. He saw the little baby who was
all that was left of his brother, and he also saw that brother's wife.
The coarse, loud-voiced woman received him with almost abuse. What was
to be done? The mother refused to part with the child, and Edward
Wynford, for his own wife's sake and his own baby daughter's sake, could
not urge her to come to Castle Wynford.
"I do not care twopence," she remarked, "whether the child has grand
relations or not. I loved her father, and I love her. She is my child,
and so she has got to put up with me. As long as I live she stays with
me here. I am accustomed to ranch life, and she will get accustomed to
it too. I will not spare money on her, for there is plenty, and she will
be a very rich woman some day. But while I live she stays with me; the
only way out of it is, that you ask me to your fine place in England.
Even if you do, I don't think I should be bothered to go to you, but you
might have the civility to ask me."
Squire Wynford went away, however, without giving this invitation. He
spoke to his wife on the subject. In that conversation he was careful to
adhere to his brother's wish not to reveal to her that that brother's
deep affection for herself had been the cause of his banishment. Lady
Frances was an intensely just and upright woman. She had gone through a
very bad quarter of an hour when she was told that her little girl was
to be supplanted by the strange child of an objectionable mother, but
she quickly recovered herself.
"I will not allow jealousy to enter into my life," she said; and she
even went the length of writing herself to Mrs. Wynford in Tasmania, and
invited her with the baby to come and stay at Wynford Castle. Mrs.
Wynford in Tasmania, however, much to the relief of the good folks at
home, declined the invitation.
"I have no taste for English grandeur," she said. "I was brought up in a
wild state, and I would rather stay as I was reared. The child is well;
you can have her when she is grown up or when I am dead."
Years passed after this letter and there was no communication between
little Evelyn Wynford, in the wilds of Tasmania, and her rich and
stately relatives at Castle Wynford. Lady Frances fervently hoped that
God would give her a son, but this hope was not to be realized. Audrey
was her only child, and soon it seemed almost like a dim, forgotten fact
that the real heiress was in Tasmania, and that Audrey had no more to do
in the future with the stately home of her ancestors than she would have
had had she possessed a brother. But when she was sixteen there suddenly
came a change. Mrs. Wynford died suddenly. There was now no reason why
Evelyn should not come home, and accordingly, untutored, uncared for, a
passionate child with a curious, wilful strain in her, she arrived on
New Year's Day at Castle Wynford.
Evelyn Wynford's nature was very complex. She loved very few people, but
those she did love she loved forever. No change, no absence, no
circumstances could alter her regard. In her ranch life and during her
baby days she had clung to her mother. Mrs. Wynford was fierce and
passionate and wilful. Little Evelyn admired her, whatever she did. She
trotted round the farm after her; she learnt to ride almost as soon as
she could walk, and she followed her mother barebacked on the wildest
horses on the ranch. She was fearless and stubborn, and gave way to
terrible fits of passion, but with her mother she was gentle as a lamb.
Mrs. Wynford was fond of the child in the careless, selfish, and yet
fierce way which belonged to her nature. Mrs. Wynford's sole idea of
affection was that her child should be with her morning, noon, and
night; that for no education, for no advantages, should she be parted
from her mother for a moment. Night after night the two slept in each
other's arms; day after day they were together. The farmer's daughter
was a very strong woman, and as her father died a year or two after her
husband, she managed the ranch herself, keeping everything in order, and
not allowing the slightest insubordination on the part of her servants.
Little Evelyn, too, learnt her mother's masterful ways. She could
reprimand; she could insist upon obedience; she could shake her tiny
fists in the faces of those who dared to oppose her; and when she was
disporting herself so Mrs. Wynford stood by and laughed.
"Hullo!" she used to cry. "See the spirit in the young un. She takes
after me. A nice time her English relatives will have with her! But she
will never go to them--never while I live."
Although Mrs. Wynford had long ago made up her mind that Evelyn was to
have none of the immediate advantages of her birth and future prospects,
she was fond of talking to the child about the grandeur which lay before
her.
"If I die, Eve," she said, "you will have to go across the sea in a big
ship to England. You would have a rough time of it, perhaps, on board,
but you won't mind that, my beauty."
"I am not a beauty, mother," answered Evelyn. "You know I am not. You
know I am a very plain girl."
"Hark to the child!" shrieked Mrs. Wynford. "It is as good as a play to
hear her. If you are not beautiful in body, my darling, you are
beautiful in your spirit. Yes, you have inherited from your proud
English father lots of gold and a lovely castle, and all your relations
will have to eat humble-pie to you; but you have got your spirit from
me, Eve--don't forget that."
"Tell me about the Castle, mother, and about my father," said Evelyn,
nestling up close to her parent, as they sat by the roaring fire in the
winter evenings.
Mrs. Wynford knew very little, and what she did know she exaggerated.
She gave Evelyn vivid pictures, however, in each and all of which the
principal figure was Evelyn herself--Evelyn claiming her rights,
mastering her relations, letting her unknown cousin know that she,
Evelyn, was the heiress, and that the cousin was nobody. Only one person
in the group of Evelyn's future relations did Mrs. Wynford counsel her
to be civil to.
"The worst of it all is this, Eve," she said--"while your uncle lives you
do not own a pennypiece of the estate; and he may hold out for many a
long day, so you had best be agreeable to him. Besides, he is like your
father. Your father was a very handsome man and a very fine man, and I
loved him, child. I took a fancy to him from the day he arrived at the
ranch, and when he asked me to marry him I thought myself in rare good
luck. But he died soon after you were born. Had he lived I'd have been
the lady of the Castle, but I'd not go there without him, and you shall
never go while I live."
"I don't want to, mother. You are more to me than twenty castles," said
the enthusiastic little girl.
Mrs. Wynford had one friend whom Evelyn tolerated and presently loved.
That friend was a woman, partly of French extraction, who had come to
stay at the ranch once during a severe illness of its owner. Her name
was Jasper--Amelia Jasper; but she was known on the ranch by the title of
Jasper alone. She was not a lady in any sense of the word, and did not
pretend that she was one; but she was possessed of a certain strange
fascination which she could exercise at will over those with whom she
came in contact, and she made herself so useful to Mrs. Wynford and so
necessary to Evelyn that she was never allowed to leave the ranch again.
She soon obtained a great power over the curious, uneducated woman who
was Evelyn's mother; and when at last Mrs. Wynford found that she was
smitten with an incurable disease, and that at any moment death would
come to fetch her, she asked her dear friend Jasper to take the child to
England.
"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Jasper. "I'll take Evelyn to England,
and stay with her there."
Mrs. Wynford laughed.
"You are clever enough, Jasper," she said; "but what a figure of fun you
would look in the grand sort of imperial residence that my dear late
husband has described to me! You are not a lady, you know, although you
are smart and clever enough to beat half the ladies out of existence."
"I shall know how to manage," said Jasper. "I, too, have heard of the
ways of English grandees. I'll be Evelyn's maid. She cannot do without a
maid, can she? I'll take Evelyn back, and I will stay with her as her
maid."
Mrs. Wynford hailed this idea as a splendid one, and she even wrote a
very badly spelt letter to Lady Frances, which Jasper was to convey and
deliver herself, if possible, to her proud ladyship, as the widow called
her sister-in-law. In this letter Mrs. Wynford demanded that Jasper was
to stay with Evelyn as long as Evelyn wished for her, and she finally
added:
"I dare you, Lady Frances, fine lady as you are, to part the child from
her maid."
When Mrs. Wynford died Evelyn gave way to the most terrible grief. She
refused to eat; she refused to leave her mother's dead body. She
shrieked herself into hysterics on the day of the funeral, and then the
poor little girl was prostrated with nervous fever. Finally, she became
so unwell that it was impossible for her to travel to England for some
months. And so it happened that nearly a year elapsed between the death
of the mother and the arrival of the child at Castle Wynford.
CHAPTER IV.--"I DRAW THE LINE AT UNCLE NED."
"Well, Jasper," said Evelyn in a very eager voice to her maid that first
night, "and how do you like it all?"
"How do you like it, Evelyn?" was the response.
"That is so like you, Jasper!" replied the spoilt little girl. "When all
is said and done, you are not a scrap original. You make me like you--I
cannot help myself--but in some ways you are too cautious to please me.
You don't want to say what you think of the place until you know my
opinion. Well, I don't care; I'll tell you out plump what I think of
everything. The place is horrid, and so are the people. I wish--oh! I
wish I was back again on the ranch with mother."
Jasper looked down rather scornfully at the small girl, who, in a rich
and elaborately embroidered dressing-gown, was kneeling by the fire.
Evelyn's handsome eyes, the only really good feature she possessed, were
fixed full upon her maid's face.
"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.
Evelyn did not get up to breakfast the following morning. Breakfast at
the Castle was a rather stately affair. A loud, musical gong sounded to
assemble the family at a quarter to nine; then all those who were not
really ill were expected to appear in the small chapel, where the Squire
read prayers morning after morning before the assembled household. After
prayers, visitors and family alike trooped into the comfortable
breakfast-room, where a merry and hearty meal ensued. To be absent from
breakfast was to insure Lady Frances's displeasure; she had no patience
with lazy people. And as to lazy girls, her horror of them was so great
that Audrey would rather bear the worst cold possible than announce to
her mother that she was too ill to appear. Evelyn's absence, therefore,
was commented on with a very grave expression of face by both the Squire
and his wife.
"I must speak to her," said Lady Frances. "It is the first morning, and
she does not understand our ways, but it must not occur again."
"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.
Now, the Squire had produced a decidedly softening effect upon Evelyn,
and if she had not had the misfortune to meet Lady Frances just as she
left his room, much that followed need never taken place. But Lady
Frances, who had never in the very least returned poor Frank Wynford's
affection for her, and who had no sentimental feelings with regard to
Evelyn--Lady Frances, who simply regarded the little girl as a
troublesome and very tiresome member of the family--was not disposed to
be too soothing in her manner.
"Come here, my dear," she said. "Come over here to the light. What have
you got on?"
"My pretty red velvet dress," replied Evelyn, tossing her head. "A
suitable dress for an heiress like myself."
"Come, this is quite beyond enduring. I want to speak to you, Evelyn. I
have several things to say. Come into my boudoir."
"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.
Again at luncheon that day Evelyn was missing. Lady Frances looked
round: Audrey was in her place; Miss Sinclair was seated not far away;
the Squire took the foot of the table; the servants handed round the
different dishes; but still no Evelyn had put in an appearance.
"I wonder where she can be," said the Squire. "She looked a little wild
and upset when she left me. Poor little girl! Do you know, Frances, I
feel very sorry for her."
"More than I do," said Lady Frances, who at the same time had an
uncomfortable remembrance of the look Evelyn had given her when she had
left her presence. "Don't let us talk any more about her now, Edward,"
she said to her husband. "There is only one thing to be done for the
child, and that I will tell you by and by."
The Squire was accustomed to attend to his wife's wishes on all
occasions, and he said nothing further. Audrey felt constrained and
uncomfortable. After a slight hesitation she said:
"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."
CHAPTER VIII.--EVENING-DRESS.
When Audrey re-entered Evelyn's pretty boudoir she found the two girls
standing close together and talking earnestly. Jasper also was joining
in the conversation. Audrey felt her heart sink.
"How can Evelyn make free with Jasper as she does? And why does Sylvia
talk to Evelyn as though they were having secrets together? Why, they
only met to-day!" was the girl's thought. Her tone, therefore, was cold.
"I met father, and he says you may stay," she remarked in a careless
voice. "And now, as doubtless you will be quite happy, I will run away
and leave you, for I have much to do."
"No, no; not until I have thanked you and kissed you first," said
Sylvia.
Audrey did not wish Sylvia to kiss her, but she could not make any open
objection. She scarcely returned the girl's warm embrace, and the next
moment had left the room.
