A whole month had gone by since Jasper had left Evelyn, and Evelyn after a fashion had grown accustomed to her absence. Considerable changes had taken place in the little girl during that time. She was no longer dressed in anoutréstyle. She wore her hair as any other very young girl of her age would. She had ceased to consider herself grown-up; and although she knew deep down in her heart that she was the heiress—that by and by all the fine property would belong to her—and although she still gloried in the fact, either fear, or perhaps the dawnings of a better nature prevented her talking so much about it as she had done during the early days of her stay at Castle Wynford. The guests had all departed, and schoolroom life held sway over both the girls. Miss Sinclair was the very soul of order; she insisted on meals being served in the schoolroom to the minute, and schoolroom work being pursued with regularity and method. There were so many hours for work and so many hours for amusement. There were times when the girls might be present with the Squire andLady Frances, and times when they only enjoyed the society of Miss Sinclair. There were masters for several accomplishments, and the girls had horses to ride, and a pony-carriage was placed at their disposal, and the hours were so full of occupation that they went by on wings. Evelyn looked fifty times better and happier than she had done when she first arrived at Castle Wynford, and even Lady Frances was forced to own that the child was turning out better than she expected. How long this comparatively happy state of things might have lasted it is hard to say, but it was brought to an abrupt conclusion by an event which occurred just then. This was no less than the departure of kind Miss Sinclair. Her mother had died quite suddenly; her father needed her at home. She could not even stay for the customary period after giving notice of her intention to leave. Lady Frances, under the circumstances, did not press her; and now the subject of how the two girls were best to be educated was ceaselessly discussed. Lady Frances was a born educationist; she had the greatest love for subjects dealing with the education of the young. She had her own theories with regard to this important matter, and when Miss Sinclair went away she was for a time puzzled how to act. To get another governess was, of course, the only thing to be done; but for a time she wavered much as to the advisability of sending Evelyn to school.
“I really think she ought to go,” said Lady Frances to the Squire. “Even now she does nothalf know her place. She has improved, I grant you, but the thorough discipline of school would do her good.”
“You have never sent Audrey to school,” was the Squire’s answer.
“I have not, certainly; but Audrey is so different.”
“I should not like anything to be done in Evelyn’s case which has not been done in Audrey’s,” was the Squire’s reply.
“But surely you cannot compare the girls!”
“I do not intend to compare them. They are absolutely different. Audrey is all that the heart of the proudest father could desire, and Evelyn is still——”
“A little savage at heart,” interrupted Lady Frances.
“Yes; but she is taming, and I think she has some fine points in her—indeed, I am sure of it. She is, for instance, very affectionate.”
Lady Frances looked somewhat indignant.
“I am tired of hearing of Evelyn’s good qualities. When I perceive them for myself I shall be the first to acknowledge them. But now, my dear Edward, the point to be considered is this: What are we to do at once? It is nearly the middle of the term. To give those two girls holidays would be ruinous. There is an excellent school of a very superior sort kept by the Misses Henderson in that large house just outside the village. What do you say to their both going there until we can look round us andfind a suitable governess to take Miss Sinclair’s place?”
“If they both go it does not so much matter,” said the Squire. “You can arrange it in that way if you like, my dear Frances.”
Lady Frances gave a sigh of relief. She was much interested in the Misses Henderson; she herself had helped them to start their school. Accordingly, that very afternoon she ordered the carriage and drove to Chepstow House. The Misses Henderson were expecting her, and received her in state in their drawing-room.
“You know what I have come about?” she said. “Now, the thing is this—can you do it?”
“I am quite certain of one thing,” said the elder Miss Henderson—“that there will be no stone left unturned on our parts to make the experiment satisfactory.”
“Poor, dear Miss Sinclair—it is too terrible her having to leave!” said Lady Frances. “We shall never get her like again. To find exactly the governess for girls like my daughter and niece is no easy matter.”
“As to your dear daughter, she certainly will not be hard to manage,” said the younger Miss Henderson.
“You are right, Miss Lucy,” said Lady Frances, turning to her and speaking with decision. “I have always endeavored to train Audrey in those nice observances, those moral principles, and that high tone which befits a girl who is a lady and who in the future will occupy a high position.”
“But your niece—your niece; she is the real problem,” said the elder Miss Henderson.
“Yes,” answered Lady Frances, with a sigh. “When she came to me she was little less than a savage. She has improved. I do not like her—I do not pretend for a moment that I do—but I wish to give the poor child every possible advantage, and I am anxious, if possible, that my prejudice shall not weigh with me in any sense in my dealings with her; but she requires very firm treatment.”
“She shall have it,” said the elder Miss Henderson; and a look of distinct pleasure crossed her face. “I have had refractory girls before now,” she said, “and I may add with confidence, Lady Frances, that I have always broken them in. I do not expect to fail in the case of Miss Wynford.”
“Firm discipline is essential,” replied Lady Frances. “I told Miss Sinclair so, and she agreed with me. I do not exactly know what her method was, nor how she managed, but the child seemed happy, she learnt her lessons correctly, and, in short, she has improved. I trust the improvement will continue under your management.”
Here the good lady, after adding a few more words with regard to hours, etc., took her leave. The girls were to go to Chepstow House as day-pupils, and the work of their education at that distinguished school was to begin on the following morning.
Evelyn was rather pleased than otherwise when she heard that she was to be sent to school. Shehad cried and flung her arms round Miss Sinclair’s neck when that lady was taking leave of her. Audrey, on the contrary, had scarcely spoken; her face looked a little whiter than usual, and her eyes a little darker. She took the governess’s hand and wrung it, and as she bent forward to kiss her again on the cheek, Miss Sinclair kissed her and whispered something to her. But it was poor Evelyn who cried. The carriage took the governess away, and the girls looked at each other.
“I did not know you could be so stony-hearted,” said Evelyn. She took out her handkerchief as she spoke and mopped her eyes. “Oh dear!” she added, “I am quite broken-hearted without her. I amsuchan affectionate girl.”
“We had better prepare for school,” said Audrey. “We are to go there to-morrow morning, remember.”
