Meanwhile Sylvia had rushed off to Jasper.
“Oh Jasper!” she said, “I nearly died with laughter, and yet it is horrid to deceive him. Oh!please do not kill any more of the birds for a long time; it is more than I can stand. Father is so delighted; and he has offered me a shilling to buy the recipe from you.”
“Bless you, dear!” replied Jasper, “and I think what I am doing for your father is well worth a shilling, so you had better give it to me.”
“I have not got it yet,” replied Sylvia. “You must live on trust, Jasper; but, oh, it is quite too funny!”
“Now, you sit down just there,” said Jasper, “and tell me what troubled you last night.”
Sylvia’s face changed utterly when Jasper spoke.
“It is about Eve,” she said. “She has done very wrong—very wrong indeed.” And then Sylvia related exactly what had occurred at school.
Jasper stood and listened with her arms akimbo; her face more than once underwent a curious expression.
“And so you blame my little Eve very much?” she said when Sylvia had ceased speaking.
“How can I help it? To get the whole school accused—to tell a lie to do it! Oh Jasper, how can I help myself?”
“You were brought up so differently,” said Jasper. “Maybe if I had had the rearing of you and the loving of you from your earliest days I might have thought with you; as it is, I think with Eve. I could not counsel her to tell. I cannot but admire her spirit when she did what she did.”
“Jasper! Jasper!” said Sylvia in a tone of horror,“you cannot—cannot mean what you are saying! Oh, please unsay those dreadful words! I was hoping—hoping—hoping that you might put things right. What is to be done? There is going to be a great fuss—a great commotion—a great trouble at Miss Henderson’s school. Evelyn can put it right by confessing; are you not going to urge her to confess?”
“I urge my darling to lower herself! Miss Sylvia, if you say that kind of thing to me again, you and I can scarcely be friends.”
“Jasper! Jasper!”
“We won’t talk about it,” said Jasper, with decision. “I love you, miss, and what is more, I respect and admire you, but I cannot rise as high as you, Miss Sylvia; I was not reared so. I do not think that my little Eve could have done other than she did when she was so tempted.”
“Then, Jasper, you are a bad friend to Evelyn—a very bad friend; and what is more, if there is great trouble at the school, and if Audrey gets into it, and if Evelyn herself will never tell, why, I must.”
“Oh, good gracious! you would not be so mean as that; and the poor, dear little innocent confided in you!”
“I do not want to be so mean, and I will not tell for a long, long time; but I will tell—I will—if no one else can put it right, for it is quite too cruel.”
Jasper looked long and full at Sylvia.
“This may mean a good deal,” she said—“more than you think. And have you no sense of honor,miss? What you are told in confidence, have you any right to give to the world?”
“I will not tell if I can help myself, but this matter has made me very unhappy indeed.”
Then Sylvia put on her shabby hat and went out. She passed the fowl-house, and stood for a moment, a sad smile on her face, looking down at the ill-fed birds. Then she went along the tiny shrubbery to the front entrance, and, accompanied as usual by her beloved Pilot, started forth. She was in her very shabbiest and oldest dress to-day, and the joy and brightness of her appearance of twenty-four hours ago had absolutely left her young face. It was Sunday morning, but Sylvia never went to church. She heard the bells ringing now. Sweetly they pealed across the valley, and one little church on the top of the hill sent forth a low and yet joyful chime. Sylvia longed to press her hands to her ears; she did not want to listen to the church bells. Those who went to church did right, not wrong; those who went to church listened to God’s Word, and followed the ways—the good and holy ways—of religion.
“And I cannot go because of my shabby, shabby dress,” she thought. “But why should I not wear the beautiful dress I had yesterday and venture to church?”
No sooner had the thought come to her than she returned, dashed in by the back entrance, desired Pilot to stay where he was, flew up-stairs, dressed herself recklessly in her rich finery of yesterday, and started off for church. She had a fancy to go to thechurch on the top of the hill, but she had to walk fast to reach it. She did arrive there a little late. The verger showed her into a pew half-way up the church. One or two people turned to stare at the handsome girl. The brilliant color was in her cheeks from the quickness of her walk. She dropped on her knees and covered her face; all was confusion in her mind. In the Squire’s pew, a very short distance away, sat Audrey and Evelyn. Could Evelyn indeed mean to pray? Of what sort of nature was Evelyn made? Sylvia felt that she could not meet her eyes.