"Is she not a horror?" said Evelyn. "I began by liking her--I mean I
rather liked her. She had a grand sort of manner, and her eyes are
handsome, but I hate her now. She is not half, nor quarter, as pretty as
you are, Sylvia. And, oh, Sylvia, you will be my friend--my true, true
friend--for I am so lonely now that mothery is dead!"
Sylvia was standing by the fire. There was a bright color in both her
cheeks, and her eyes shone vividly.
"My mother died too," she said. "I was happy while she lived. Yes, Eve,
I will be your friend if you like."
"It will be all the better for you," said Evelyn, who could never long
forget her own importance. "If I take to you there is no saying what may
happen, for, whatever lies before me in the future, I am my Uncle
Edward's heiress; and Audrey, for all her pride, is nobody."
"Audrey looks much more suitable," said Sylvia, and then she stopped,
partly amused and partly frightened by the look in Evelyn's light-brown
eyes.
"How dare you!" she cried. "How horrid--how horrid of you! After all, I
do not know that I want to see too much of you. You had better be
careful what sort of things you say to me. And first of all, if I am to
see any more of you, you must tell me why Audrey would make a better
heiress than I shall."
"Oh, never mind," said Sylvia; but then she added: "Why should I not
tell you? She is tall and graceful and very, very lovely, and she has
the manners of a _grande dame_ although she is such a young girl. Any
one in all the world can see that Audrey is to the manner born, whereas
you----"
Evelyn looked almost frightened while Sylvia was talking.
"Is that really so?" she answered. "I ought to be just mad with you, but
I'm not. Before the year is out no one will compare Audrey and me. I
shall be much, much the finest lady--much, much the grandest. I vow it; I
declare it; I will do it; and you, Sylvia, shall help me."
"Oh, I have no objection," said Sylvia. "I am very glad indeed that you
will want my help, and I am sure you are heartily welcome."
Evelyn looked full up at Sylvia. Jasper had left the two girls together.
The only light in the room now was the firelight, for the short winter
day was drawing to an end.
"You, I suppose," said Evelyn, "are a lady although you do wear such a
shabby dress and you suffer so terribly from hunger?"
"How do you know?" asked Sylvia.
"First, because you are not afraid of anything; and second, because you
are graceful and, although you are so very queer, your voice has a
gentle sound. You are a lady by birth, are you not?"
"Yes," said Sylvia simply. She neither added to the word not took from
it. She became very silent and thoughtful.
"Why do you live in such a funny way? Why are you not educated like
other girls? And why will you tell me nothing about your home?"
"I have nothing to tell. My father and I came to live at The Priory
three months ago. He does not care for society, and he does not wish me
to leave him."
"And you are poor?"
"No," said Sylvia.
"Not poor! And yet, why are you almost in rags? And you did eat up your
lunch so greedily!"
"I will answer nothing more, Evelyn. If you do not like me as I am, let
me go now, and I will try to forget the beautiful, comfortable Castle,
and the lovely meals, and you and your queer maid Jasper, and the
beautiful girl Audrey; for if you do not want me as I am, you can never
get me any other way. I am a lady, and we are not poor. Now are you
satisfied?"
"I burn with curiosity," said Evelyn; "and if mothery were alive, would
she not get it out of you! But if you wish it--and your eyes do look as
if they were daggers--I will change the subject. What shall we do for the
rest of the day? Shall we go out and take a walk in the dark?"
"Yes; that would be lovely," cried Sylvia.
Evelyn shouted in an imperious way to Jasper.
"Bring my fur cloak," she said, "and my goloshes. I won't wear anything
over my head. I am going out with Miss Sylvia Leeson."
Jasper brought Evelyn's cloak, which was lined with the most lovely
squirrel inside and covered with bright crimson outside, and put it over
her shoulders. Sylvia in her very shabby black cloth jacket, much too
short in the waist and in the arms, accompanied her. They ran
down-stairs and went out into the grounds.
Now, if there was one thing more than another which would hopelessly
displease Lady Frances, it was the idea of any of her relations
wandering about after dusk. But luckily for Evelyn, and luckily also for
poor Sylvia, Lady Frances was some miles from Wynford Castle at that
moment. The girls rushed about, and soon Evelyn forgot all her
restraints and shouted noisily. They played hide-and-seek amongst the
trees in the plantation. Sylvia echoed Evelyn's shouts; and the Squire,
who was returning to the house in time to meet his guests, paused and
listened in much amazement to these unusual sounds of girlish laughter.
There came a shrill shriek, and then the cry, "Here I am--seek and find,"
and then another ringing peal of girlish merriment.
"Surely that cannot be Audrey!" he said to himself. "What extraordinary
noises!"
He went into the house. From his study window he saw the flash of a
lantern, which lit up a red cloak, and for an instant he observed the
very light hair and white face of his niece. But who was the girl with
her--a tall, shabby-looking girl--about the height of his Audrey, too? It
could not be Audrey! He sank down into a chair, and a look of perplexity
crossed his face.
"What am I to do with that poor child?" he said to himself. "What
extraordinary, unpardonable conduct! Well, I will not tell Lady Frances.
I determined that the child should have one day of liberty, but I am
glad I did not make it more than one."
After Evelyn and Sylvia had quite exhausted themselves they returned to
the house.
Jasper was ready for them. She had laid out several dresses for Evelyn
to select from.
"I have just had a message from her ladyship," she said when the girls
came in with their cheeks glowing and eyes full of laughter. "All the
young people are to dine with the family to-night. As a rule, when there
is company the younger members of the house dine in the schoolroom, but
to-night you are all to be together. I got the message from that
stuck-up footman Scott. I hate the fellow; he had the impudence to say
that he did not think I was suited to my post."
"He had better not say it again," cried Evelyn, "or he will catch it
from me. I mean to have a talk with each of the servants in turn, and
tell them quite openly that at any moment I may be mistress, and that
they had better look sharp before they incur my displeasure."
"But, Eve, could you?" exclaimed Sylvia. "Why, that would mean----"
"Uncle Ned's death. I know that," said Evelyn. "I love Uncle Ned. I
shall be awfully sorry when he does die. But however sorry I am, he will
die when his turn comes; and then I shall be mistress. I was frightfully
sorry when mothery died; but however broken-hearted I was, she did die
just the same. It is so with every one. It is the height of folly to
shirk subjects of that sort; one has to face them. I have no one now to
take my part except dear old Jasper, and so I shall have to take my own
part, and the servants had better know.--You can tell them too, Jasper; I
give you leave."
"Not I!" said Jasper. "I declare, Miss Evelyn, you are no end of a goose
for all that you are the darling of my heart. But now, miss, what dress
will you wear to-night? I should say the white satin embroidered with
the seed pearls. It has a long train, and you will look like a bride in
it, miss. It is cut low in the neck, and has those sleeves which open
above the elbow, and a watteau back. It is a very elegant robe indeed;
and I have a wreath of white stephanotis for your hair, miss. You will
look regal in this dress, and like an heiress, I do assure you, Miss
Eve."
"It is perfectly exquisite!" said Evelyn. "Come, Sylvia; come and look.
Oh, those dear little bunches of chiffon, and white stephanotis in the
middle of each bunch! And, oh, the lace! It is real lace, is it not,
Jasper?"
"Brussels lace, and of the best quality; not too much, and yet enough.
It cost a small fortune."
"Oh, here are the dear little shoes to match, and this petticoat with
heaps of lace and embroidery! Well, when I wear this dress Audrey will
have to respect me."
"That is why I bought it, miss. I thought you should have the best."
"Oh, you are a darling! What would not mothery say if she could look at
me to-night!"
"Well, Miss Evelyn, I hope I do my duty. But you and Miss Sylvia have
been very late out, so you must hurry, miss, if I am to do you justice."
"But, oh, I say!" cried Evelyn, looking for the first time at her
friend. "What is Sylvia to wear?"
"I don't know, miss. None of your dresses will fit her; she is so much
taller."
"I will not go down-stairs a fright," said Sylvia. "Audrey asked me, and
she must lend me something. Please, Jasper, do go to Miss Wynford's room
and ask her if she has a white dress she will lend me to wear to-night.
Even a washing muslin will do. Anything that is long enough in the skirt
and not too short in the waist. I will take it away and have it washed
fresh for her. Do, please, please, ask her, Jasper!"
"I am very sorry, miss," answered Jasper. "I would do anything in reason
to oblige, but to go to a young lady whom I don't know and to make a
request of that sort is more than I can do, miss. Besides, she is
occupied now. A whole lot of visitors have just arrived--fine young
ladies and tall young gentlemen--and they are all chittering-chattering
as though their lungs would burst. They are all in the hall, miss,
chatting as hard as they can chat. No, I cannot ask her; I cannot
really."
"Then I must stop up-stairs and lose all, all the fun," said Sylvia.
The gaiety left her face. She sat down on a chair.
"You will get me something to eat, at any rate, Jasper?" she said.
"Yes, of course, miss; you and I can have a cozy meal together."
"No, thank you," said Sylvia proudly. "I don't eat with servants."
Jasper's face turned an ugly green color. She looked at Evelyn, but
Evelyn only laughed.
"You want to be put in your place, Jas," was her remark. "You are a
little uppish, you know. I am quite pleased with Sylvia. I think she can
teach me one or two things."
"Well," exclaimed Jasper, "if it is to be cruel and nasty to your own
old Jasper, I wish you joy of your future, Miss Evelyn; that I do.--And I
am sure, miss," she added, flashing angry eyes at the unconscious
Sylvia, "I do not want to eat with you--not one bit. I am sure your dress
ain't fit for any lady to wear."
Sylvia got up slowly.
"I am going to look for Audrey," she said; and before Evelyn could
prevent her, she left the room.
"Ain't she a spiteful, nasty thing!" said the maid the moment Sylvia's
back was turned. "Ain't she just the very sort that your mother would be
mad at your knowing! And I willing to be kind to her and all, and to
have a dull evening for her sake, and she ups and cries, 'I don't eat
with servants.' Forsooth! I like her ways! I hope, Miss Evelyn, you
won't have nothing more to do with her."
"Oh dear!" said Evelyn, lying back in her chair and going off into one
peal of laughter after another. "You really kill me, Jas, with your
silly ways. It was fun to see Sylvia when she spoke like that. And
didn't she take a rise out of you! And was not your pecker up! Oh, it
was killing--killing!"
"I am surprised to hear you talk, Miss Evelyn, as you do. You have
already forgotten your poor mother and what she said I was to be to
you."
"I have not forgotten her, Jas; but I mean to have great fun with
Sylvia, and whether you like it or not you will have to lump it. Oh, I
say, she has come back!--Well, Sylvia? Why, you have got a lovely dress
hanging over your arm!"
"It is the best I could get," said Sylvia. "I went to Audrey's wardrobe
and took it out. I did not ask her leave; she was not in the room. There
were numbers of dresses, all hanging on pegs, and I took this one. See,
it is only India muslin, and it can be washed and done up beautifully. I
am determined to have my one happy evening without being docked of any
of it, and I could not come down in my own frock. See, Evelyn; do you
think it will do?"
"It looks rather raggy," said Evelyn, gazing at the white India muslin,
with its lovely lace and chiffon and numerous little tucks, with small
favor; "but I suppose it is better than nothing."
"I borrowed this white sash too," said Sylvia, "and those shoes and
stockings. I am certain to be found out. I am certain never to be
allowed to come to the Castle again; but I mean to have one really great
evening of grand fun."
"And I won't help you to dress," said Jasper.
"But you will, Jasper, because I order it," cried the imperious little
Evelyn. "Only," she added, "you must dress me first; and then, while you
are helping Sylvia to look as smart as she can in that old rag, I will
strut up and down before the glass and try to imagine myself a bride and
the owner of Wynford Castle."
Jasper was, after all, too much afraid of Evelyn not to yield to her
will, and the dressing of the extraordinary girl began. She was very
particular about the arranging of her hair, and insisted on having a
dash of powder on her face; finally, she found herself in the satin robe
with its magnificent adornings. Her hair was once again piled on the top
of her head, a wreath of stephanotis surrounding it, and she stood in
silent ecstasy gazing at her image in the glass.