“Yes,” answered Evelyn, her eyes brightening; “and do you know, although I am terribly sorry to part with dear Miss Sinclair, I am glad about school. Mothery always wished me to go; she said that talents like mine could never find a proper vent except in school-life. I wonder what sort of girls there are at Chepstow House?”
“I don’t know anything about it,” said Audrey.
“Are you sorry to go, Audrey?”
“Yes—rather. I have never been to school.”
“How funny it will be to see you looking shy and awkward! Will you be shy and awkward?”
“I don’t think so. I hope not.”
“It would be fun to see it, all the same,” said Evelyn. “But there, I am going for a race; my legs are quite stiff for want of running. I used to run such a lot in Tasmania on the ranch! Often and often I ran a whole mile without stopping. Good-by for the present. I suppose I may do what I like to-day.”
Evelyn rushed off into the grounds. She was running at full speed through the shrubbery on her way to a big field, which was known as the ten-acre field, on the other side of the turnstile, when she came full tilt against her uncle. He stopped, took her hand, and looked kindly at her.
“Do you know, Uncle Edward,” she said, “that I am going to school to-morrow?”
“So I hear, my dear little girl; and I hope you will be happy there.”
Evelyn made no reply. Her eyes sparkled. After a time she said slowly:
“I am glad; mother wished me to go.”
“You love your mother’s memory very much, do you not, Eve?”
“Yes,” she said; and tears came into her big, strange-looking eyes. “I love her just as much as if she were alive,” she continued—“better, I think. Whenever I am sad she seems near to me.”
“You would do anything to please her, would you not, Eve?”
“Yes,” answered the child.
“Well, I wish to say something to you. You had a great fight when you came here, but I think to acertain extent you have conquered. Our ways were not your ways—everything was strange—and at first, my dear little girl, you rebelled, and were not very happy.”
“I was miserable—miserable!”
“But you have done, on the whole, well; and if your mother could come back again she would be pleased. I thought I should like to tell you.”
“But, please, Uncle Edward, why would mothery be pleased? She often told me that I was not to submit; that I was to hold my own; that——”
“My dear, she told you those things when she was on earth; but now, in the presence of God, she has learnt many new lessons, and I am sure, could she now speak to you, she would tell you that you did right to submit, and were doing well when you tried to please me, for instance.”
“Why you, Uncle Edward?”
“Because I am your father’s brother, and because I loved your father better than any one on earth.”
“Better than Aunt Frances?” said Evelyn, with a sparkle of pleasure in her eyes.
“In a different, quite a different way. Ay, I loved him well, and I would do my utmost to promote the happiness of his child.”
“I love you,” said the little girl. “I am glad—I amgladthat you are my uncle.”
She raised his hand, pressed it to her lips, and the next moment was lost to view.
“Queer, erratic little soul!” thought Squire Wynford to himself. “If only we can train her aright!I often feel that Frank is watching me, and wondering how I am dealing with the child. It seems almost cruel that Frances should dislike her, but I trust in the end all will be well.”
Meanwhile Evelyn, having tired herself racing round the ten-acre field, suddenly conceived a daring idea. She had known long ere this that her beloved Jasper was not in reality out of reach. More than once the maid and the little girl had met. These meetings were by no means conducive to Evelyn’s best interests, but they added a great spice of excitement to her life; and the thought of seeing her now, and telling her of the change which was about to take place with regard to her education, was too great a temptation to be resisted. Evelyn accordingly, skirting the high-roads and making many detours through fields and lanes, presently arrived close to The Priory. She had never ventured yet into The Priory; she had as a rule sent a message to Jasper, and Jasper had waited for her outside. She knew now that she must be quick or she would be late for lunch. She did not want on this day of all days to seriously displease Lady Frances. She went, therefore, boldly up to the gate, pushed it open, and entered. Here she was immediately confronted by Pilot. Pilot walked down the path, uttered one or two deep bays, growled audibly, and showed his strong white teeth. Whatever Evelyn’s faults were, she was no coward. An angry dog standing in her path was not going to deter her. But she was afraid of something else. Jasper had told her howinsecure her tenure at The Priory was—how it all absolutely depended on Mr. Leeson never finding out that she was there. Evelyn therefore did not want to bring Mr. Leeson to her rescue. Were there no means by which she could induce Pilot to let her pass? She went boldly up to the dog. The dog growled more fiercely, and put himself in an attitude which the little girl knew well meant that he was going to spring. She did not want him to bound upon her; she knew he was much stronger than herself.
“Good, good dog—good, good,” she said.
But Pilot, exasperated beyond measure, began to bark savagely.
Who was this small girl who dared to defy him? His custom was to stand as he stood to-day and terrify every one off the premises. But this small person did not mean to go. He therefore really lost his temper, and became decidedly dangerous.
Mr. Leeson, in his study, was busily engaged over some of that abstruse work which occupied all his time. He was annoyed at Pilot’s barking, and went to the window to ascertain the cause. He saw a stumpy, stout-looking little girl standing on the path, and Pilot barring her way. He opened the window and called out:
“Go away, child; go away. We don’t have visitors here. Go away immediately, and shut the gate firmly after you.”
“But, if you please,” said Evelyn, “I cannot go away. I want to see Sylvia.”
“You cannot see her. Go away.”
“No, I won’t,” said Evelyn, her courage coming now boldly to her aid. “I have come here on business, and I must see Sylvia. You dare not let your horrid dog spring on me; and I am going to stand just where I am till Sylvia comes.”
These very independent words astonished Mr. Leeson so much that he absolutely went out of the house and came down the avenue to meet Evelyn.
“Who are you, child?” he said, as the bold light eyes were fixed on his face.
“I am Evelyn Wynford, the heiress of Wynford Castle.”
A twinkle of mirth came into Mr. Leeson’s eyes.
“And so you want Sylvia, heiress of Wynford Castle?”
“Yes; I want to speak to her.”
“She is not in at present. She is never in at this hour. Sylvia likes an open-air life, and I am glad to encourage her in her taste. May I show you to the gate?”
“Thank you,” replied Evelyn, who felt considerably crestfallen.
Mr. Leeson, with his very best manners, accompanied the little girl to the high iron gates. These he opened, bowed to her as she passed through them, and then shut them in her face, drawing a big bar inside as he did so.