“Some people who are not good, who are not honorable, go to church,” she thought to herself. “It is very sad and very puzzling.”
On the following morning Audrey and Evelyn started off for school. On the way Audrey turned to her companion.
“I wonder if anything has been discovered with regard to the injured book?” she said.
“Oh, I wish you would not talk so continually about that stupid old fuss!” said Evelyn in her crossest voice.
“It is useless to shirk it,” was Audrey’s reply. “You do not suppose for a single moment that Miss Henderson will not get to the bottom of the mischief? For my part, I think I could understand a girl doing it just for a moment in a spirit of revenge, although I have never yet felt revengeful to any one—but how any one could keep it up and allow the school to get into trouble is what puzzles me.”
“Were you ever at school before, Audrey?” was Evelyn’s remark.
“No; were you?”
“I wish I had been; I have always longed for school.”
“Well, you have your wish at last. How do you like it?”
“I should like it fairly well if I were put into ahigher form, and if this stupid fuss were not going on.”
“Why do you dislike the subject being mentioned so much?”
Evelyn colored slightly. Audrey looked at her. There was no suspicion in Audrey’s eyes; it was absolutely impossible for her to connect her cousin with anything so mean and low. Evelyn had a great many objectionable habits, but that she could commit what was in Audrey’s opinion a very grave sin, and then tell lies about it, was more than the young girl could either imagine or realize.
The pretty governess-cart took them to school in good time, and the usual routine of the morning began. It was immediately after prayers, however, that Miss Henderson spoke from her desk to the assembled school.
“I am sorry to tell you all,” she began, “that up to the present I have not got the slightest clue to the mystery of the injured book. I have questioned, I have gone carefully into every particular, and all I can find out is that the book was left in classroom No. 4 (which is usually occupied by the girls of the Fourth Form); that it was placed there at nine o’clock in the morning, and was not used again by Miss Thompson until school was over—namely, between five and six o’clock in the evening. During that time, as far as I can make out, only one girl was alone in the room. That girl was Evelyn Wynford. I do not in any way accuse Evelyn Wynford of having committed the sin—for sin it was—but Ihave to mention the fact that she was alone in the room during recess, having failed to learn a lesson which had been set her. During the afternoon the room was, as far as I can tell, empty for a couple of hours, and of course some one may have come in then and done the mischief. I therefore have not the slightest intention of suspecting a girl who only arrived that morning; but I mention the fact, all the same, that Evelyn Wynford wasalone in the room for the space of twenty minutes.”
While Miss Henderson was speaking all eyes were turned in Evelyn’s direction; all eyes saw a white and stubborn face, and two angry brown eyes that flashed almost wildly round the room and then looked down. Just for an instant a few of the girls said to themselves, “That is a guilty face.” But again they thought, “How could she do it? Why should she do it? No, it certainly cannot be Evelyn Wynford.”
As to Audrey, she pitied Evelyn very much. She thought it extremely hard on her that Miss Henderson should have singled her out for individual notice on this most painful occasion, and out of pity for her she would not once glance in her direction.
Miss Henderson paused for a moment; then she continued:
“Whoever the sinner may be, I am determined to sift this crime to the bottom. I shall severely punish the girl who tore the book unless she makes up her mind to confess to me between now and to-morrow evening. If she confesses before school is overto-morrow evening, I shall not only not punish but I shall forgive her. It will be my painful duty, however, to oblige her to confess her sin before the entire school, as in no other way can the rest of the girls be exonerated. I give her till to-morrow evening to make up her mind. I hope she will ask for strength from above to enable her to make this very painful confession. I myself shall pray that she may be guided aright. If no one comes forward by that time, I must again assemble the school to suggest a very terrible alternative.”
Here Miss Henderson left the room, and the different members of the school went off to their respective duties.
School went on much as usual. The girls were forced to attend to their numerous duties; the all-absorbing theme was therefore held more or less in abeyance for the time being. At recess, however, knots of girls might be seen talking to one another in agitated whispers. The subject of the injured book was the one topic on every one’s tongue. Evelyn produced chocolates, crystallized fruits, and other dainties from a richly embroidered bag which she wore at her side, and soon had her own little coterie of followers. To these she imparted her opinion that Miss Henderson was not only a fuss, but a dragon; that probably a servant had torn the book—or perhaps, she added, Miss Thompson herself.