It was now Sylvia's turn to be appareled for the festive occasion, and
Jasper at first felt cross and discontented as she took down the girl's
masses of raven-black hair and began to brush them out; but soon the
magnificence of the locks, which were tawny in places, and brightened
here and there with threads of almost gold, interested her so completely
that she could not rest until she had made what she called the best of
Sylvia's head.
With all her faults, Jasper could on occasions have taste enough, and
she soon made Sylvia look as she had seldom looked before. Her thick
hair was piled high on her small and classical head; the white muslin
dress fitted close to her slim young figure; and when she stood close to
Evelyn, and they prepared to go down-stairs together, Sylvia, even in
her borrowed plumes, even in the dress which was practically a stolen
dress, looked fifty times more the heiress than the overdressed and
awkward little real heiress.
When the girls reached the large central hall they both stopped. Audrey
was standing near the log fire, and a group of bright and beautifully
dressed children clustered round her. Two of the girls wore muslin
frocks; their hair, bright in color and very thick in quantity, hung
down below their waists. There were a couple of boys in the proverbial
Eton jackets; and another pair of girls of ordinary appearance, but with
intelligent faces and graceful figures. Audrey gave a perceptible start
when she saw her cousin and Sylvia coming to meet her. Just for an
instant Sylvia looked awkward. Audrey's eyes slightly dilated; then she
came slowly forward.
"Evelyn," she said, "may I introduce my special friends? This is
Henrietta Jervice, and this is Juliet; and here is Arthur, and here
Robert. Can you remember so many names all at once? Oh, here are Mary
Clavering and Sophie.--Now, my dears," she added, turning and laughing
back at the group, "you have all heard of Evelyn, have you not? This
young lady is Miss Sylvia----"
"Sylvia Leeson," said Sylvia. A vivid color came into her cheeks; she
drew herself up tall and erect; her black eyes flashed an angry fire.
Audrey looked at her with a slow and puzzled expression. She certainly
was very handsome; but where had she got that dress? Sylvia seemed to
read the thoughts in Audrey's heart. She bent towards her.
"I will send it back next week. You were not in your room. It was time
to dress for dinner. I ran in and took it. If you cannot forgive me I
will make an excuse to go up-stairs, and I will take it off and put it
back again in your wardrobe, and I will slip home and no one will be the
wiser. I know you meant to lend me a dress, for I could not come down in
my old rags; but if I have offended you past forgiveness I will go
quietly away and no one will miss me."
"Stay," said Audrey coldly. She turned round and began to talk to
Henrietta Jervice.
Henrietta laughed and chatted incessantly. She was a merry girl, and
very good-looking; she was tall for her age, which was between sixteen
and seventeen. Both she and her sister were quite schoolgirls, however,
and had frank, fresh manners, which made Sylvia's heart go out to them.
"How nice people in my own class of life really are!" she thought. "How
dreadful--oh, how dreadful it is to have to live as I do! And I see by
Audrey's face that she thinks that I have not the slightest idea how a
lady ought to act. Oh, it is terrible! But there, I will enjoy myself
for the nonce; I will--I vow it. Poor little Evelyn, however _gauche_ she
is, and however ridiculous, has small chance against Audrey. Even if she
is fifty times the heiress, Audrey has the manners of one born to rule.
Oh, how I could love her! How happy she could make me!"
"Do you skate?" suddenly asked Arthur Jervice.
"Yes," replied Sylvia bluntly. She turned and looked at him. He looked
back at her, and his eyes laughed.
"I wonder what you are thinking about?" he said. "You look as if----"
"As if what?" said Sylvia. She drew back a little, and Arthur did the
same.
"As if you meant to run swords into us all. But, all the same, I like
your look. Are you staying here?"
"No," said Sylvia. "I live not far away. I have come here just for the
day."
"Well, we shall see you to-morrow, of course. Mr. Wynford says we can
skate on the pond to-morrow, for the ice will be quite certain to bear.
I hope you will come. I love good skating."
"And so do I," said Sylvia.
"Then will you come?"
"Probably not."
Arthur was silent for a moment. He was a tall boy for his age, and was a
good half-head above Sylvia, tall as she also was.
"May I ask you about things?" he said. "Who is that very, very funny
little girl?"
"Do you mean Eve Wynford?"
"Perhaps that is her name. I mean the girl in white satin--the girl who
wears a grown-up dress."
"She is Audrey Wynford's cousin."
"What! the Tasmanian? The one who is to----"
"Yes. Hush! she will hear us," said Sylvia.
The rustle of silk was heard on the stairs. Sylvia turned her head, and
instinctively hid just behind Arthur; and Lady Frances, accompanied by
several other ladies, all looking very stately and beautiful, joined the
group of young people. A great deal of chattering and laughter followed.
Evelyn was in her element. She was not a scrap shy, and going up to her
aunt, said in a confident way:
"I hope you like this dress, Aunt Frances. Jasper chose it for me in
Paris. It is quite Parisian, is it not? Don't you think it stylish?"
"Hush, Evelyn!" said Lady Frances in a peremptory whisper. "We do not
talk of dress except in our rooms."
Evelyn pouted and bit her lip. Then she saw Sylvia, whose eyes were
watching Lady Frances. Lady Frances also looked up and saw the tall and
beautiful girl at the same moment.
"Who is that girl?" she said, turning to Evelyn. "I don't know her
face."
"Her name is Sylvia Leeson."
"Sylvia Leeson! Still I don't understand. Who is she?"
"A friend of mine," said Evelyn.
"My dear, how can you possibly have any friends in this place?"
"She is my friend, Aunt Frances. I found her wandering about out of
doors, and I brought her in; and Audrey asked her to stay for the rest
of the day, and she is happy. She is very nice, Aunt Frances," said
Evelyn, looking up full in her aunt's face.
"That will do, dear."
Lady Frances went up to her daughter.
"Audrey," she said, "introduce me to Miss Leeson."
The introduction was made. Lady Frances held out her hand.
"I am glad to see you, Miss Leeson," she said.
A few minutes later the whole party found themselves clustered round the
dinner-table. The children, by special request, sat all together. They
chattered and laughed heartily, and seemed to have a world of things to
say each to the other. Audrey, surrounded by her own special friends,
looked her very best; she had a great deal of tact, and had long ago
been trained in the observances of society. She managed now, helped by a
warning glance from her mother, to divide Sylvia and Evelyn. She put
Sylvia next to Arthur, who continued to chat to her, and to try to draw
information from her. Evelyn sat between Robert and Sophie Clavering.
Sophie was downright and blunt, and she made Evelyn laugh many times.
Sylvia, too, was now quite at her ease. She contrived to fascinate
Arthur, who thought her quite the most lovely girl he had ever met.
"I wish you would come and skate to-morrow," he said, as the dinner was
coming to an end and the signal for the ladies to withdraw might be
expected at any moment. "I wish you would, Sylvia. I cannot see why you
should refuse. One has so little chance of skating in England that no
one ought to be off the ice who knows how to skate when the weather is
suitable. Cannot you come? Shall I ask Lady Frances if you may?"
"No, thank you," said Sylvia; then she added: "I long to skate just as
much as you do, and I probably shall skate, although not on your pond;
but there is a long reach of water just where the pond narrows and
beyond where the stream rushes away towards the river. I may skate
there. The water is nearly a mile in extent."
"Then I will meet you," said Arthur. "I will get Robert and Hennie to
come with me; Juliet will never stir from Audrey's side when she comes
to Castle Wynford; but I'll make up a party and we can meet at the
narrow stretch. What do you call it?"
"The Yellow Danger," said Sylvia promptly.
"What a curious name! What does it mean?"
"I don't know; I have not been long enough in this neighborhood. Oh,
there is Lady Frances rising from the table; I must go. If you do happen
to come to the Yellow Danger to-morrow I shall probably be there."
She nodded to him, and followed the rest of the ladies and the girls to
one of the drawing-rooms.
Soon afterwards games of all sorts were started, and the children, and
their elders as well, had a right merry time. There was no one smarter
at guessing conundrums and proposing vigorous games of chance than
Sylvia. The party was sufficiently large to divide itself into two
groups, and "clumps," amongst other games, was played with much laughter
and vigor. Finally, the whole party wandered into the hall, where an
impromptu dance was struck up, and in this also Sylvia managed to excel
herself.
"Who is that remarkably graceful and handsome girl?" said Mrs. Jervice
to Lady Frances.
"My dear Agnes," was the answer, "I have not the slightest idea. She is
a girl from the neighborhood; that terrible aborigine Evelyn picked her
up. She certainly is handsome, and clever too; and she is well dressed.
That dress she has on reminds me of one which I bought for Audrey in
Paris last year. I suppose the girl's people are very well off, for that
special kind of muslin, with its quantities of real lace, would not be
in the possession of a poor girl. On the whole, I like the girl, but the
way in which Evelyn has brought her into the house is beyond enduring."
"My Arthur has quite lost his heart to her," said Mrs. Jervice, with a
laugh. "He said something to me about asking her to join our skating
party to-morrow."
"Well, dear, I will make inquiries, and if she belongs to any nice
people I will call on her mother if she happens to have one; but I make
it a rule to be very particular what girls Audrey becomes acquainted
with."
"And you are quite right," said Mrs. Jervice. "Any one can see how very
carefully your Audrey has been brought up."
"She is a sweet girl," said the mother, "and repays me for all the
trouble I have taken with her; but what I shall do with Evelyn is a
problem, for her uncle has put down his foot and declares that go to
school she shall not."
The ladies moved away, chatting as they did so. The music kept up its
merry sounds; the young feet tripped happily over the polished floor;
all went on gaily, and Sylvia felt herself in paradise. Warmed and fed,
petted and surrounded by luxury, she looked a totally different creature
from the wild, defiant girl who had pushed past Audrey in order to have
a hearty meal on New Year's Day.
But by and by the happy evening came to an end, and Sylvia ran up to
Evelyn.
"It is time for me to go," she said. "I must say good night to Lady
Frances; and then will you take me to your room just to change my dress,
Evelyn?"
"Oh, what a nuisance you are!" said Evelyn. "I am not thinking of going
to bed yet."
"Yes; but you are at home, remember. I have to go to my home."
"Well, I do not see why I should go to bed an hour before I wish to. Do
go if you wish, Sylvia; I will see you another time. You will find
Jasper up-stairs, and she will do anything for you you want."
Sylvia said nothing more. She stood silent for a minute; then noticing
Lady Frances in the distance, she ran up to her.
"Good night, Lady Frances," she said; "and thank you very much."
"I am glad you have enjoyed yourself, Miss Leeson," said the lady. She
looked full into the sparkling eyes, and suddenly felt a curious drawing
towards the girl. "Tell me where you live," she said, "and who your
mother is; I should like to have the pleasure of calling on her."
Sylvia's face suddenly became white. Her eyes took on a wild and
startled glance.
"I have no mother," she said slowly; "and please do not call, Lady
Frances--please don't."
"As you please, of course," said Lady Frances in a very stiff tone. "I
only thought----"
"I cannot explain. I cannot help what you think of me. I know I shall
not see you, perhaps, ever again--I mean, ever again like this," said
Sylvia; "but thank you all the same."
She made a low courtesy, but did not even see the hand which Lady
Frances was prepared to hold out. The next instant she was skimming
lightly up-stairs.
"Audrey," said Lady Frances, turning to her daughter, "who is that
girl?"
"I cannot tell you, mother. Her name is Sylvia Leeson. She lives
somewhere near, I suppose."
"She is fairly well-bred, and undoubtedly handsome," said Lady Frances.
"I was attracted by her appearance, but when I asked her if I might call
on her mother she seemed distressed. She said her mother was dead, and
that I was not to call."
"Poor girl!" said Audrey. "You upset her by talking about her mother,
perhaps."