“Good Pilot—excellent, brave, admirable dog!” Evelyn heard him say; and she ground her small white teeth in anger.
A moment or two later, to her infinite delight, she saw Jasper coming up the road to meet her. In an instant the child and maid were in each other’s arms. Evelyn was petting Jasper, and kissing her over and over again on her dark cheek.
“Oh Jasper,” said the little girl, “I got such a fright! I came here to see you, and I was met by that horrible dog; and then a dreadful-looking old man came out and told me I was to go right away, and he petted the dog for trying to attack me. I was not frightened, of course—it is not likely that mothery’s little girl would be easily afraid—but, all the same, it was not pleasant. Why do you live in such a horrid, horrid place, Jasper darling?”
“Why do I live there?” answered Jasper. “Now, look at me—look me full in the face. I live in that house because Providence wills it, because—because—— Oh, I need not waste time telling you the reason. I live there because I am near to you, and for another reason; and I hope to goodness that you have not gone and made mischief, for if that dreadful old man, as you call him, finds out for a single moment that I am there, good-by to poor Miss Sylvia’s chance of life.”
“You are quite silly about Sylvia,” said Evelyn in a jealous tone.
“She is a very fine, brave young lady,” was Jasper’s answer.
“I wish you would not talk of her like that; you make me feel quite cross.”
“You always were a jealous little piece,” saidJasper, giving her former charge a look of admiration; “but you need not be, Eve, for no one—no one shall come inside my little white Eve. But there, now; do tell me. You did not say anything about me to Mr. Leeson?”
“No, I did not,” said Evelyn. “I only told him I had come to see Sylvia. Was it not good of me, Jasper? Was it not clever and smart?”
“It was like you, pet,” said Jasper. “You always were the canniest little thing—always, always.”
Evelyn was delighted at these words of praise.
“But how did you get here, my pet? Does her ladyship know you are out?”
“No, her ladyship does not,” replied Evelyn, with a laugh. “I should be very sorry to let her know, either. I came here all by myself because I wanted to see you, Jasper. I have got news for you.”
“Indeed, pet; and what is that?”
“Cannot you guess?”
“Oh, how can I? Perhaps that you have got courage and are sleeping by yourself. You cannot stand that horrid old Read; you would rather be alone than have her near you.”
“Read has not slept in my room for over three weeks,” said Evelyn proudly. “I am not at all nervous now. It was Miss Sinclair who told me how silly I was to want any one to sleep close to me.”
“But you would like your old Jasper again?”
“Yes—oh yes; you are different.”
“Well, and what is the change, dear?”
“It is this: poor Miss Sinclair—dear, nice Miss Sinclair—has been obliged to leave.”
“Oh, well, I am not sorry for that,” said Jasper. “I was getting a bit jealous of her. You seemed to be getting on so well with her.”
“So I was. I quite loved her; she made my lessons so interesting. But what do you think, Jasper? Although I am very sorry she has gone, I am glad about the other thing. Audrey and I are going to school, as daily boarders, just outside the village; Chepstow House it is called. We are going to-morrow morning. Mothery would like that; she always did want me to go to school. I am glad. Are you not glad too, Jasper?”
“That depends,” said Jasper in an oracular voice.
“What does it all depend on? Why do you speak in that funny way?”
“It depends on you, my dear. I have heard a great deal about schools. Some are nice and some are not. In some they give you a lot of freedom, and you are petted and fussed over; in others they discipline you. When you are disciplined you don’t like it. If I were you——”
“Yes—what?”
“I would stay there if I liked it, and if I did not I would not stay. I would not have my spirit broke. They often break your spirit at school. I would not put up with that if I were you.”
“I am sure they won’t break my spirit,” said Evelyn in a tone of alarm. “Why do you speak sodismally, Jasper? Do you know, I am almost sorry I told you. I was so happy at the thought of going, and now you have made me miserable. No, there is not the slightest fear that they will break my spirit.”
“Then that is all right, dear. Don’t forget that you are the heiress.”
“I could let them know at school, could I not?”
“I would if I were you,” said the injudicious woman. “I would tell the girls if I were you.”
“Oh yes; so I can. I wonder if they will be nice girls at Chepstow House?”
“You let them feel your power, and don’t knock under to any of them,” said Jasper. “And now, my dear, I must really send you home. There, I’ll walk a bit of the way back with you. You are looking very bonny, my little white Eve; you have got quite a nice color in your cheeks. I am glad you are well; and I am glad, too, that the governess has gone, for I don’t want her to get the better of me. Remember what I said about school.”
“That I will, Jasper; I’ll be sure to remember.”
“It would please her ladyship if you got on well there,” continued Jasper.
“I don’t want to please Aunt Frances.”
“Of course you don’t. Nasty, horrid thing! I shall never forgive her for turning me off. Now then, dear, you had best run home. I don’t want her to see us talking together. Good-by, pet; good-by.”
The girls at Chepstow House were quite excited at the advent of Audrey and Evelyn. They were nice girls, nearly all of them; they were ladies, too, of a good class; but they had not been at Chepstow House long without coming under the influence of what dominated the entire place—that big house on the hill, with its castellated roof and its tower, its moat too, and its big, big gardens, its spacious park, and all its surroundings. It was a place to talk to their friends at home about, and to think of and wonder over when at school. The girls at Chepstow House had often looked with envy at Audrey as she rode by on her pretty Arab pony. They talked of her to each other; they criticised her appearance; they praised her actions. She was a sort of princess to them. Then there appeared on the scene another little princess—a strange child, without style, without manners, without any personal attractions; and this child, it was whispered, was the real heiress. By and by pretty Audrey would cease to live at Castle Wynford, and the little girl with the extraordinary face would bemonarch of all she surveyed. The girls commented over this story amongst each other, as girls will; and when the younger Miss Henderson—Miss Lucy, as they called her—told them that Audrey Wynford and her cousin Evelyn were coming as schoolgirls to Chepstow House their excitement knew no bounds.
“They are coming here,” said Miss Lucy, “and I trust that all you girls who belong to the house will treat them as they ought to be treated.”
“And how is that, Miss Lucy?” said Brenda Fox, the tallest and most important girl in the school.