“Why,” said Evelyn, “should not Miss Thompson greatly dislike Miss Henderson, and tear the outside page out of the book just to spite her?”
But this theory was not received as possible by any one to whom she imparted it. Miss Thompson was a favorite; Miss Thompson hated no one; Miss Thompson was the last person on earth to do such a shabby thing.
“Well,” said Evelyn crossly, “I don’t know who did it; and what is more, I don’t care. Come and walk with me, Alice,” she said to a pretty little curly-headed girl who sat next to her at class. “Come and let me tell you about all the grandeur which will be mine by and by. I shall be queen by and by. It is a shame—a downright shame—to worry a girl in my position with such a trifle as a torn book. The best thing we can all do is to subscribe amongst ourselves and give the old dragon anotherSesame and Lilies. I don’t mind subscribing. Is it not a good thought?”
“But that will not help her,” said Alice; while Cherry, who stood near, solemnly shook her head.
“Why will it not help her?” asked Evelyn.
“Because it was the inscription she valued—the inscription in her brother’s writing; her brother who is dead, you know.”
Evelyn was about to make another pert remark when a memory assailed her. Naughty, heartless, rude as she was, she had somewhere a spark of feeling. If she had loved any one it was the excitable and strange woman she had called “mothery.”
“If mothery gave me something and wrote my name in it I’d be fond of it,” she thought; and justfor a moment a prick of remorse visited her hard little heart.
No other girl in the whole school could confess the crime which Evelyn had committed, and the evening came in considerable gloom and excitement. Audrey could talk of nothing else on their way home.
“It is terrible,” said Audrey. “I am really sorry we are both at the school; it makes things so unpleasant for us. And you, Evelyn—I did pity you when Miss Henderson said to-day that you were alone in the room. Did you not feel awful?”
“No, I did not,” replied Evelyn. “At least, perhaps I did just for a minute.”
“Well, it was very brave of you. I should not have liked to be in your position.”
Evelyn turned the conversation.
“I wonder whether any one will confess to-morrow,” said Audrey again.
“Perhaps it was one of the servants,” remarked Evelyn. Then she said abruptly, “Oh, do let us change the subject!”
“There is something fine about Evelyn after all,” thought Audrey; “And I am so glad! She took that speech of Miss Henderson’s very well indeed. Now, I scarcely thought it fair to have her name singled out in the way it was. Surely Miss Henderson could not have suspected my little cousin!”
At dinner Audrey mentioned the whole circumstance of the torn book to her parents. The girls were again dining with the Squire and Lady Frances. The Squire was interested for a short time; he thenbegan to chat with Evelyn, who was fast, in her curious fashion, becoming a favorite of his. She was always at her best in his society, and now nestled up close to him, and said in an almost winsome manner:
“Don’t let us talk about the old fuss at school.”
“Whom do you call the old fuss, Evelyn?”
“Miss Henderson. I don’t like her a bit, Uncle Edward.”
“That is very naughty, Evelyn. Remember, I want you to like her.”
“Why?”
“Because for the present, at least, she is your instructress.”
“But why should I like my instructress?”
“She cannot influence you unless you like her.”
“Then she will never influence me, because I shall never like her,” cried the reckless girl. “I wish you would teach me, Uncle Edward. I should learn from you; you would influence me because I love you.”
“I do try to influence you, Evelyn, and I want you to do a great many things for me.”
“I would do anything in all the world for him,” thought Evelyn, “except confess that I tore that book; but that I would not do even for him. Of course, now that there has been such an awful fuss, I am sorry I did it, but for no other reason. It is one comfort, however, they cannot possibly suspect me.”
Lady Frances, however, took Audrey’s information in a very different spirit from what her husbanddid. She felt indignant at Evelyn’s having been singled out for special and undoubtedly unfavorable notice by Miss Henderson, and resolved to call at the school the next day to have an interview with the head-mistress. She said nothing to Audrey about her intention, and the girls went off to school without the least idea of what Lady Frances was about to do. Her carriage stopped before Chepstow House a little before noon. She inquired for Miss Henderson, and was immediately admitted into the head-mistress’s private sitting-room. There Miss Henderson a moment or two later joined her.