"I do not think that was it. Do you know anything at all about her,
Audrey?"
"Nothing at all, mother, except that I suppose she lives in the
neighborhood, and I am sure she is desperately poor."
"Poor, with that dress!" said Lady Frances. "My dear, you talk rubbish."
Audrey opened her lips as if to speak; then she shut them again.
"I think she is poor notwithstanding the dress," she said in a low
voice. "But where is she? Has she gone?"
"She bade me good-night a minute ago and ran up-stairs."
"But Evelyn has not gone up-stairs. Has she let her go alone?"
"Just what I should expect of your cousin," said Lady Frances.
Audrey crossed the hall and went up to Evelyn's side.
"Do you notice that Sylvia has gone up-stairs?" she said. "Have you let
her go alone?"
"Yes. Don't bother," said Evelyn.--"What are you saying, Bob?--that you
can cut the figure eight in----"
Audrey turned away with an expression of disgust. A moment later she
said something to her friend Juliet and ran up-stairs herself.
"What are we to do with Evelyn?" was her thought.
The same thought was passing through the minds of almost all the matrons
present; but Evelyn herself imagined that she was most fascinating.
Audrey went to Evelyn's bedroom. There she saw Sylvia already arrayed in
her ugly, tattered, and untidy dress. She looked like a different girl.
She was pinning her battered sailor-hat on her head; the color had left
her cheeks, and her eyes were no longer bright. When she saw Audrey she
pointed to the muslin dress, which was lying neatly folded on a chair.
"I am going to take it home; it shall be washed, and you shall have it
back again."
"Never mind about that," answered Audrey; "I would rather you did not
trouble."
"Very well--as you like; and thank you, Miss Wynford, a hundred times. I
have had a heavenly evening--something to live for. I shall live on the
thoughts of it for many and many a day. Good night, Miss Wynford."
"But stay!" cried Audrey--"stay! It is nearly midnight. How are you going
to get home?"
"I shall get home all right," said Sylvia.
"You cannot go alone."
"Nonsense! Don't keep me, please."
Before Audrey had time to say a word Sylvia had rushed down-stairs. A
side-door was open, she ran out into the night. Audrey stood still for a
moment; then she saw Jasper, who had come silently into the room.
"Follow that young lady immediately," she said. "Or, stay! Send one of
the servants. The servant must find her and go home with her. I do not
know where she lives, but she cannot be allowed to go out by herself at
this hour of night."
Jasper ran down-stairs, and Audrey waited in Evelyn's pretty bedroom.
Already there were symptoms all over the room of its new owner's
presence; a marked disarrangement of the furniture had already taken
place. The room, from being the very soul of order, seemed now to
represent the very spirit of unrest. Jasper came back, panting slightly.
"I sent a man after the young lady, miss, but she is nowhere to be seen.
I suppose she knows how to find her way home."
Audrey was silent for a minute or two; then taking up the dress which
Sylvia had worn, she hung it over her arm.
"Shall I take that back to your room, miss?"
"No, thank you; I will take it myself," replied the girl.
She walked slowly down the passage, descended some steps, and entered
her own pretty room in a distant wing. She opened her wardrobe and hung
up the dress.
"I do hope one thing," thought Audrey. "Yes, I earnestly hope that
mother will never, never discover that poor Sylvia wore my dress. Poor
Sylvia! Who is she? Where does she live? What is she?"
Meanwhile Sylvia Leeson was walking fast through the dark and silent
night. She was not at all afraid; nor did she choose the frequented
paths. On the contrary, after plunging through the shrubbery, she
mounted a stile, got into a field, crossed it, squeezed through a hedge
at the farther end, and so, by devious paths and many unexpected
windings, found herself at the entrance of a curious, old-fashioned
house. The house was surrounded by thick yew-trees, which grew up almost
to the windows. There was a wall round it, and the enclosed space within
was evidently very confined. In the gleam of light which came now and
then through wintry, driving clouds, a stray flower-bed or a thick
holly-bush was visible, but the entire aspect of the place was gloomy,
neglected, and disagreeable in the extreme. Sylvia pushed a certain
spring in the gate; it immediately opened, and she let herself in. She
closed the gate softly and silently behind her, and then, looking
eagerly around, began to approach the house. The house stood not thirty
yards from the gate. Sylvia now for the first time showed symptoms of
fear. Suddenly a big dog in a kennel near uttered a bay. She called his
name.
"Pilot, it is I," she said.
The dog ambled towards her; she put her hand on his neck, bent down, and
kissed him on the forehead. He wagged his tail, and thrust his cold nose
into her hand. She then stood in a listening attitude, her head thrown
back; presently, still holding the dog by the collar, she went
softly--very softly--round the house. She came to a low window, which was
protected by some iron bars.
"Good night, Pilot," she said then. "Good night, darling; go back and
guard the house."
The dog trotted swiftly and silently away. When he was quite out of
sight Sylvia put up her hand and removed one bar from the six which
stood in front of the window. A moment later the window had been opened
and the girl had crept within. When inside she pushed the bar which had
been previously loosened back into its place, shut the window softly,
and crossing the room into which she had entered, stole up-stairs,
trembling as she did so. Suddenly a door from above was opened, a light
streamed across the passage, and a man's voice said:
"Who goes there?"
There was an instant's silence on the part of Sylvia. The voice repeated
the question in a louder key.
"It is I, father," she answered. "I am going to bed. It is all right."
"You impertinent girl!" said the man. "Where have you been all this
time? I missed you at dinner; I missed you at supper. Where have you
been?"
"Doing no harm, father. It is all right; it is really. Good night,
father."
The light, however, did not recede from the passage. A man stood in the
entrance to a room. Sylvia had to pass this man to get to her own
bedroom. She was thoroughly frightened now. She was shaking all over. As
she approached, the man took up the candle he held and let its light
fall full on her face.
"Where have you been?" he said roughly.
"Out, father--out; doing no harm."
"What, my daughter--at this time of night! You know I cannot afford a
servant; you know all about me, and yet you desert me for hours and
hours. Aren't you ashamed of yourself? You have been out of doors all
this long time and supper ready for you on the table! Oatmeal and
skimmed milk--an excellent meal; a princess could not desire better. I am
keeping it for your breakfast. You shall have no supper now; you deserve
to go to bed supper-less, and you shall. What a disgraceful mess your
dress is in!"
"There has been snow, and it is wintry and cold outside," replied
Sylvia; "and I am not hungry. Good night, father."
"You think to get over me like that! You have no pity for me; you are a
most heartless girl. You shall not stir from here until you tell me
where you have been."
"Then I will tell you, father. I know you'll be angry, but I cannot help
it. There is such a thing as dying for want of--oh, not for want of food,
and not for want of clothes--for want of pleasure, fun, life, the joy of
being alive. I did go, and I am not ashamed."
"Where?" asked the man.
"I went to Wynford Castle. I have spent the evening there. Now, you may
be as angry as you please, but you shall not scold me; no, not a word
until the morning."
With a sudden movement the girl flitted past the angry man. The next
instant she had reached her room. She opened the door, shut it behind
her, and locked herself in. When she was quite alone she pulled off her
hat, and got with frantic speed out of her wet jacket; then she clasped
her hands high above her head.
"How am I to bear it! What have I done that I should be so miserable?"
she thought.
She flung herself across the bare, uninviting bed, and lay there for
some time sobbing heavily. All the joy and animation had left her young
frame; all the gaiety had departed from her. But presently her
passionate sobs came to an end; she undressed and got into bed.
She was bitterly--most bitterly--cold, and it was a long time before the
meager clothes which covered her brought any degree of warmth to her
frame. But by-and-by she did doze off into a troubled slumber. In her
sleep she dreamt of her mother--her mother who was dead.
She awoke presently, and opening her eyes in the midst of the darkness,
the thought of her dream came back to her. She remembered a certain
night in her life when she had been awakened suddenly to say good-by to
her mother. The mother had asked the father to leave the child alone
with her.
"You will be always good to him, Sylvia?" she said then. "You will humor
him and be patient. I hand my work on to you. It was too much for me,
and God is taking me away, but I pass it on to you. If you promise to
take the burden and carry it, and not to fail, I shall die happy. Will
you, Sylvia--will you?"
"What am I to do, mother?" asked the child. She was a girl of fourteen
then.
"This," said the mother: "do not leave him whatever happens."
"Do you mean it, mother? He may go away from here; he may go into the
country; he may--do anything. He may become worse--not better. Am I never
to be educated? Am I never to be happy? Do you mean it?"
The dying woman looked solemnly at the eager child.
"I mean it," she said; "and you must promise me that you will not leave
him whatever happens."
"Then I promise you, mother," Sylvia had said.
CHAPTER IX.--BREAKFAST IN BED.
The day of Evelyn's freedom came to an end. No remark had been made with
regard to her extraordinary dress; no comments when she declined to
accompany her own special guest to her bedroom. She was allowed to have
her own sweet will. She went up-stairs very late, and, on the whole, not
discontented. She had enjoyed her chat with some of the strange children
who had arrived that afternoon. Lady Frances had scarcely looked at her.
That fact did not worry her in the least. She had said good-night in
quite a patronizing tone to both her aunt and uncle, she did not trouble
even to seek for Audrey, and went up to her room singing gaily to
herself. She had a fine, strong contralto voice, and she had not the
slightest idea of keeping it in suppression. She sang the chorus of a
common-place song which had been popular on the ranch. Lady Frances
quite shuddered as she heard her. Presently Evelyn reached her own room,
where Jasper was awaiting her. Jasper knew her young mistress
thoroughly. She had not the slightest idea of putting herself out too
much with regard to Evelyn, but at the same time she knew that Evelyn
would be very cross and disagreeable if she had not her comforts;
accordingly, the fire burned clear and bright, and there were
preparations for the young girl's favorite meal of chocolate and
biscuits already going on.
"Oh dear!" said Evelyn, "I am tired; but we have had quite a good time.
Of course when the Castle belongs to me I shall always keep it packed
with company. There is no fun in a big place like this unless you have
heaps of guests. Aunt Frances was quite harmless to-night."
"Harmless!" cried Jasper.
"Yes; that is the word. She took no notice of me at all. I do not mind
that. Of course she is jealous, poor thing! And perhaps I can scarcely
wonder. But if she leaves me alone I will leave her alone."
"You are conceited, Evelyn," said Jasper. "How could that grand and
stately lady be jealous of a little girl like yourself?"
"I think she is, all the same," replied Evelyn. "And, by the way,
Jasper, I do not care for that tone of yours. Why do you call me a
little girl and speak as though you had no respect for me?"
"I love you too well to respect you, darling," replied Jasper.
"Love me too well! But I thought people never loved others unless they
respected them."
"Yes, but they do," answered Jasper, with a short laugh. "How should I
love you if that was not the case?"
Evelyn grew red and a puzzled expression flitted across her face.
"I should like my chocolate," she said, sinking into a chair by the
fire. "Make it for me, please."
Jasper did so without any comment. It was long past midnight; the little
clock on the mantelpiece pointed with its jeweled hands to twenty
minutes to one.
"I shall not get up early," said Evelyn. "Aunt Frances was annoyed at my
not being down this morning, but she will have to bear it. You will get
me a very nice breakfast, won't you, dear old Jasper? When I wake you
will have things very cozy, won't you, Jas?"
"Yes, darling; I'll do what I can. By the way, Evelyn, you ought not to
have let that poor Miss Sylvia come up here and go off by herself."
Evelyn pouted.
"I won't be scolded," she said. "You forget your place, Jasper. If you
go on like this it might really be best for you to go."
"Oh, I meant nothing," said Jasper, in some alarm; "only it did seem--you
will forgive my saying it--not too kind."
"I like Sylvia," said Evelyn; "she is handsome and she says funny
things. I mean to see a good deal more of her. Now I am sleepy, so you
may help me to get into bed."
The spoilt child slept in unconscious bliss, and the next morning,
awaking late, desired Jasper to fetch her breakfast. Jasper rang the
bell. After a time a servant appeared.