“You must treat them as ladies, but at the same time as absolutely your equals in every respect,” said Miss Lucy. “They are coming to school partly to find their level; we must be kind to them, but there is to be no difference made between them and the rest of you. Now, Brenda, go with the other girls into the Blue Parlor and attend to your preparation for Signor Forre.”
Brenda and her companions went away, and during the rest of the day, whenever they had a spare moment, the girls talked over Audrey and Evelyn.
The next morning the cousins arrived. They came in Audrey’s pretty governess-cart, and Audrey drove the fat pony herself. A groom took it back to the Castle, with orders to come for his young ladies at six in the evening, for Lady Frances had arranged that the girls were to have both early dinner and tea at school.
They both entered the house, and even Audreyjust for a moment felt slightly nervous. The elder Miss Henderson took them into her private sitting-room, asked them a few questions, and then, desiring them to follow her, went down a long passage which led into the large schoolroom. Here the girls, about forty in number, were all assembled. Miss Henderson introduced the new pupils with a few brief words. She then went up to Miss Lucy and asked her, as soon as prayers were over, to question both Audrey and Evelyn with regard to their attainments, and to put them into suitable classes.
The Misses Wynford sat side by side during prayers, and immediately afterwards were taken into Miss Lucy’s private sitting-room. Here a very vigorous examination ensued, with the result that Audrey was promoted to take her place with the head girls, and Evelyn was conducted to the Fourth Form. Her companions received her with smiling eyes and beaming looks. She felt rather cross, however; and was even more so when the English teacher, Miss Thompson, set her some work to do. Evelyn was extremely backward with regard to her general education. But Miss Sinclair had such marvelous tact, that, while she instructed the little girl and gave her lessons which were calculated to bring out her best abilities, she never let her feel her real ignorance. At school, however, all this state of things was reversed. Audrey, calm and dignified, took a high position in the school; and Evelyn was simply, in her own opinion, nowhere. A sulky expression clouded her face. She thought of Jasper’swords, and determined that no one should break her spirit.
“You will read over the reign of Edward I., and I will question you about it when morning school is over,” said Miss Thompson in a pleasant tone. “After recreation I will give you your lessons to prepare for to-morrow. Now, please attend to your book. You will be able to take your proper place in class to-morrow.”
Miss Thompson as she spoke handed a History of England to the little girl. The History was dry, and the reign, in Evelyn’s opinion, not worth reading. She glanced at it, then turned the book, open as it was, upside down on her desk, rested her elbows on it, and looked calmly around her.
“Take up your book, Miss Wynford, and read it,” said Miss Thompson.
Evelyn smiled quietly.
“I know all about the reign,” she said. “I need not read the history any more.”
The other girls smiled. Miss Thompson thought it best to take no notice. The work of the school proceeded; and at last, when recess came, the English teacher called the little girl to her.
“Now I must question you,” she said. “You say you know the reign of Edward I. Let me hear what you do know. Stand in front of me, please; put your hands behind your back. So.”
“I prefer to keep my hands where they are,” said Evelyn.
“Do what I say. Stand upright. Now then!”
Miss Thompson began catechizing. Evelyn’s crass ignorance instantly appeared. She knew nothing whatever of that special period of English history; indeed, at that time her knowledge of any history was practicallynil.
“I am sorry you told me what was not true with regard to the reign of Edward I.,” said the governess. “In this school we are very strict and particular. I will say nothing further on the matter to-day; but you will stay here and read over the history during recess.”
“What!” cried Evelyn, her face turning white. “Am I not to have my recreation?”
“Recess only lasts for twenty minutes; you will have to do without your amusement in the playground this morning. To-morrow I hope you will have got through your lessons well and be privileged to enjoy your pastime with the other pupils.”
“Do you know who I am?” began Evelyn.
“Yes—perfectly. You are little Evelyn Wynford. Now be a good girl, Evelyn, and attend to your work.”
Miss Thompson left the room. Evelyn found herself alone. A wild fury consumed her. She jumped up.
“Does she think for a single moment that I am going to obey her?” thought the naughty child. “Oh, if only Jasper were here! Oh Jasper! you were right; they are trying to break me in, but they won’t succeed.”
A book which the governess had laid upon a tablenear attracted the little girl’s attention. It was not an ordinary lesson-book, but a very beautiful copy of Ruskin’sSesame and Lilies. Evelyn took up the book, opened it, and read the following words on the title-page:
“To dear Agnes, from her affectionate brother Walter. Christmas Day, 1896.”
Quick as thought the angry child tore out the title-page and two or three other pages at the beginning, scattered them into little bits, and then, going up to the fire which burned at one end of the long room, flung the scattered fragments into the blaze. She had no sooner done so than a curious sense of dismay stole over her. She shut up the book hastily, and being really alarmed, began to look over her English history. Miss Thompson came back just before recess was over, picked up Evelyn’s book, asked her one or two questions, and gave her an approving nod.
“That is better,” she said. “You have done as much as I could expect in the time. Now then, come here, please. These are your English lessons for to-morrow.”
Evelyn walked quite meekly across the room. Miss Thompson set her several lessons in the ordinary English subjects.
“And now,” she said, “you are to go to mademoiselle. She is waiting to find out what French you know, and to give you your lesson for to-morrow.”
The rest of the school hours passed quickly.Evelyn was given what she considered a disgraceful amount of work to do; but a dull fear sat at her heart, and she felt a sense of regret at having torn the pages out of the volume of Ruskin. Immediately after morning school the girls went for a short walk, then dinner was announced, and after dinner there was a brief period of freedom. Evelyn, Audrey, and the rest all found themselves walking in the grounds. Brenda Fox immediately went up to Audrey, and introduced her to a few of the nicest girls in the head form, and they all began to pace slowly up and down. Evelyn stood just for an instant forlorn; then she dashed into the midst of a circle of little girls who were playing noisily together.
“Stop!” she said. “Look at me, all of you.”
The children stopped playing, and looked in wonder at Evelyn.
“I am Evelyn Wynford. Who is going to be my friend? I shall only take up with the one I really like. I am not afraid of any of you. I have come to school to find out if I like it; if I don’t like it I shall not stay. You had best, all of you, know what sort I am. It was very mean and horrid to put me into the Fourth Form with a number of ignorant little babies; but as I am there, I suppose I shall have to stay for a week or so.”