“I am sorry to trouble you,” began Lady Frances at once, “but I have come on a matter which occasioned me a little distress. I allude to the mystery of the torn book. Audrey has told me all about it, so I am in possession of full particulars. Of course I am extremely sorry for you, and can quite understand your feelings with regard to the injury of a book you value so much; but, at the same time, you will excuse my saying, Miss Henderson, that I think your mentioning Evelyn’s name in the way you did was a little too obvious. It was uncomfortable for the poor child, although I understand from my daughter that she took it extremely well.”
“In a case of this kind,” replied Miss Henderson quietly, “one has to be just, and not to allow any favoritism to appear.”
“Oh, certainly,” said Lady Frances; “it was my wish in sending both girls to school that they should find their level.”
“And I regret to say,” answered Miss Henderson, “that your niece’s level is not a high one.”
“Alas! I am aware of it. I have been terribly pained since Evelyn came home by her recklessness and want of obedience; but this is a very different matter. This shows a most depraved nature; and of course you cannot for a moment have suspected my niece when you spoke of her being alone in the room.”
“Had any other girl been alone in the room I should equally have mentioned her name,” said Miss Henderson. “I certainly did not at the time suspect Miss Wynford.”
“What do you mean by ‘did not at the time’? Have you changed your opinion?”
Lady Frances’s face turned very white.
“I am sorry to say that I have.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you will pardon me for a moment I will explain.”
Miss Henderson left the room.
While she was absent Lady Frances felt a cold dew breaking out on her forehead.
“This is beyond everything,” she thought. “But it is impossible; the child could never have done it. What motive would she have? She is not as bad as that; and it was her very first day at school.”
Miss Henderson re-entered the room, accompanied by Miss Thompson. In Miss Thompson’s hand was a copy of the History of England that Evelyn had been using.
“Will you kindly open that book,” said Miss Henderson, “and show Lady Frances what you have found there?”
Miss Thompson did so. She opened the History at the reign of Edward I. Between the leaves were to be seen two fragments of torn paper. Miss Thompson removed them carefully and laid them upon Lady Frances’s hand. Lady Frances glanced at them, and saw that they were beyond doubt torn from a copy of Ruskin’sSesame and Lilies. She let them drop back again on to the open page of the book.
“I accuse no one,” said Miss Henderson. “Even now I accuse no one; but I grieve to tell you, Lady Frances, that this book was in the hands of your niece, Evelyn Wynford, on that afternoon.—Miss Thompson, will you relate the entire circumstances to Lady Frances?”
“I am very, very sorry,” said Miss Thompson. “I wish with all my heart I had understood the child better, but of course she was a stranger to me. The circumstance was this: I gave her the history of the reign of Edward I. to look over during class, as of course on her first day at school she had no regular lessons ready. She glanced at it, told me she knew the reign, and amused herself looking about during the remainder of the time. At recess I called her to me and questioned her. She seemed to be totally ignorant of anything relating to Edward I. I reproved her for having made an incorrect statement——”
“For having told a lie, you mean,” snapped Lady Frances.
Miss Thompson bowed.
“I reproved her, and as a punishment desired her to look over the reign while the other girls were in the playground.”
“And quite right,” said Lady Frances.
“She was very much annoyed, but I was firm. I left her with the book in her hand. I have nothing more to say. At six o’clock that evening I removedSesame and Liliesfrom its place in the classroom, and took it away to continue the preparation of a lecture. I then found that several pages had been removed. This morning, early, I happened to take this very copy of the History, and found these fragments in the part of the book which contains the reign of Edward I.”
“Suspicion undoubtedly now points to Evelyn,” said Miss Henderson; “and I must say, Lady Frances, that although a matter of this kind pertains entirely to the school, and must be dealt with absolutely by the head-mistress, yet your having called, and in a measure taken the matter up, relieves me of a certain responsibility.”
“Suspicion does undoubtedly point to the unhappy child,” said Lady Frances; “but still, I can scarcely believe it. What do you mean to do?”
“I shall to-morrow morning have to state before the entire school what I have now stated to you.”
“It might be best for me to remove Evelyn, and let her confess to you in writing.”
“I do not think that would be either right or fair. If the girl is taken away now she is practically injured for life. Give her a chance, I beseech you, Lady Frances, of retrieving her character.”
“Oh, what is to be done?” said Lady Frances. “To think that my daughter should have a girl like that for a companion! You do not know how we are all to be pitied.”
“I do indeed; you have my sincere sympathy,” said Miss Henderson.
“And what do you advise?”