"Will you send Miss Wynford's breakfast up immediately?" said Jasper.
The girl, a neat-looking housemaid, withdrew. She tapped at the door
again in a few minutes.
"If you please, Miss Jasper," she said, "Lady Frances's orders are that
Miss Evelyn is to get up to breakfast."
Jasper, with a slight smirk on her face, went into Evelyn's bedroom to
retail this message. Evelyn's face turned the color of chalk with
intense anger.
"Impertinent woman!" she murmured. "Go down immediately yourself,
Jasper, and bring me up some breakfast. Go--do you hear? I will not be
ruled by Lady Frances."
Jasper very unwillingly went down-stairs. She returned in about ten
minutes to inform Evelyn that it was quite useless, that Lady Frances
had given most positive orders, and that there was not a servant in the
house who would dare to disobey her.
"But you would dare," said the angry child. "Why did you not go into the
larder and fetch the things yourself?"
"The cook took care of that, Miss Evelyn; the larder door was locked."
"Oh, dear me!" said Evelyn; "and I am so hungry." She began to cry.
"Had you not better get up, Evelyn?" said the maid. "The servants told
me down-stairs that breakfast would be served in the breakfast-room
to-day up to ten o'clock."
"Do you think I am going to let her have the victory over me?" said
Evelyn. "No; I shall not stir. I won't go to meals at all if this sort
of thing goes on. Oh, I am cruelly treated! I am--I am! And I am so
desperately hungry! Is not there even any chocolate left, Jasper?"
"I am sorry to say there is not, dear--you finished it all, to the last
drop, last night; and the tin with the biscuits is empty also. There is
nothing to eat in this room. I am afraid you will have to hurry and
dress yourself--that is, if you want breakfast."
"I won't stir," said Evelyn--"not if she comes to drag me out of bed with
cart-ropes."
Jasper stood and stared at her young charge.
"You are very silly, Miss Evelyn," she said. "You will have to submit to
her ladyship. You are only a very young girl, and you will find that you
cannot fight against her."
Evelyn now covered her face with her handkerchief, and her sobs became
distressful.
"Come, dear, come!" said Jasper not unkindly; "let me help you to get
into your clothes."
But Evelyn pushed her devoted maid away with vigorous hands.
"Don't touch me. I hate you!" she said.--"Oh mothery, mothery, why did
you die and leave me? Oh, your own little Evelyn is so wretched!"
"Now, really, Miss Evelyn, I am angry with you. You are a silly child!
You can dress and go down-stairs and have as nice a breakfast as you
please. I heard them talking in the breakfast-room as I went by. They
were such a merry party!"
"Much they care for me!" said Evelyn.
"Well, they don't naturally unless you go and make yourself pleasant.
But there, Miss Evelyn! if you don't get up, I cannot do without my
breakfast, so I am going down to the servants' hall."
"Oh! could not you bring me up a little bit of something, Jasper--even
bread--even dry bread? I don't mind how stale it is, for I am quite
desperately hungry."
"Well, I'll try if I can smuggle something," said Jasper; "but I do not
believe I can, all the same."
The woman departed, anxious for her meal.
She came back in a little over half an hour, to find Evelyn sitting up
in bed, her eyes red from all the tears she had shed, and her face pale.
"Well," she said, "have you brought up anything?"
"Only hot water for your bath, my dear. I was not allowed to go off even
with a biscuit."
"Oh dear! then I'll die--I really shall. You don't know how weak I am!
Aunt Frances will have killed me! Oh, this is too awful!"
"You had better get up now, Miss Evelyn. You are very fat and stout, my
dear, and missing one meal will not kill you, so don't think it."
"I know what I do think, Jasper, and that is that you are horrid!" said
Evelyn.
But she had scarcely uttered the words before there came a low but very
distinct knock on the door. Jasper went to open it. Evelyn's heart began
to beat with a mixture of alarm and triumph. Of course this was some one
coming with her breakfast. Or could it be, possibly---- But no; even Lady
Frances would not go so far as to come to gloat over her victim's
miseries.
Nevertheless, it was Lady Frances. She walked boldly into the room.
"You can go, Jasper," she said. "I have something I wish to say to Miss
Wynford."
Jasper, in considerable annoyance, withdrew, but returned after a minute
and placed her ear to the keyhole. Lady Frances did not greatly mind,
however, whether she was overheard or not.
"Get up, Evelyn," she said. "Get up at once and dress yourself."
"I--I don't want to get up," murmured Evelyn.
"Come! I am waiting."
Lady Frances sat down on a chair. Her eyes traveled slowly round the
disorderly room; displeasure grew greater in her face.
"Get up, my dear--get up," she said. "I am waiting."
"But I don't want to."
"I am afraid your wanting to or not wanting to makes little or no
difference, Evelyn. I stay here until you get up. You need not hurry
yourself; I will give you until lunch-time if necessary, but until you
get up I stay here."
"And if," said Evelyn in a tremulous voice, "I don't get up until after
lunch?"
"Then you do without food; you have nothing to eat until you get up.
Now, do not let us discuss this point any longer; I want to be busy over
my accounts."
Lady Frances drew a small table towards her, took a note-book and a
Letts's Diary from a bag at her side, and became absorbed in the
irritating task of counting up petty expenses. Lady Frances no more
looked at Evelyn than if she had not existed. The angry little girl in
the bed even ventured to make faces in the direction of the tyrannical
lady; but the tyrannical lady saw nothing. Jasper outside the door found
it no longer interesting to press her ear to the keyhole. She retired in
some trepidation, and presently made herself busy in Evelyn's boudoir.
For half an hour the conflict went on; then, as might be expected,
Evelyn gingerly and with intense dislike put one foot out of bed.
Lady Frances saw nothing. She was now murmuring softly to herself. She
had long--very long--accounts to add up.
Evelyn drew the foot back again.
"Nasty, horrid, horrid thing!" she said to herself. "She shall not have
the victory. But, oh, I am so hungry!" was her next thought; "and she
does mean to conquer me. Oh, if only mothery were alive!"
At the thought of her mother Evelyn burst into loud sobs. Surely these
would draw pity from that heart of stone! Not at all. Lady Frances went
calmly on with her occupation.
Finally, Evelyn did get up. She was not accustomed to dressing herself,
and she did so very badly. Lady Frances did not take the slightest
notice. In about half an hour the untidy toilet was complete. Evelyn had
once more donned her crimson velvet dress.
"I am ready," she said then, and she came up to Lady Frances's side.
Lady Frances dropped her pencil, raised her eyes, and fixed them on
Evelyn's face.
"Where do you keep your dresses?" she said.
"I don't know. Jasper knows."
"Is Jasper in the next room?"
"Yes."
"Go and fetch her."
Evelyn obeyed. She imagined her head was giddy and that her legs were
too weak to enable her to walk steadily.
"Jasper, come," she said in a tremulous voice.
"Poor darling! Poor pet!" muttered Jasper in an injudicious undertone to
her afflicted charge.
Lady Frances was now standing up.
"Come here, Jasper," she said. "In which wardrobe do you keep Miss
Wynford's dresses?"
"In this one, madam."
"Open it and let me see."
The maid obeyed. Lady Frances went to the wardrobe and felt amongst
skirts of different colors, different materials, and different degrees
of respectability. Without exception they were all unsuitable; but
presently she chose the least objectionable, an ugly drab frieze, and
lifting it herself from its hook, laid it on the bed.
"Is there a bodice for this dress?" she asked of the maid.
"Yes, madam. Miss Evelyn used to wear that on the ranch. She has
outgrown it rather."
"Put it on your young mistress and let me see her."
"I won't wear that horrid thing!" said Evelyn.
"You will wear what I choose."
Again Evelyn submitted. The dress was put on. It was not becoming, but
was at least quiet in appearance.
"You will wear that to-day," said her aunt. "I will myself take you into
town this afternoon to get some suitable clothes.--Jasper, I wish Miss
Evelyn's present wardrobe to be neatly packed in her trunks."
"Yes, madam."
"No, no, Aunt Frances; you cannot mean it," said Evelyn.
"My dear, I do.--Before you go, Jasper, I have one thing to say. I am
sorry, but I cannot help myself. Your late mistress wished you to remain
with Miss Wynford. I grieve to say that you are not the kind of person I
should wish to have the charge of her. I will myself get a suitable maid
to look after the young lady, and you can go this afternoon. I will pay
you well. I am sorry for this; it sounds cruel, but it is really cruel
to be kind.--Now, Evelyn, what is the matter?"
"Only I hate you! Oh, how I hate you!" said Evelyn. "I wish mothery were
alive that she might fight you! Oh, you are a horrid woman! How I hate
you!"
"When you come to yourself, Evelyn, and you are inclined to apologize
for your intemperate words, you can come down-stairs, where your belated
breakfast awaits you."
CHAPTER X.--JASPER WAS TO GO.
What will not hunger--real, healthy hunger--effect? Lady Frances, after
her last words, swept out of the room; and Jasper, her bosom heaving,
her black eyes flashing angry fire, looked full at her little charge.
What would Evelyn do now? The spoilt child, who could scarcely brook the
smallest contradiction, who had declined to get up even to breakfast, to
do without Jasper! To allow her friend Jasper to be torn from her
arms--Jasper, who had been her mother's dearest companion, who had sworn
to that mother that she would not leave Evelyn come what might, that she
would protect her against the tyrant aunt and the tyrant uncle, that if
necessary she would fight for her with the power which the law bestows!
Oh, what an awful moment had arrived! Jasper was to go. What would
Evelyn do now?
Evelyn's first impulse had been all that was satisfactory. Her fury had
burst forth in wild, indignant words. But now, when the child and the
maid found themselves alone, Jasper waited in expectancy which was
almost certainty. Evelyn would not submit to this? She and her charge
would leave Castle Wynford together that very day. If they were
eventually parted, the law should part them.
Still Evelyn was silent.
"Oh Eve--my dear Miss Evelyn--my treasure!" said the afflicted woman.
"Yes, Jasper?" said Evelyn then. "It is an awful nuisance."
"A nuisance! Is that all you have got to say?"
Evelyn rubbed her eyes.
"I won't submit, of course," she said. "No, I won't submit for a minute.
But, Jasper, I must have some breakfast; I am too hungry for anything.
Perhaps you had better take all my darling, lovely clothes; and if you
have to go, Jasper, I'll--I'll never forget you; but I'll talk to you
more about it when I have had something to eat."
Evelyn turned and left the room. She was in an ugly dress, beyond doubt,
but in her neat black shoes and stockings, and with her fair hair tied
back according to Lady Frances's directions, she looked rather more
presentable than she had done the previous day. She entered the
breakfast-room. The remains of a meal still lay upon the table. Evelyn
looked impatiently round. Surely some one ought to appear--a servant at
the very least! Hot tea she required, hot coffee, dishes nicely cooked
and tempting and fresh. The little girl went to the bell and rang it. A
footman appeared.
"Get my breakfast immediately," said Evelyn.
The man withdrew, endeavoring to hide a smile. Evelyn's conduct in
daring to defy Lady Frances had been the amusement of the servants' hall
that morning. The man went to the kitchen premises now with the
announcement that "miss" had come to her senses.
"She is as white as a sheet, and looks as mad as a hatter," said the
man; "but her spirit ain't broke. My word! she 'ave got a will of her
own. 'My breakfast, immediate,' says she, as though she were the lady of
the manor."
"Which she will be some day," said cook; "and I 'ates to think of it.
Our beautiful Miss Audrey supplanted by the like of her. There, Johnson!
my missus said that Miss Wynford was to have quite a plain breakfast, so
take it up--do."
Toast, fresh tea, and one solitary new-laid egg were placed on a tray
and brought up to the breakfast-room.
Evelyn sat down without a word, poured herself out some tea, ate every
crumb of toast, finished her egg, and felt refreshed. She had just
concluded her meal when Audrey, accompanied by Arthur Jervice, ran into
the room.