“You were put into the Fourth Form,” said little Sophie Jenner, “because, I suppose, you did not know enough to be put into the Fifth Form.”
“You are a cheeky little thing,” said Evelyn, “and I am not going to trouble myself to replyto you.—Well, now, who is going to be my friend? I can tell you all numbers of stories; I have heaps of pocket-money, and I can bring chocolate-creams and ginger-pop and all sorts of good things to the school.”
These last remarks were decidedly calculated to ensure Evelyn’s popularity. Two or three of the girls ran up to her, and she was soon marching up and down the playground relating some of her grievances, and informing them, one and all, of the high position which lay before her.
“You are all very much impressed with Audrey, I can see, but she is really nobody,” cried Eve. “By and by Wynford Castle will be mine, and won’t you like to say you knew me when I am mistress of the Castle—won’t you just! I do not at all know that I shall stay long at school, but you had better make it pleasant for me.”
Some of the girls were much impressed, and a few of them swore eternal fealty to Evelyn. One or two began to flatter her, and on the whole the little girl considered that she had a fairly good time during play-hour. When she got back to her work she was relieved to see that Ruskin’sSesame and Liliesno longer lay in its place on the small table where Miss Thompson had left it.
“She will not open it, perhaps, for years,” thought Evelyn. “I need not worry any more about that. And if she did like the book I am glad I tore it. Horrid, horrid thing!”
Lessons went on, and by and by Audrey andEvelyn’s first day at school came to an end. The governess-cart came to fetch them, and they drove off under the admiring gaze of several of their fellow-pupils.
“Well, Evelyn, and how did you like school?” said Audrey when the two were alone together.
“You could not expect me to like it very much,” replied Evelyn. “I was put into such a horrid low class. I am angry with Miss Thompson.”
“Miss Thompson! That nice, intelligent girl?”
“Not much of a girl about her!” said Evelyn. “Why, she is quite old.”
“Do you think so? She struck me as young, pretty, and very nice.”
“It is all very well for you, Audrey; you are so tame. I really believe you never think a bad thought of anybody.”
“I try not to, of course,” replied Audrey. “Do you imagine it is a fine trait in one’s character to think bad thoughts of people?”
“Mothery always said that if you did not dislike people, you were made of cotton-wool,” replied Evelyn.
“Then you really do dislike people?”
“Oh! some I dislike awfully. Now, there is one at the Castle—but there! I won’t say any more abouther; and there is one at school whom I hate. It is that horrid Thompson woman. And she had the cheek to call me Evelyn.”
“Of course she calls you Evelyn; you are her pupil.”
“Well, I think it is awful cheek, all the same. I hate her, and—oh, Audrey, such fun—such fun! I have revenged myself on her; I really have.”
“Oh Evelyn! don’t get into mischief, I beseech of you.”
“I sha’n’t say any more, but I do believe that I have revenged myself. Oh, such fun—such fun!”
Evelyn laughed several times during the rest of her drive home, and arrived at the Castle in high spirits. The girls were to dine with Lady Frances and the Squire that evening, as they happened to be alone; and the Squire was quite interested in the account which Evelyn gave him of her class.
“The only reason why I could read the dull, dull life of Edward I.,” she said, “is because Edward is your name, Uncle Ned, and because I love you so much.”
“On the whole, my dear,” said the Squire later on to his wife, “the school experiment seems to work well. Little Evelyn was in high spirits to-night.”
“You think of no one but Evelyn!” said Lady Frances. “What about Audrey?”
“I am not afraid about Audrey; you have trained her, and she is by nature most amiable,” said the Squire.
“I am glad you paid me a compliment, my dear,” answered his wife. “Audrey certainly does credit to my training. But I trust Miss Henderson will break that naughty girl in; she certainly needs it.”
The next morning the girls went back to school; and Evelyn, who had quite forgotten what she haddone to the book, and who had provided herself secretly with a great packet of delicious sweetmeats which she intended to distribute amongst her favorites, was still in high spirits.
School began, the girls went to their different classes, Evelyn stumbled badly through her lessons, and at last the hour of recess came. The girls were all preparing to leave the schoolroom when Miss Thompson asked them to wait a moment.
“Something most painful has occurred,” she said, “and I trust whichever girl has done the mischief will at once confess it.”
Evelyn’s face did not change color. A curious, numb feeling got round her heart; then an obstinate spirit took possession of her.
“Not for worlds will I tell,” she thought. “Of course Miss Thompson is alluding to the book.”
Yes, Miss Thompson was. She held the beautifully bound copy of Ruskin in her hand, opened it where the title-page used to be, and with tears in her eyes looked at the girls.
“Some one has torn four pages out of the beginning of this book,” she said. “I left it here by mistake yesterday. I took it up this morning to continue a lecture which I was preparing for the afternoon, and found what terrible mischief had been done. I trust whoever has done this will at least have the honor to confess her wrong-doing.”
Silence and expressions of intense dismay were seen on all the young faces.
“If it were my own book I should not mind somuch,” said the governess; “but it happens to belong to Miss Henderson, and was given to her by her favorite brother, who died two months afterwards. I had some difficulty in getting her to allow me to use it for this lecture. Nothing can replace to her the loss of the inscription written in her brother’s own hand. The only possible chance for the guilty person is to tell all at once. But, oh! who could have been so cruel?”
Still the girls were silent, although tears had risen to many of their eyes. Miss Thompson could hear the words “Oh, what a shame!” coming from more than one pair of lips.
She waited for an instant, and then said:
“I must put a question to each and all of you. I had hoped the guilty person would confess; but as it is, I am obliged to ask who has done this mischief.”
She then began to question one girl after another in the class. There were twelve in all in this special class, and each as her turn came replied in the negative. Certainly she had not done the mischief; certainly she had not torn the book. Evelyn’s turn came last. She replied quietly:
“I have not done it. I have not seen the book, and I have not torn out the inscription.”
No one had any reason to doubt her words; and Miss Thompson, looking very sorrowful, paused for a minute and then said:
“I have asked each of you, and you have all denied it. I must now question every one else in the school.When I have done all that I can I shall have to submit the matter to Miss Henderson, but I did not want to grieve her with the news of this terrible loss until I could at least assure her that the girl who had done the mischief had repented.”