“I think, as she is a member of the school, you must leave her to me. She committed this offense on the very first day of her school-life, and if possible we must not be too severe on her. She has not been brought up as an English girl.”
Lady Frances talked a little longer with the head-mistress, and went away; she felt terribly miserable and unhappy.
Evelyn met Jasper, as arranged, on Tuesday evening. She found it quite easy to slip away unnoticed, for in truth Lady Frances was too unhappy to watch her movements particularly. The girls had been dining alone. Audrey had a headache, and had gone to bed early. Evelyn rushed up to her room, put on a dark shawl, which completely covered her fair hair and white-robed little figure, and rushed out by a side entrance. She wore thin shoes, however, being utterly reckless with regard to her health. Jasper was waiting for her. It took but an instant for Jasper to clasp her in her arms, lifting her off the ground as she did so.
“Oh, my little darling,” cried the affectionate woman—“my sweet little white Eve! Oh, let me hug you; let me kiss you! Oh, my pet! it is like cold water to a thirsty person to clasp you in my arms again.”
“Do not squeeze me quite so tight, Jasper,” said Evelyn. “Yes, of course, I am glad to see you—very glad.”
“But let me feel your feet, pet. Oh, to think of your running out like this in your house-shoes!You will catch your death! Here, I will sit down on this step and keep you in my arms. Now, is not that cozy, my fur cloak wrapped round you, feet and all? Is not that nice, little Eve?”
“Yes, very nice,” said Evelyn. “It is almost as good as if I were back again on the ranch with mothery and you.”
“Ah, the happy old days!” sighed Jasper.
“Yes, they were very happy, Jasper. I almost wish I was back again. I am worried a good bit; things are not what I thought they would be in England. There is no fuss made about me, and at school they treat me so horribly.”
“You bide your time, my love; you bide your time.”
“I don’t like school, Jas.”
“And why not, my beauty? You know you must be taught, my dear Miss Evelyn; an ignorant young lady has no chance at all in these enlightened days.”
“Oh! please, Jas, do not talk so much like a horrid book; be your true old self. What does learning matter?”
“Everything, love; I assure you it does.”
“Well, I shall never be learned; it is too much trouble.”
“But why don’t you like school, pet?”
“I will tell you. I have got into a scrape; I did not mean to, but I have.”
“Oh, you mean about that book. Sylvia told me. Why did you tell Sylvia, Evelyn?”
“I had to tell some one, and she is not a schoolgirl.”
“She is not your sort, Evelyn.”
“Is she not? I like her very much.”
“But she is not your sort; for instance, she could not do a thing of that kind.”
“Oh, I do not suppose many people would have spirit enough,” said Evelyn in the voice of one who had done a very fine act.
“She could not do it,” repeated Jasper; “and I expect she is in the right, and that you, my little love, are in the wrong. You were differently trained. Well, my dear Eve, the long and short of it is that I admire what you did, only somehow Sylvia does not, and you will have to be very careful or she may——”
“What—what, Jasper?”
“She may not regard it as a secret that she will always keep.”
“Is she that sort? Oh, the horrid, horrid thing!” said Evelyn. “Oh, to think that I should have told her! But you cannot mean it; it is impossible that you can mean it, Jasper!”
“Don’t you fret, love, for I will not let her. If she dares to tell on you, why, I will leave her, and then it is pretty near starvation for the poor little miss.”
“You are sure you will not let her tell? I really am in rather a nasty scrape. They are making such a horrid fuss at school. This evening was the limit given for the guilty person—I should not say the guilty person, but the spirited person—to tell, andthe spirited person has not told; and to-morrow morning goodness knows what will happen. Miss Henderson has a rod in pickle for us all, I expect. I declare it is quite exciting. None of the girls suspect me, and I talk so openly, and sometimes they laugh, too. I suppose we shall all be punished. I do not really know what is going to be done.”
“You hold your tongue and let the whole matter slide. That is my advice,” said Jasper. “I would either do that or I would out with it boldly—one or the other. Say you did it, and that you are not ashamed to have done it.”
“I could not—I could not,” said Evelyn. “I may be brave after a fashion, but I am not brave enough for that. Besides, you know, Jasper, I did say already that I had not done it.”
“Oh, to be sure,” answered Jasper. “I forgot that. Well, you must stick to your colors now, Eve; and at the worst, my darling, you have but to come to me and I will shield you.”
“At the worst—yes, at the worst,” said Evelyn. “I will remember that. But if I want to come to you very badly how can I?”