"Oh, I say, Evelyn," cried Audrey, "you are the very person that we
want. We are getting up charades for to-night; will you join us?"
"Yes, do, please," said Arthur. "And we are most anxious that Sylvia
should join too."
"I wish I knew her address," said Audrey. "She is such a mystery! Mother
is rather disturbed about her. I am afraid, Arthur, we cannot have her
to-night; we must manage without.--But will you join us, Evelyn? Do you
know anything about acting?"
"I have never acted, but I have seen plays," said Evelyn. "I am sure I
can manage all right. I'll do my best if you will give me a big part. I
won't take a little part, for it would not be suitable."
Audrey colored and laughed.
"Well, come, anyway, and we will do our best for you," she said. "Have
you finished your breakfast? The rest of us are in my schoolroom. You
have not been introduced to it yet. Come if you are ready; we are all
waiting."
After her miserable morning, Evelyn considered this an agreeable change.
She had intended to go up-stairs to comfort Jasper, but really and truly
Jasper must wait. She accordingly went with her cousin, and was welcomed
by all the children, who pitied her and wanted to make her as much at
home as possible. A couple of charades were discussed, and Evelyn was
thoroughly satisfied with the _rôle_ assigned her. She was a clever
child enough, and had some powers of mimicry. As the different
arrangements were being made she suddenly remembered something, and
uttered a cry.
"Oh dear!" she said--"oh dear! What a pity!"
"What is it now, Evelyn?" asked her cousin.
"Why, your mother is so--I suppose I ought not to say it--your
mother--I---- There! I must not say that either. Your mother----"
"Oh, for goodness' sake speak out!" said Audrey. "What has poor, dear
mother done?"
"She is sending Jasper away; she is--she is. Oh, can I bear it? Don't you
think it is awful of her?"
"I am sorry for you," said Audrey.
"Jasper would be so useful," continued Evelyn. "She is such a splendid
actress; she could help me tremendously. I do wish she could stay even
till to-morrow. Cannot you ask Aunt Frances--cannot you, Audrey? I wish
you would."
"I must not, Evelyn; mother cannot brook interference. She would not
dream of altering her plans just for a play.--Well," she added, looking
round at the rest of her guests, "I think we have arranged everything
now; we must meet here not later than three o'clock for rehearsal. Who
would like to go out?" she added. "The morning is lovely."
The boys and girls picked up hats and cloaks and ran out immediately
into the grounds. Evelyn took the first covering she could find, and
joined the others.
"They ought to consult me more," she said to herself. "I see there is no
help for it; I must live here for a bit and put Audrey down--that at
least is due to me. But when next there are people here I shall be
arranging the charades, and I shall invite them to go out into the
grounds. It is a great bother about Jasper; but there! she must bear it,
poor dear. She will be all right when I tell her that I will get her
back when the Castle belongs to me."
Meanwhile Arthur, remembering his promise to Sylvia, ran away from where
the others were standing. The boy ran fast, hoping to see Sylvia. He had
taken a great fancy to her bright, dark eyes and her vivacious ways.
"She promised to meet me," he said to himself. "She is certain to keep
her word."
By and by he uttered a loud "Hullo!" and a slim young figure, in a
shabby crimson cloak, turned and came towards him.
"Oh, it is you, Arthur!" said Sylvia. "Well, and how are they all?"
"Quite well," replied the boy. "We are going to have charades to-night,
and I am to be the doctor in one. It is rather a difficult part, and I
hope I shall do it right. I never played in a charade before. That
little monkey Evelyn is to be the patient. I do hope she will behave
properly and not spoil everything. She is such an extraordinary child!
And of course she ought to have had quite one of the most unimportant
parts, but she would not hear of it. I wish you were going to play in
the charade, Sylvia."
"I have often played in charades," said Sylvia, with a quick sigh.
"Have you? How strange! You seem to have done everything."
"I have done most things that girls of my age have done."
Arthur looked at her with curiosity. There was--he could not help
noticing it, and he blushed very vividly as he did see--a very roughly
executed patch on the side of her shoe. On the other shoe, too, the toes
were worn white. They were shabby shoes, although the little feet they
encased were neat enough, with high insteps and narrow, tapering toes.
Sylvia knew quite well what was passing in Arthur's mind. After a moment
she spoke.
"You wonder why I look poor," she said. "Sometimes, Arthur, appearances
deceive. I am not poor. It is my pleasure to wear very simple clothes,
and to eat very plain food, and----"
"Not pleasure!" said Arthur. "You don't look as if it were your
pleasure. Why, Sylvia, I do believe you are hungry now!"
Poor Sylvia was groaning inwardly, so keen was her hunger.
"And I am as peckish as I can be," said the boy, a rapid thought
flashing through his mind. "The village is only a quarter of a mile from
here, and I know there are tuck-shops. Why should we not go and have a
lark all by ourselves? Who's to know, and who's to care? Will you come,
Sylvia?"
"No, I cannot," replied Sylvia; "it is impossible. Thank you very much
indeed, Arthur. I am so glad to have seen you! I must go home, however,
in a minute or two. I was out all day yesterday, and there is a great
deal to be done."
"But may I not come with you? Cannot I help you?"
"No, thank you; indeed I could not possibly have you. It is very good of
you to offer, but I cannot have you, and I must not tell you why."
"You do look so sad! Are you sure you cannot join the charades
to-night?"
"Sure--certain," said Sylvia, with a little gasp. "And I am not sad," she
added; "there never was any one more merry. Listen to me now; I am going
to laugh the echoes up."
They were standing where a defile of rocks stretched away to their left.
The stream ran straight between the narrow opening. The girl slightly
changed her position, raised her hand, and called out a clear "Hullo!"
It was echoed back from many points, growing fainter and fainter as it
died away.
"And now you say I am not merry!" she exclaimed. "Listen."
She laughed a ringing laugh. There never was anything more musical than
the way that laughter was taken up, as if there were a thousand sprites
laughing too. Sylvia turned her white face and looked full at Arthur.
"Oh, I am such a merry girl!" she said, "and such a glad one! and such a
thankful one! And I am rich--not poor--but I like simple things. Good-by,
Arthur, for the present."
"I will come and see you again. You are quite wonderful!" he said. "I
wish mother knew you. And I wish my sister Moss were here; I wish she
knew you."
"Moss! What a curious name!" said Sylvia.
"We have always called her that. She is just like moss, so soft and yet
so springy; so comfortable, and yet you dare not take too much liberty
with her. She is fragile, too, and mother had to take great care of her.
I should like you to see her; she would----"
"What would she do?" asked Sylvia.
"She would understand you; she would draw part at least of the trouble
away."
"Oh! don't, Arthur--don't, don't read me like that," said the girl.
The tears just dimmed her eyes. She dashed them away, laughed again
merrily, and the next moment had turned the corner and was lost to view.
CHAPTER XI.--"I CANNOT ALTER MY PLANS."
Immediately after lunch Lady Frances beckoned Evelyn to her side.
"Go up-stairs and ask Jasper to dress you," she said. "The carriage will
be round in a few minutes."
Evelyn wanted to expostulate. She looked full at Audrey. Surely Audrey
would protect her from the terrible infliction of a long drive alone
with Lady Frances! Audrey did catch Evelyn's beseeching glance; she took
a step forward.
"Do you particularly want Evelyn this afternoon, mother?" she asked.
"Yes, dear; if I did not want her I should not ask her to come with me."
Lady Frances's words were very impressive; Audrey stood silent.
"Please tell her--please tell her!" interrupted Evelyn in a voice
tremulous with passion.
"We are going to have charades to-night, mother, and Evelyn's part is
somewhat important; we are all to rehearse in the schoolroom at three
o'clock."
"And my part is very important," interrupted Evelyn again.
"I am sorry," said Lady Frances, "but Evelyn must come with me. Is there
no one else to take the part, Audrey?"
"Yes, mother; Sophie could do it. She has a very small part, and she is
a good actress, and Evelyn could easily do Sophie's part; but, all the
same, it will disappoint Eve."
"I am sorry for that," said Lady Frances; "but I cannot alter my plans.
Give Sophie the part that Evelyn would have taken; Evelyn can take her
part.--You will have plenty of time, Evelyn, when you return to coach for
the small part."
"Yes, you will, Evelyn; but I am sorry, all the same," said Audrey, and
she turned away.
Evelyn's lips trembled. She stood motionless; then she slowly revolved
round, intending to fire some very angry words into Lady Frances's face;
but, lo and behold! there was no Lady Frances there. She had gone
up-stairs while Evelyn was lost in thought.
Very quietly the little girl went up to her own room. Jasper, her eyes
almost swollen out of her head with crying, was there to wait on her.
"I have been packing up, Miss Evelyn," she said. "I am to go this
afternoon. Her ladyship has made all arrangements, and a cab is to come
from the 'Green Man' in the village to fetch me and my luggage at
half-past three. It is almost past belief, Miss Eve, that you and me
should be parted like this."
"You look horrid, Jasper, when you cry so hard!" said Evelyn. "Oh, of
course I am awfully sorry; I do not know how I shall live without you."
"You will miss me a good bit," said the woman. "I am surprised, though,
that you should take it as you do. If you raised your voice and started
the whole place in an uproar you would be bound to have your own way.
But as it is, you are mum as you please; never a word out of you either
of sorrow or anything else, but off you go larking with those children
and forgetting the one who has made you, mended you, and done everything
on earth for you since long before your mother died."
"Don't remind me of mothery now," said the girl, and her lips trembled;
then she added in a changed voice: "I cannot help it, Jasper. I have
been fighting ever since I came here, and I want to fight--oh, most
badly, most desperately!--but somehow the courage has gone out of me. I
am ever so sorry for you, Jasper, but I cannot help myself; I really
cannot."
Jasper was silent. After a time she said slowly:
"And your mother wrote a letter on her deathbed asking Lady Frances to
let me stay with you whatever happened."
"I know," said Evelyn. "It is awful of her; it really is."
"And do you think," continued the woman, "I am going to submit?"
"Why, you must, Jasper. You cannot stay if they do not wish for you. And
you have got all your wages, have you not?"
"I have, my dear; I have. Yes," continued the woman; "she thinks, of
course, that I am satisfied, and that I am going as mum as a mouse and
as quiet as the grave, but she is fine and mistook; I ain't doing
nothing of the sort. Go I must, but not far. I have a plan in my head.
It may come to nothing; but if it does come to something, as I hope to
goodness it will, then you will hear of me again, my pet, and I won't be
far off to protect you if the time should come that you need me. And
now, what do you want of me, my little lamb, for your face is piteous to
see?"
"I am a miserable girl," said Evelyn. "I could cry for hours, but there
is no time. Dress me, then, for the last time, Jasper. Oh, Jasper
darling, I am fond of you!"
Evelyn's stoical, hard sort of nature seemed to give way at this
juncture; she flung her arms round her maid's neck and kissed her many
times passionately. The woman kissed her, too, in a hungry sort of way.
"You are really not going far away, Jasper?" said Evelyn when, dressed
in her coat and hat, she was ready to start.
"My plans are laid but not made yet," said the woman. "You will hear
from me likely to-morrow, my love. And now, good-by. I have packed all
your things in the trunks they came in, and the wardrobe is empty. Oh,
my pet, my pet, good-by! Who will look after you to-night, and who will
sleep in the little white bed alongside of you? Oh, my darling, the
spirit of your Jasper is broke, that it is!"
"Evelyn!" called her aunt, who was passing her room at that moment, "the
carriage is at the door. Come at once."
Evelyn ran down-stairs. She wore a showy, unsuitable hat and a showy,
unsuitable jacket. She got quickly into the carriage, and flopped down
by the side of the stately Lady Frances.