Still there was silence, and Miss Thompson left the schoolroom. The moment she did so the buzz of eager voices began, and during the recess that followed nothing was talked of in the Fourth Form but the loss which poor Miss Henderson had sustained.
“Poor dear!” said Sophie Jenner; “and she did love her brother so much! His name was Walter; he was very handsome. He came once to the school when first it was started. My sister Rose was here then, and she said how kind he was, and how he asked for a holiday for the girls; and Miss Henderson and Miss Lucy were quite wrapped up in him. Oh, who could have been so cruel?”
“I never heard of such a fuss about a trifle before,” here came from Evelyn’s lips. “Why, it is only a book when all is said and done.”
“Don’t you understand?” said Sophie, looking at her in some astonishment. “It is not a common book; it is one given to Miss Henderson by the brother she loved. He is dead now; he can never give her any other book. That was the very last present he ever made her.”
“Have some lollipops, and try to think of cheerful things,” said Evelyn; but Sophie turned almost petulantly away.
“Do you know,” Sophie said to her special friend, Cherry Wynne, “I don’t think I like Evelyn. How funnily she spoke! I wonder, Cherry, if she had anything to do with the book?”
“Of course not,” answered Cherry. “She would not have dared to utter such a lie. Poor Miss Henderson! How sorry I am for her!”
“I have something very delightful to tell you, Sylvia,” said her father.
He was standing in his cold and desolate sitting-room. The fire was burning low in the grate. Sylvia shivered slightly, and bending down, took up a pair of tongs to put some more coals on the expiring fire.
“No, no, my dear—don’t,” said her father. “There is nothing more disagreeable than a person who always needs coddling. The night is quite hot for the time of year. Do you know, Sylvia, that I made during the last week a distinct saving. I allowed you, as I always do, ten shillings for the household expenses. You managed capitally on eight shillings. We really lived like fighting-cocks; and what is nicest of all, my dear daughter, you look the better in consequence.”
Sylvia did not speak.
“I notice, too,” continued Mr. Leeson, a still more satisfied smile playing round his lips, “that you eat less than you did before. Last night I was pleased to observe how truly abstemious you were at supper.”
“Father,” said Sylvia suddenly, “you eat less and less; how can you keep up your strength at this rate? Cannot you see, clever man that you are, that you need food and warmth to keep you alive?”
“It depends absolutely,” replied Mr. Leeson, “on how we accustom ourselves to certain habits. Habits, my dear daughter, are the chains which link us to life, and we forge them ourselves. With good habits we lead good lives. With pernicious habits we sink: the chains of those habits are too thick, too rusty, too heavy; we cannot soar. I am glad to see that you, my dear little girl, are no longer the victim of habits of greediness and desire for unnecessary luxuries.”
“Well, father, dinner is ready now. Won’t you come and eat it?”
“Always harping on food,” said Mr. Leeson. “It is really sad.”
“You must come and eat while the things are hot,” answered Sylvia.
Mr. Leeson followed his daughter. He was, notwithstanding all his words to the contrary, slightly hungry that morning; the intense cold—although he spoke of the heat—made him so. He sat down, therefore, and removed the cover from a dish on which reposed a tiny chop.
“Ah,” he said, “how tempting it looks! We will divide it, dear. I will take the bone; far be it from me to wish to starve you, my sweet child.”
He took up his knife to cut the chop. As he did so Sylvia’s face turned white.
“No, thank you,” she said. “It really so happens that I don’t want it. Please eat it all. And see,” she continued, with a little pride, lifting the cover of a dish which stood in front of her own plate; “I have been teaching myself to cook; you cannot blame me for making the best of my materials. How nice these fried potatoes look! Have some, won’t you, father?”
“You must have used something to fry them in,” said Mr. Leeson, an angry frown on his face. “Well, well,” he added, mollified by the delicious smell, which could not but gratify his hungry feelings—“all right; I will take a few.”
Sylvia piled his plate. She played with a few potatoes herself, and Mr. Leeson ate in satisfied silence.
“Really they are nice,” he said. “I have enjoyed my dinner. I do not know when I made such a luxurious meal. I shall not need any supper to-night.”
“But I shall,” said Sylvia stoutly. “There will be supper at nine o’clock as usual, and I hope you will be present, father.”
“Well, my dear, have something very plain. I am absolutely satisfied for twenty-four hours. And you, darling—did you make a good meal?”
“Yes, thank you, father.”
“There were a great many potatoes cooked. I see they are all finished.”
“Yes, father.”
“I am now going back to my sitting-room. I shallbe engaged for some hours. What are you going to do, Sylvia?”
“I shall go out presently for a walk.”
“Is it not rather dangerous for you to wander about in such deep snow?”
“Oh, I like it, father; I enjoy it. I could not possibly stay at home.”
“Very well, my dear child. You are a good girl. But, Sylvia dear, it strikes me that we had better not have any more frying done; it must consume a great quantity of fuel. Now, that chop might have been boiled in a small saucepan, and it really would have been quite as nutritious. And, my dear, there would have been the broth—the liquor, I mean—that it had been boiled in; it would have made an excellent soup with rice in it. I have been lately compiling some recipes for living what is called the unluxurious life. When I have completed my little recipes I will hand them down to posterity. I shall publish them. I quite imagine that they will have a large sale, and may bring me in some trifling returns—eh, Sylvia?”
Sylvia made no answer.
“My dear,” said her father suddenly, “I have noticed of late that you are a little extravagant in the amount of coals you use. It is your only extravagance, my dear child, so I will not say much about it.”
“But, father, I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“There is smoke—smokeissuing from the kitchenchimney at times when there ought to be none,” said Mr. Leeson in a severe voice. “But there, dear, I won’t keep you now. I expect to have a busy afternoon. I am feeling so nicely after our simple little lunch, my dear daughter.”
Mr. Leeson touched Sylvia’s smooth cheek with his lips, went into the sitting-room, and shut the door.
“The fire must be quite out by now,” she said to herself. “Poor, poor father! Oh dear! oh dear! if he discovers that Jasper is here I shall be done for. Now that I know the difference which Jasper’s presence makes, I really could not live without her.”