“I will come every night to this stile at nine o’clock, and if you want me you will find me. I will stay here for exactly five minutes, and any message you may like to give you can put under this stone. Now, is not that a ’cute thought of your dear old Jasper’s?”
“It is—it is,” said the little girl. “Perhaps, Jasper, I had better be going back now.”
“In a minute, darling—in a minute.”
“And how are you getting on with Sylvia, Jasper?”
“Oh, such fun, dear! I am having quite an exciting time—hidden from the old gentleman, and acting the gipsy, and pretending I am feeding him with old fowls when I am giving him the tenderest chicken. You have not, darling, a little scrap of money to spare that you can help old Jasper with?”
“Oh! you are so greedy, Jasper; you are always asking for things. Uncle Edward makes me an allowance, but not much; no one would suppose I was the heiress of everything.”
“Well dear, the money don’t matter. I will come here again to-morrow night. Now, keep up your pecker, little Eve, and all will be well.”
Evelyn kissed Jasper, and was about to run back to the house when the good woman remembered the light shoes in which she had come out.
“I’ll carry you back,” she said. “Those precious little feet shall not touch the frosty ground.”
Jasper was very strong, and Evelyn was all too willing. She was carried to within fifty yards of the side entrance in Jasper’s strong arms; then she dashed back to the house, kissed her hand to the dark shadow under a tree, and returned to her own room. Read had seen her, but Evelyn knew nothing of that. Read had had her suspicions before now, and determined, as she said, to keep a sharp lookout on young miss in future.
There never was a woman more distressed and puzzled than Miss Henderson. She consulted with her sister, Miss Lucy; she consulted with her favorite teacher, Miss Thompson. They talked into the small hours of the night, and finally it was resolved that Evelyn should have another chance.
“I must appeal to her honor; it is impossible that any girl could be quite destitute of that quality,” said Miss Henderson.
“I am sure you are doing right, sister,” said Miss Lucy. “Once you harden a girl you do for her. Whatever Evelyn Wynford’s faults may be, she will hold a high position one day. It would be terrible—more than terrible—if she grew up a wicked woman. How awful to have power and not to use it aright! My dear Maria, whatever you are, be merciful.”
“I must pray to God to guide me aright,” answered Miss Maria. “This is a case for a right judgment in all things. Poor child! I pity her from my heart; but how to bring her to the necessary confession is the question.”
Miss Henderson went to bed, but not to sleep.Early in the morning she arose, having made up her mind what to do.
Accordingly, when Audrey and Evelyn arrived in the pretty little governess-cart—Audrey with a high color in her cheeks, looking as sweet and fresh and good and nice as English girl could look, and Evelyn tripping after her with a certain defiance on her white face and a look of hostility in her brown eyes—they were both greeted by Miss Henderson herself.
“Ah, Audrey dear,” she said in a cheerful and friendly tone, “how are you this morning?—How do you do, Evelyn?—No, Audrey, you are not late; you are quite in nice time. Will you go to the schoolroom, my dear? I will join you presently for prayers.—Evelyn, can I have a word with you?”
“Why so?” asked Evelyn, backing a little.
“Because I have something I want to say to you.”
Audrey also stood still. She cast a hostile glance at Miss Henderson, saying to herself:
“After all, my head-mistress is horribly unfair; she is doubtless going to tell Evelyn that she suspects her.”
“Evelyn,” said Audrey, “I will wait for you in the dressing-room if Miss Henderson has no objection.”
“But I have, for it may be necessary for me to detain your cousin for a short time,” said Miss Henderson. “Go, Audrey; do not keep me any longer.”
Evelyn stood sullenly and perfectly still in the hall; Audrey disappeared in the direction of theschoolrooms. Miss Henderson now took Evelyn’s hand and led her into her private sitting-room.
“What do you want me for?” asked the little girl.
“I want to say something to you, Evelyn.”
“Then say it, please.”
“You must not be pert.”
“I do not know what ‘pert’ is.”
“What you are now. But there, my dear child, please control yourself; believe me, I am truly sorry for you.”
“Then you need not be,” said Evelyn, with a toss of her head. “I do not want anybody to be sorry for me. I am one of the most lucky girls in the world. Sorry for me! Please don’t. Mothery could never bear to be pitied, and I won’t be pitied; I have nothing to be pitied for.”