Lady Frances was a very judicious woman in her way. She reprimanded
whenever in her opinion it was necessary to reprimand, but she never
nagged. It needed but a glance to show her that Evelyn required to be
educated in every form of good-breeding, and that education the good
woman fully intended to take in hand without a moment's delay, but she
did not intend to find fault moment by moment. She said nothing,
therefore, either in praise or blame to the small, awkward, conceited
little girl by her side; but she gave orders to stop at Simpson's in the
High Street, and the carriage started briskly forward. Wynford Castle
was within half a mile of the village which was called after it, and
five miles away from a large and very important cathedral town--the
cathedral town of Easterly. During the drive Lady Frances chatted in the
sort of tone she would use to a small girl, and Evelyn gave short and
sulky replies. Finding that her conversation was not interesting to her
small guest, the good lady became silent and wrapped up in her own
thoughts. Presently they arrived at Simpson's, and there the lady and
the child got out and entered the shop. Evelyn was absolutely bewildered
by the amount of things which her aunt ordered for her. It is true that
she had had, as Jasper expressed it, quite a small trousseau when in
Paris; but during her mother's lifetime her dresses had come to her
slowly and with long intervals between. Mrs. Wynford had been a showy
but by no means a good dresser; she loved the gayest, most bizarre
colors, and she delighted in adorning her child with bits of feathers,
scraps of shabby lace, beads, and such-like decorations. After her
mother's death, when Evelyn, considered herself rich, she and Jasper
purchased the same sort of things, only using better materials. Thus the
thin silk was exchanged for thick silk, cotton-back satin for the real
article, velveteen for velvet, cheap lace for real lace, and the gaily
colored beads for gold chains and strings of pearls. Nothing in Evelyn's
opinion and nothing in Jasper's opinion could be more exquisitely
beautiful than the toilet which Evelyn brought to Castle Wynford; but
Lady Frances evidently thought otherwise. She ordered a dark-blue serge,
with a jacket to match, to be put in hand immediately for the little
girl; she bought a dark-gray dress, ready made, which was to be sent
home that same evening. She got a neat black hat to wear with the dress,
and a thick black pilot-cloth jacket to cover the small person of the
heiress. As to her evening-dresses, she chose them of fine, soft white
silk and fine, soft muslin; and then, having added a large store of
underclothing, all of the best quality, and one or two pale-pink and
pale-blue evening-frocks, all severely plain, she got once more into her
carriage, and, accompanied by Evelyn, drove home. On the seat in front
of the pair reposed a box which contained a very simple white muslin
frock for Evelyn to wear that evening.
"I suppose Jasper will have gone when I get back?" said the little girl
to Lady Frances.
"Certainly," said Lady Frances. "I ordered her to be out of the house by
half-past three; it is now past five o'clock."
"What am I to do for a maid?"
"My servant Read shall wait on you to-night and every evening and
morning until our guests have gone; then Audrey's maid Louisa will
attend on you."
"But I want a maid all to myself."
"You cannot have one. Louisa will give you what assistance is necessary.
I presume you do not want to be absolutely dependent; you would like to
be able to do things for yourself."
"In mother's time I did everything for myself, but now it is different.
I am a very, very rich girl now."
Lady Frances was silent when Evelyn made this remark.
"I am rich, am I not, Aunt Frances?" said the little heiress almost
timidly.
"I cannot see where the riches come in, Evelyn. At the present moment
you depend on your uncle for every penny that is spent upon you."
"But I am the heiress!"
"Let the future take care of itself. You are a little girl--small,
insignificant, and ignorant. You require to be trained and looked after,
and to have your character moulded, and for all these things you depend
on the kindness of your relations. The fact is this, Evelyn: at present
you have not the slightest idea of your true position. When you find
your level I shall have hopes of you--not before."
Evelyn leant back hopelessly in the carriage and began to sob. After a
time she said:
"I wish you would let me keep Jasper."
Lady Frances was silent.
"Why won't you let me keep Jasper?"
"I do not consider it good for you."
"But mothery asked you to."
"It gives me pain, Evelyn, under the circumstances to refuse your
mother's request; but I have consulted your uncle, and we both feel that
the steps I have taken are the only ones to take."
"Who will sleep in my room to-night?"
"Are you such a baby as to need anybody?"
"I never slept alone in my life. I am quite terrified. I suppose your
big, ancient house is haunted?"
"Oh, what a silly child you are! Very well, for a night or two I will
humor you, and Read shall sleep in the room; but now clearly understand
I allow no bedroom suppers and no gossip--but Read will see to that. Now,
make up your mind to be happy and contented--in short, to submit to the
life which Providence has ordered for you. Think first of others and
last of yourself and you may be happy. Consult Audrey and Miss Sinclair
and you will gain wisdom. Obey me whether you like it or not, or you
will certainly be a very wretched girl. Ah! and here we are. You would
like to go to the schoolroom; they are having tea there, I believe. Run
off, dear; that will do for the present."
When Evelyn reached the schoolroom she found a busy and animated group
all seated about in different parts of it. They were eagerly discussing
the charade, and when Evelyn arrived she was welcomed.
"I am ever so sorry, Evelyn," said Audrey, "that you cannot have the
part you wanted; but we mean to get up some other charades later on in
the week, and then you shall help us and have a very good part. You do
not mind our arrangement for to-night, do you?"
Evelyn replied somewhat sulkily. Audrey determined to take no notice.
She sat down by her little cousin, told Sophie to fetch some hot tea,
and soon coaxed Evelyn into a fairly good-humor. The small part she was
to undertake was read over to her, and she was obliged to get certain
words by heart. She had little or no idea of acting, but there was a
certain calm assurance about her which would carry her through many
difficulties. The children, incited by Audrey's example, were determined
to pet her and make the best of her; and when she did leave the
schoolroom she felt almost as happy and important as she thought she
ought to be.
"What a horrid girl she is!" said Sophie as soon as the door had closed
behind Evelyn.
"I wish you would not say that," remarked Audrey; and a look of distress
visited her pretty face.
"Oh, we do not mind for ourselves," remarked Juliet; "it is on your
account, Audrey. You know what great friends we have always been, and
now to have you associated every day, and all day long with a girl of
that sort--it really seems almost past bearing."
"I shall get used to it," said Audrey. "And remember that I pity her,
and am sorry--very sorry--for her. I dare say we shall win her over by
being kind."
"Well," said Henrietta, rising as she spoke and slowly crossing the
room, "I have promised to be civil to her for your sake for a day or
two, but I vow it will not last long if she gives herself such
ridiculous airs. The idea of her ever having a place like this!"
She said the last words below her breath, and Audrey did not hear them.
Presently her mother called her, and the young girl ran off. The others
looked at each other.
"Well, Arthur, and what is filling your mind?" said his sister
Henrietta, looking into the face of the handsome boy.
"I am thinking of Sylvia," he answered. "I wish she were here instead of
Evelyn. Don't you like her very much, Hennie? Don't you think she is a
very handsome and very interesting girl?"
"I hardly spoke to her," replied Henrietta. "I saw you were taken with
her."
"She was mysterious; that is one reason why I like her," he replied.
Then he added abruptly: "I wish you would make friends with her,
Henrietta. I wish you, and Juliet too, could be specially kind to her;
she looks so very sad."
"I never saw a merrier girl," was Juliet's reply. "But then, I don't see
people with your eyes; you are always a good one at guessing people's
secrets."
"I take after Moss in that," he replied.
"There never was any one like her," said Juliet. "Well, I am going to
dress now. I hope the charade will go off well. What a blessing Lady
Frances came to the rescue and delivered us from Evelyn's spoiling
everything by taking a good part!"
Meanwhile Evelyn had gone up to her room. It was neat and in perfect
order once more. Jasper's brief reign had passed and left no sign. The
fire burned brightly on the carefully swept-up hearth; the electric
light made the room bright as day. A neat, grave-looking woman was
standing by the fire, and when Evelyn appeared she came forward to meet
her.
"My name is Mrs. Read," she said. "I am my mistress's own special maid,
but she has asked me to see to your toilet this evening, Miss Wynford;
and this, I understand, is the dress her ladyship wishes you to wear."
Evelyn pouted; then she tossed off her hat and looked full up at Read.
Her lips quivered, and a troubled, pathetic light for the first time
filled her brown eyes.
"Where is Jasper?" she asked abruptly.
"Miss Jasper has left, my dear young lady."
"Then I hate you, and I don't want you to dress me. You can go away,"
said Evelyn.
"I am sorry, Miss Wynford, but her ladyship's orders are that I am to
attend to your wardrobe. Perhaps you will allow me to do your hair and
put on your dress at once, as her ladyship wants me to go to her a
little later."
"You will do nothing of the kind. I will dress myself now that Jasper
has gone."
"And a good thing too, miss. Young ladies ought always to make
themselves useful. The more you know, the better off you will be; that
is my opinion."
Evelyn looked full up at Read. Read had a kindly face, calm blue eyes, a
firm, imperturbable sort of mouth. She wore her hair very neatly banded
on each side of her head. Her dress was perfectly immaculate. There was
nothing out of place; she looked, in short, like the very soul of order.
"Do you know who I am?" was Evelyn's remark.
"Certainly I do, Miss Wynford."
"Please tell me."
The glimmer of a smile flitted across Read's calm mouth.
"You are a young lady from Tasmania, niece to the Squire, and you have
come over here to be educated with Miss Audrey--bless her!"
"Is that all you know!" said Evelyn. "Then I will tell you more. There
will come a day when your Miss Audrey will have nothing to do with the
Castle, and when I shall have everything to do with it. I am to be
mistress here any day, whenever my uncle dies."
"My dear Miss Wynford, don't speak like that! The Squire is safe to
live, Providence permitting, for many a long year."
Evelyn sat down again.
"I think my aunt, Lady Frances, one of the cruellest women in the
world," she continued. "Now you know what I think, and you can tell her,
you nasty cross-patch. You can go away and tell her at once. I longed to
say so to her face when I was out driving to-day, but she has got the
upper hand of me, although she is not going to keep it. I don't want you
to help me; I hate you nearly as much as I hate her!"
Read looked as though she did not hear a single remark that Evelyn made.
She crossed the room, and presently returned with a can of hot water and
poured some into a basin.
"Now, miss," she said, "if you will wash your face and hands, I will
arrange your hair."
There was something in her tone which reduced Evelyn to silence.
"Did you not hear what I said?" she remarked after a minute.
"No, miss; it may be more truthful to say I did not. When young ladies
talk silly, naughty words I have a 'abit of shutting up my ears; so it
ain't no manner of use to talk on to me, miss, for I don't hear, and I
won't hear, and that is flat. If you will come now, like a good little
lady, and allow yourself to be dressed, I have a bit of a surprise for
you; but you will not know about it before your toilet is complete."
"A bit of a surprise!" said Evelyn, who was intensely curious. "What in
the world can it be?"
"I will tell you when you are dressed, miss; and I must ask you to
hurry, for my mistress is waiting for me."
If Evelyn had one overweening failing more than another, it was
inordinate curiosity. She rose, therefore, and submitted with a very bad
grace to Read's manipulations. Her face and hands were washed, and Read
proceeded to brush out the scanty flaxen locks.
"Are you not going to pile my hair on the top of my head?" asked the
little girl.
"Oh dear, no, Miss Wynford; that ain't at all the way little ladies of
your age wear their hair."
"I always wore it like that when I was in Tasmania with mothery!"
"Tasmania is not England, miss. It would not suit her ladyship for you
to wear your hair so."
"Then I won't wear it any other way."
"As you please, miss. I can put on your dress, and you can arrange your
hair yourself, but I won't give you what will be a bit of a surprise to
you."
"Oh, do it as you please," said Evelyn.
Her hair, very pretty in itself, although far too thin to make much
show, was accordingly arranged in childish fashion; and when Evelyn
presently found herself arrayed in her high-bodied and long-sleeved
white muslin dress, with white silk stockings and little silk shoes to
match, and a white sash round her waist, she gazed at herself in the
glass in puzzled wonder.
Read stood for a moment watching her face.
"I am pretty, am I not?" said Evelyn, turning and looking full at her
maid.