She listened for a moment, noticed that all was still in the big sitting-room (as likely as not her father had dropped asleep), and then, turning to her left, went quickly away in the direction of the kitchen. When she entered the kitchen she locked the door. There was a clear and almost smokeless fire in the range, and drawn up close to it was a table covered with a white cloth; on the table were preparations for a meal.
“Well, Sylvia,” said Jasper, “and how did he enjoy his chop? How much of it did he give to you, my dear?”
“Oh, none at all, Jasper. I pretended I was not hungry. It was such a pleasure to see him eat it!”
“And what about the fried potatoes, love?”
“He ate them too with such an appetite—I just took a few to satisfy him. Do you know, Jasper, he says that he thinks an abstemious life agrees withme. He says that I am looking very well, and that he is quite sure no one needs big fires and plenty of food in cold weather—it is simply and entirely a matter of habit.”
“Oh! don’t talk to me of him any more,” said Jasper. “He is the sort of man to give me the dismals. I cannot tell you how often I dream of him at night. You are a great deal too good to him, Sylvia, and that is the truth. But here—here is our dinner, you poor frozen lamb. Eat now and satisfy yourself.”
Sylvia sat down and ate with considerable appetite the good and nourishing food which Jasper had provided. As she did so her bright, clear, dark eyes grew brighter than ever, and her young cheeks became full of the lovely color of the damask rose. She pushed her hair from her forehead, and looked thoughtfully into the fire.
“You feel better, dear, don’t you?” asked Jasper.
“Better!” said the young girl. “I feel alive. I wonder, Jasper, how long it will last.”
“Why should it not go on for some time, dear? I have money—enough, that is, for the present.”
“But you are spending your money on me.”
“Not at all. You are keeping me and feeding me. I give you twenty shillings a week, and out of that you feed me as well as yourself.”
“Oh, that twenty shillings!” cried Sylvia. “What riches it seems! The first week I got it I really felt that I should never, never be able to come to the end of it. I quite trembled when I was in father’spresence. I dreaded that he might see the money lying in my pocket. It seemed impossible that he, who loves money so much, would not notice it; but he did not, and now I am almost accustomed to it. Oh Jasper, you have saved my life!”
“It is well to have lived for some good purpose,” said Jasper in a guarded tone. She looked at the young girl, and a quick sigh came to her lips.
“Do you know,” she said abruptly, “that I mean to do more than feed you and warm you?”
“But what more could you do?”
“Why, clothe you, love—clothe you.”
“No, Jasper; you must not.”
“But I must and will,” said Jasper. “I have smuggled in all my belongings, and the dear old gentleman does not know a single bit about it. Bless you! notwithstanding that Pilot of his, and the way he himself sneaks about and watches—notwithstanding all these things, I, Amelia Jasper, am a match for him. Yes, my dear, my belongings are in this house, and one of the trunks contains little Evelyn’s clothes—the clothes she is not allowed to wear. I mean to alter them, and add to them, and rearrange them, and make them fit for you, my bonny girl.”
“It is a temptation,” said Sylvia; “but, Jasper dear, I dare not allow you to do it. If I were to appear in anything but the very plainest clothes father would discover there was something up; he would get into a state of terror, and my life would not be worth living. When mother was alive shesometimes tried to dress me as I ought to be dressed, and I remember now a terrible scene and mother’s tears. There was an occasion when mother gave me a little crimson velvet frock, and I ran into the dining-room to father. I was quite small then, and the frock suited me, and mother was, oh, so proud! But half an hour later I was in my room, drowned in tears, and ordered to bed immediately, and the frock had been torn off my back by father himself.”
“The man is a maniac,” said Jasper. “Don’t let us talk of him. You can dress fine when you are with me. I mean to have a gay time; I don’t mean to let the grass grow under my feet. What do you say to my smuggling in little Eve some day and letting her have a right jolly time with us two in this old kitchen?”
“But father will certainly, certainly discover it.”
“No; I can manage that. The kitchen is far away from the rest of the house, and with this new sort of coal there is scarcely any smoke. At night—at any rate on dark nights—he cannot see even if there is smoke; and in the daytime I burn this special coal. Oh, we are safe enough, my dear; you need have no fear.”
Sylvia talked a little longer with Jasper, and then she ran to her own room to put on her very threadbare garments preparatory to going out. Yes, she certainly felt much, much better. The air was keen and crisp; she was no longer hungry—that gnawing pain in her side had absolutely ceased; she was warm, too, and she longed for exercise. A momentor two later, accompanied by Pilot, she was racing along the snow-covered roads. The splendid color in her cheeks could not but draw the attention of any chance passer-by.
“What a handsome—what a very handsome girl!” more than one person said; and it so happened that as Sylvia was flying round a corner, her great mastiff gamboling in front of her, she came face to face with Lady Frances, who was driving to make some calls in the neighborhood.
Lady Frances Wynford was never proof against a pretty face, and she had seldom seen a more lovely vision than those dark eyes and glowing cheeks presented at that moment. She desired her coachman to stop, and bending forward, greeted Sylvia in quite an affectionate way.
“How do you do, Miss Leeson?” she said. “You never came to see me after I invited you to do so. I meant to call on your mother, but you did not greet my proposal with enthusiasm. How is she, by the way?”
“Mother is dead,” replied Sylvia in a low tone. The rich color faded slowly from her cheeks, but she would not cry. She looked full up at Lady Frances.
“Poor child!” said that lady kindly; “you must miss her. How old are you, Miss Leeson?”
“I am just sixteen,” was the reply.
“Would you like to come for a drive with me?”
“May I?” said the girl in an almost incredulous voice.
“You certainly may; I should like to have you.—Johnson, get down and open the carriage door for Miss Leeson.—But, oh, my dear, what is to be done with the dog?”
“Pilot will go home if I speak to him,” said Sylvia.—“Come here, Pilot.”
The mastiff strode slowly up.
“Go home, dear,” said Sylvia. “Go, and knock as you know how at the gates, and father will let you in. Be quick, dear dog; go at once.”