“Who did you say never cared to be pitied?” asked Miss Henderson.
“Never you mind.”
“And yet, Evelyn, I think I have heard the words. You allude to your mother. I understand from Lady Frances that your mother is dead. You loved her, did you not?”
Evelyn gave a quick nod; her face seemed to say, “That is nothing to you.”
“I see you did, and she was fond of you.”
In spite of herself Evelyn gave another nod.
“Poor little girl; how sad to be without her!”
“Don’t,” said Evelyn in a strained voice.
“You lived all your early days in Tasmania, andyour mother was good to you because she loved you, and you loved her back; you tried to please her because you loved her.”
“Oh, bother!” said Evelyn.
“Come here, dear.”
Evelyn did not budge an inch.
“Come over to me,” said Miss Henderson.
Miss Henderson was not accustomed to being disobeyed. Her tone was not loud, but it was quiet and determined. She looked full at Evelyn. Her eyes were kind. Evelyn felt as if they mesmerized her. Step by step, very unwillingly, she approached the side of the head-mistress.
“I love girls like you,” said Miss Henderson then.
“Bother!” said Evelyn again.
“And I do not mind even when they are sulky and rude and naughty, as you are now; still, I love them—I love them because I am sorry for them.”
“You need not be sorry for me; I won’t have you sorry for me,” said Evelyn.
“If I must not be sorry for you I must be something else.”
“What?”
“Angry with you.”
“Why so? I never! What do you mean now?”
“I must be angry with you, Evelyn—very angry. But I will say no more by way of excusing my own conduct. I will say nothing of either sorrow or anger. I want to state a fact to you.”
“Get it over,” said Evelyn.
Miss Henderson now approached the table; sheopened the History at the reign of Edward I., and taking two tiny fragments of torn paper from the pages of the book, she laid them in her open palm. In her other hand she held the mutilated copy ofSesame and Lilies. The print on the torn scrap exactly corresponded with the print in the injured volume. Miss Henderson glanced from Evelyn to the scraps of paper, and from Evelyn to the copy of Ruskin.
“You have intelligence,” she said; “you must see what this means.”
She then carefully replaced the bits of paper in the History and laid it on the table by her side.
“Between now,” she said, “and this time yesterday Miss Thompson discovered these scraps of paper in the copy of the History which you had to read on the morning of the day when you first came to school. The scraps are evidently part of the pages torn from the injured book. Have you anything to say with regard to them?”
Evelyn shook her head; her face was white and her eyes bright. But there was a small red spot on each cheek—a spot about the size of a farthing. It did not grow any larger. It gave a curious effect to the pallid face. The obstinacy of the mouth was very apparent. The cleft in the chin still further showed the curious bias of the girl’s character.
“Have you anything to say—any remark to make?”
Again the head was slowly shaken.
“Is there any reason why I should not immediately afterprayers to-day explain these circumstances to the whole school, and allow the school to draw its own conclusions?”
Evelyn now raised her eyes and fixed them on Miss Henderson’s face.
“You will not do that, will you?” she asked.
“Have you ever, Evelyn, heard of such a thing as circumstantial evidence?”
“No. What is it?”
“You are very ignorant, my dear child—ignorant as well as wilful; wilful as well as wicked.”
“No, I am not wicked; you shall not say it!”
“Tell me, is there any reason why I should not show what I have now shown you to the rest of the school, and allow the school to draw its own conclusion?”
“You won’t—will you?”
“Must I explain to you, Evelyn, what this means?”
“You can say anything you like.”
“These scraps of paper prove beyond doubt that you, for some extraordinary reason, were the person who tore the book. Why you did it is beyond my conception, is beyond Miss Thompson’s conception, is beyond the conception of my sister Lucy; but that you did do it we none of us for a moment doubt.”
“Oh, you are wicked! How dare you think such things of me?”
“Tell me, Evelyn—tell me why you did it. Come here and tell me. I will not be unkind to you, my poor little girl. I am sorry for one so ignorant, so wanting in all conceptions of right or wrong. Tellme, dear, and as there is a God in heaven, Evelyn, I will forgive you.”
“I will not tell you what I did not do,” said the angry child.
“You are vexed now and do not know what you are saying. I will go away, and come back again at the end of half an hour; perhaps you will tell me then.”