"It is best not to think of looks, and it is downright sinful to talk of
them," was Read's somewhat severe answer.
Evelyn's eyes twinkled.
"I feel like a very good, pretty little girl," she said. "Last night I
was a charming grown-up young lady. Very soon again I shall be a
charming grown-up young lady, and whether Aunt Frances likes it or not,
I shall be much, much better-looking than Audrey. Now, please, I have
been good, and I want what you said you had for me."
"It is a letter from Jasper," replied Read. "She told me I was to give
it to you. Now, please, miss, don't make yourself untidy. You look very
nice and suitable. When the gong rings you can go down-stairs, or sooner
if your fancy takes you. I am going off now to attend to my mistress."
When alone, Evelyn tore open the letter which Jasper had left for her.
It was short, and ran as follows:
My darling, precious Lamb,--The best friends must part, but, oh, it
is a black, black heart that makes it necessary! My heart is
bleeding to think that you won't have me to make your chocolate, and
to lie down in the little white bed by your side this evening. Yes,
it is bleeding, and bleeding badly, and there will be no blessing on
her who has tried to part us. But, Miss Evelyn, my dear, don't you
fret, for though I am away I do not mean to be far away, and when
you want me I will still be there. I have a plan in my head, and I
will let you know about it when it is properly laid. No more at
present, but if you think of me every minute to-night, so will I
think of you, my dear little white Eve; and don't forget, darling,
that whatever they may do to you, the time will come when they will
all, the Squire excepted, be under your thumb.
--Your loving
"Jasper."
The morsel of content and satisfaction which Evelyn had felt when she
saw herself looking like a nice, ordinary little girl, and when she had
sat in the schoolroom surrounded by all the gay young folks of her
cousin's station in life, vanished completely as she read Jasper's
injudicious words. Tears flowed from her eyes; she clenched her hands.
She danced passionately about the room. She longed to tear from her
locks the white ribbons which Read had arranged there; she longed to get
into the white satin dress which she had worn on the previous occasion;
she longed to do anything on earth to defy Lady Frances; but, alack and
alas! what good were longings when the means of yielding to them were
denied?--for all that precious and fascinating wardrobe had been put into
Evelyn's traveling-trunks, and those trunks had been conveyed from the
blue-and-silver bedroom. The little girl found that she had to submit.
"Well, I do--I do," she thought--"but only outwardly. Oh, she will never
break me in! Mothery darling, she will never break me in. I am going to
be naughty always, always, because she is so cruel, and because I hate
her, and because she has parted me from Jasper--your friend, my darling
mothery, your friend!"
CHAPTER XII.--HUNGER.
When Jasper was conveyed from Wynford Castle she drove to the "Green
Man" in the village. There she asked the landlady if she could give her
a small bedroom for the night. The landlady, a certain Mrs. Simpson, was
quite willing to oblige Miss Jasper. She was accommodated with a
bedroom, and having seen her boxes deposited there, wandered about the
village. She took the bearings of the place, which was small and
unimportant, and altogether devoted to the interests of the great folks
at Castle Wynford. Wynford village lived, indeed, for the Castle;
without the big house, as they called it, the villagers would have
little or no existence. The village received its patronage from the
Squire and his family. Every house in the village belonged to Squire
Wynford. The inhabitants regarded him as if he were their feudal lord.
He was kindly to all, sympathetic in sorrow, ready to rejoice when
bright moments visited each or any of his tenants. Lady Frances was an
admirable almoner of the different charities which came from the great
house. There was not a poor woman in the length and breadth of Wynford
village who was not perfectly well aware that her ladyship knew all
about her, even to her little sins and her small transgressions; all
about her struggles as well as her falls, her temptations as well as her
moments of victory. Lady Frances was loved and feared; the Squire was
loved and respected; Audrey was loved in the sort of passionate way in
which people will regard the girl who always has been to them more or
less a little princess. Therefore now, as Jasper walked slowly through
the village with the fading light falling all over her, she knew she was
a person of interest. Beyond doubt that was the case; but although the
villagers were interested in her, and peeped outside their houses to
watch her (even the grocer, who did a roaring trade, and took the tenor
solo on Sunday in the church choir, peered round his doorstep with the
others), she knew that she was favored with no admiring looks, and that
the villagers one and all were prepared to fight her. That was indeed
the case, for secrets are no secrets where a great family are concerned,
and the villagers knew that Jasper had come over from the other side of
the world with the real heiress.
"A dowdy, ill-favored girl," they said one to the other; "but
nevertheless, when the Squire--bless him!--is gathered to his fathers, she
will reign in his stead, and sweet, darling, beautiful Miss Audrey will
be nowhere."
They said this, repeating the disagreeable news one to the other, and
vowing each and all that they would never care for the Australian girl,
and never give her a welcome.
As Jasper slowly walked she was conscious of the feeling of hostility
which surrounded her.
"It won't do," she said to herself. "I meant to take up my abode at the
'Green Man,' and I meant that no one in the place should turn me out,
but I do not believe I shall be able to continue there; and yet, to go
far away from my sweet little Eve is not to be thought of. I have money
of my own. Her mother was a wise woman when she said to me, 'Jasper, the
time may come when you will need it; and although it belongs to Eve, you
must spend it as you think best in her service.'
"It ain't much," thought Jasper to herself, "but it is sixty pounds, and
I have it in gold sovereigns, scattered here and there in my big black
trunk, and I mean to spend it in watching over the dear angel lamb. Mrs.
Simpson of the 'Green Man' would be the better of it, but she sha'n't
have much of it--of that I am resolved."
So Jasper presently left the village and began strolling in the
direction where the river Earn flows between dark rocks until it loses
itself in a narrow stream among the peaceful hills. In that direction
lay The Priory, with its thick yew hedge and its shut-in appearance.
As Jasper continued her walk she knew nothing of the near neighborhood
of The Priory, and no one in all the world was farther from her thoughts
than the pretty, tall slip of a girl who lived there.
Now, it so happened that Sylvia was taking her walks abroad also in the
hour of dusk. It was one of her peculiarities never to spend an hour
that she could help indoors. She had to sleep indoors, and she had to
take what food she could manage to secure also under the roof which she
so hated; but, come rain or shine, storm or calm, every scrap of the
rest of her time was spent wandering about. To the amount of fresh air
which she breathed she owed her health and a good deal of her beauty.
She was out now as usual, her big mastiff, Pilot, bearing her company.
She was never afraid where she wandered with this protection, for Pilot
was a dog of sagacity, and would soon make matters too hot for any one
who meant harm to his young mistress.
Sylvia walked slowly. She was thinking hard. "What a delightful time she
was having twenty-four hours ago! What a good dinner she was about to
eat! How pleasant it was to wear Audrey's pretty dress! How delightful
to dance in the hall and talk to Arthur Jervice! She wondered what his
sister with the curious name was like. How beautiful his face looked
when he spoke of her!
"She must be lovely too," thought Sylvia. "And so restful! There is
nothing so cool and comfortable and peaceful as a mossy bank. I suppose
she is called Moss because she comforts people."
Sylvia hurried a little. Presently she stood and looked around her to be
sure that no one was by. She then deliberately tightened her belt.
"It makes me feel the pangs less," she thought. "Oh dear, how
delightful, how happy those must be who are never, never hungry!
Sometimes I can scarcely bear it; I almost feel that I could steal
something to have a big, big meal. What a lot I ate last night, and how
I longed to pocket even that great hunch of bread which was placed near
my plate! But I did not dare. I thought my big meal would keep off my
hunger to-day, but I believe it has made it worse than ever. I must have
a straight talk with father to-night. I must tell him plainly that,
however coarse the food, I must at least have enough of it. Oh dear, I
ache--I _ache_ for a good meal!"
The poor girl stood still. Footsteps were heard approaching. They were
now close by. Pilot pricked up his ears and listened. A moment later
Jasper appeared on the scene.
When she saw Sylvia she stopped, dropped a little courtesy, and said in
a semi-familiar tone:
"And how are you this evening, Miss Leeson?"
Sylvia had not seen her as she approached. The girl started now and
turned quickly round.
"You are Jasper?" she said. "What are you doing here?"
"Taking the air, miss. Have you any objection?"
"None, of course," replied Sylvia.
Had there been light enough to see, Jasper would have noticed that the
girl's face took on a cheerful expression. She laid her hand on Pilot's
forehead. Pilot growled. Sylvia said to him:
"Be quiet; this is a friend."
Pilot evidently understood the words. He wagged his bushy tail and
looked in Jasper's direction. Jasper came boldly up and laid her hand
beside Sylvia's on the dog's forehead. The tail wagged more
demonstratively.
"You have won him," said Sylvia in a tone of delight. "Do you know, I am
glad, although I cannot tell why I should be."
"He looks as if he could be very formidable," said Jasper.--"Ah, good
dog--good dog! Noble creature! So I am your friend? Good dog!"
"But it must be rather unpleasant for visitors to come to call on you,
Miss Sylvia, with such a dog as that loose about the place. Now, I, for
instance----"
"If you had a message from Evelyn for me," said Sylvia, "you could call
now with impunity. Strangers cannot; that is why father keeps Pilot. He
is trained never to touch any one, but he is also trained to keep every
one out. He does that in the best manner possible. He stands right in
the person's path and shows his big fangs and growls. Nobody would dream
of going past him; but you would be safe."
Jasper stood silent.
"It may be useful," she repeated.
"You have not come now with a message from Evelyn?" said Sylvia, a
pathetic tone in her voice.
"No, miss, I have not; but do you know, miss--do you know what has
happened to me?"
"How should I?" replied Sylvia.
"I am turned out, miss--turned out by her ladyship--I who had a letter
from Mrs. Wynford in Tasmania asking her ladyship to keep me always as
my little Evelyn's friend and nurse and guardian. Yes, Miss Sylvia, I am
turned away as though I were dirt. I am turned away, miss, although it
was only yesterday that her ladyship got the letter which the dying
mother wrote. It is hard, is it not, Miss Leeson? It is cruel, is it
not?"
"Hard and cruel!" echoed Sylvia. "It is worse. It is a horrible sin. I
wonder you stand it!"
"Now, miss, for such a pretty young lady I wonder you have not more
sense. Do you think I'd go if I could help it?"
"What does Evelyn say?" asked Sylvia, intensely excited.
"What does she say? Nothing. She is stunned, I take it; but she will
wake up and know what it means. No chocolate, and no one to sleep in the
little white bed by her side."
"Oh, how she must enjoy her chocolate!" said poor Sylvia, a sigh of
longing in her voice.
"I am grand at making it," said Jasper. "I have spent my life in many
out-of-the-way places. It was in Madrid I learnt to make chocolate; no
one can excel me with it. I'd like well to make a cup for you."
"And I'd like to drink it," said Sylvia.
"As well as I can see you in this light," continued Jasper, "you look as
if a cup of my chocolate would do you good. Chocolate made all of milk,
with plenty of bread and butter, is a meal which no one need despise. I
say, miss, shall we go back to the "Green Man," and shall you and me
have a bit of supper together? You would not be too proud to take it
with me although I am only my young lady's maid?"
"I wish I could," said Sylvia. There was a wild desire in her heart, a
sort of passion of hunger. "But," she continued, "I cannot; I must go
home now."
"Is your home near, miss?"
"Oh yes; it is just at the other side of that wall. But please do not
talk of it--father hates people knowing. He likes us to live quite
solitary."
"And it is a big house. Yes, I can see that," continued Jasper, peering
through the trees.
Just then a young crescent moon showed its face, a bank of clouds swept
away to the left, and Jasper could distinctly see the square outline of
an ugly house. She saw something else also--the very white face of the
hungry Sylvia, the look which was almost starvation in her eyes. Jasper
was clever; she might not be highly educated in the ordinary sense, but
she had been taught to use her brains, and she had excellent brains to
use. Now, as she looked at the girl, an idea flashed through her mind.
"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
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