Pilot put on a shrewd and wonderfully knowing expression, cocked one ear a little, wagged his tail a trifle, glanced at Lady Frances, seemed on the whole to approve of her, and then turning on his heel, trotted off in the direction of The Priory.
“What a wonderfully intelligent dog, and how you have trained him!” said Lady Frances.
“Yes; he is almost human,” replied Sylvia. “How nice this is!” she continued as the carriage began to roll smoothly away. She leant back against her comfortable cushions.
“But you will soon be cold, my dear, in that very thin jacket,” said Lady Frances. “Let me wrap this warm fur cloak round you. Oh, yes, I insist; it would never do for you to catch cold while driving with me.”
Sylvia submitted to the warm and comforting touch of the fur, and the smile on her young face grew brighter than ever.
“And now you must tell me all about yourself,” said Lady Frances. “Do you know, I am quitecurious about you—a girl like you living such a strange and lonely life!”
“Lady Frances,” said Sylvia.
“Yes my dear; what?”
“I am going to say something which may not be quite polite, but I am obliged to say it. I cannot answer any of your questions; I cannot tell you anything about myself.”
“Really?”
“Not because I mean to be rude, for in many ways I should like to confide in you; but it would not be honorable. Do you understand?”
“I certainly understand what honor means,” said Lady Frances; “but whether a child like you is acting wisely in keeping up an unnecessary mystery is more than I can tell.”
“I would much rather tell you everything about myself than keep silence, but I cannot speak,” said Sylvia simply.
Lady Frances looked at her in some wonder.
“She is a lady when all is said and done,” she said to herself. “As to poverty, I do not know that I ever saw any one so badly dressed; the child has not sufficient clothing to keep her warm. When last I saw her she was painfully thin, too; she has more color in her cheeks now, and more flesh on her poor young bones, so perhaps whoever she lives with is taking better care of her. I am curious, and I will not pretend to deny it, but of course I can question the child no further.”
No one could make herself more agreeable thanLady Frances Wynford when she chose. She chatted now on many matters, and Sylvia soon felt perfectly at home.
“Why, the child, young as she is, knows some of the ways of society,” thought the great lady. “I only wish that that miserable little Evelyn was half as refined and nice as this poor, neglected girl.”
Presently the drive came to an end. Sylvia had not enjoyed herself so much for many a day.
“Now, listen, Sylvia,” said Lady Frances: “I am a very plain-spoken woman; when I say a thing I mean it, and when I think a thing, as a rule, I say it. I like you. That I am curious about you, and very much inclined to wonder who you are and what you are doing in this place, goes without saying; but of course I do not want to pry into what you do not wish to tell me. Your secret is your own, my dear, and not my affair; but, at the same time, I should like to befriend you. Can you come to the Castle sometimes? When you do come it will be as a welcome guest.”
“I do not know how I can come,” replied Sylvia. She colored, looked down, and her face turned rather white. “I have not a proper dress,” she added. “Oh, not that I am poor, but——”
Lady Frances looked puzzled. She longed to say, “I will give you the dress you need,” but there was something about Sylvia’s face which forbade her.
“Well,” she said, “if you can manage the dress will you come? This, let me see, is Thursday. The girls are to have a whole holiday on Saturday. Willyou spend Saturday with us? Now you must say yes; I will take no refusal.”
Sylvia’s heart gave a bound of pleasure.
“Is it right; is it wrong?” she said to herself. “But I cannot help it,” was her next thought; “I must have my fun—I must. I do like Audrey so much! And I like Evelyn too—not, of course, like Audrey; but I like them both.”
“You will come, dear?” said Lady Frances. “We shall be very pleased to see you. By the way, your address is——”
“The Priory,” said Sylvia hastily. “Oh, please, Lady Frances, don’t send any message there! If you do I shall not be allowed to come to you. Yes, I will come—perhaps never again, but I will come on Saturday. It is a great pleasure; I do not feel able to refuse.”
“That is right. Then I shall expect you.”
Lady Frances nodded to the young girl, told the coachman to drive home, and the next moment had turned the corner and was lost to view.
“What fun this is!” said Sylvia to herself. “I wish Pilot were here. I should like to have a race with him over the snow. Oh, how beautiful is the world when all is said and done! Now, if only I had a proper dress to go to the Castle in!”
She ran home. Her father was standing on the steps of the house. His face looked pinched, blue, and cold; the nourishment of the chop and the fried potatoes had evidently passed away.
“Why, father, you want your tea!” said the girl.“How sorry I am I was not in sooner to get it for you!”
“Tea, tea!” he said irritably. “Always the same cry—food, nothing but food; the world is becoming impossible. My dear Sylvia, I told you that I should not want to eat again to-day. The fact is, you overfed me at lunch, and I am suffering from a sort of indigestion—I am really. There is nothing better for indigestion than hot water; I have been drinking it sparingly during the afternoon. But where have you been, dear, and why did you send Pilot home? The dog made such a noise at the gate that I went myself to find out what was the matter.”
“I did not want Pilot, so I sent him home,” was Sylvia’s low reply.
“But why so?”
She was silent for a moment; then she looked up into her father’s face.
“We agreed, did we not,” she said, “that we both were to go our own way. You must not question me too closely. I have done nothing wrong—nothing; I am always faithful to you and to my mother’s memory. You must not expect me to tell you everything, father, for you know you do not tell me everything.”
“Silly child!” he answered. “But there, Sylvia, I do trust you. And, my dear little girl, know this, that you are the great—the very greatest—comfort of my life. I will come in; it is somewhat chilly this evening.”
Sylvia rushed before her father into his sitting-room, dashed up to the fire, flung on some bits of wood and what scraps of coal were left in the coal-hod, thrust in a torn newspaper, set a match to the fire she had hastily laid, and before Mr. Leeson strolled languidly into the room, a cheerful fire was crackling and blazing up the chimney.
“How extravagant——” he began, but when he saw Sylvia’s pretty face as she knelt on the hearth the words were arrested on his lips.
“The child is very like her mother, and her mother was the most beautiful woman on earth when I married her,” he thought. “Poor little Sylvia! I wonder will she have a happier fate!”
He sat down by the fire. The girl knelt by him, took his cold hands, and rubbed them softly. Her heart was full; there were tears in her eyes.