Evelyn stood silent. Miss Henderson, taking the History with her, left the room. She turned the key in the lock. Evelyn rushed to the window. Could she get out by it? She rushed to the door and tried to open it. Window and door defied her efforts. She was locked in. She was like a wild creature in a trap. To scream would do no good. Never before had the spoilt child found herself in such a position. A wild agony seized her; even now she did not repent.
If only mothery were alive! If only she were back on the ranch! If only Jasper were by her side!
“Oh mothery! oh Jasper!” she cried; and then a sob rose to her throat, tears burst from her eyes. The tension for the time was relieved; she huddled up in a chair, and sobbed as if her heart would break.
Miss Henderson came back again in half an hour. Evelyn was still sobbing.
“Well, Evelyn,” she said, “I am just going into the schoolroom now for prayers. Have you made up your mind? Will you tell me why you did it, and how you did it, and why you denied it? Just threequestions, dear; answer truthfully, and you will have got over the most painful and terrible crisis of your life. Be brave, little girl; ask God to help you.”
“I cannot tell you what I do not know,” burst now from the angry child. “Think what you like. Do what you like. I am at your mercy; but I hate you, and I will never be a good girl—never, never! I will be a bad girl always—always; and I hate you—I hate you!”
Miss Henderson did not speak a word. The most violent passion cannot long retain its hold when the person on whom its rage is spent makes no reply. Even Evelyn cooled down a little. Miss Henderson stood quite still; then she said gently:
“I am deeply sorry. I was prepared for this. It will take more than this to subdue you.”
“Are you going into the schoolroom with those scraps of paper, and are you going to tell all the girls I am guilty?” said Evelyn.
“No, I shall not do that; I will give you another chance. There was to have been a holiday to-day, but because of that sin of yours there will be no holiday. There was to be a visit on Saturday to the museum at Chisfield, which the girls were all looking forward to; they are not to go on account of you. There were to be prizes at the break-up; they will not be given on account of you. The girls will not know that you are the cause of this deprivation, but they will know that the deprivation is theirs because there is a guilty person in the school, and because she will not confess. Evelyn, I give you aweek from now to think this matter over. Remember, my dear, that I know you are guilty; remember that my sister Lucy knows it, and Miss Thompson; but before you are publicly disgraced we wish to give you a chance. We will treat you during the week that has yet to run as we would any other girl in the school. You will be treated until the week is up as though you were innocent. Think well whether you will indeed doom your companions to so much disappointment as will be theirs during the next week, to so dark a suspicion. During the next week the school will practically be sent to Coventry. Those who care for the girls will have to hold aloof from them. All the parents will have to be written to and told that there is an ugly suspicion hanging over the school. Think well before you put your companions, your schoolfellows, into this cruel position.”
“It is you who are cruel,” said Evelyn.
“I must ask God to melt your hard heart, Evelyn.”
“And are you really going to do all this?”
“Certainly.”
“And at the end of the week?”
“If you have not confessed before then I shall be obliged to confess for you before all the school. But, my poor child, you will; you must make amends. God could not have made so hard a heart!”
Evelyn wiped away her tears. She scarcely knew what she felt; she scarcely comprehended what was going to happen.
“May I bathe my eyes,” she said, “before I go with you into the schoolroom?”
“You may. I will wait for you here.”
The little girl left the room.
“I never met such a character,” said Miss Henderson to herself. “God help me, what am I to do with her? If at the end of a week she has not confessed her sin, I shall be obliged to ask Lady Frances to remove her. Poor child—poor child!”
Evelyn came back looking pale but serene. She held out her hand to Miss Henderson.
“I do not want your hand, Evelyn.”
“You said you would treat me for a week as if I were innocent.”
“Very well, then; I will take your hand.”
Miss Henderson entered the schoolroom holding Evelyn’s hand. Evelyn was looking as if nothing had happened; the traces of her tears had vanished. She sat down on her form; the other girls glanced at her in some wonder. Prayers were read as usual; the head-mistress knelt to pray. As her voice rose on the wings of prayer it trembled slightly. She prayed for those whose hearts were hard, that God would soften them. She prayed that wrong might be set right, that good might come out of evil, and that she herself might be guided to have a right judgment in all things. There was a great solemnity in her prayer, and it was felt throughout the hush in the big room. When she rose from her knees she ascended to her desk and faced the assembled girls.
“You know,” she said, “what an unpleasant task lies before me. The allotted time for the confession of the guilty person who injured my book,Sesame and Lilies, has gone by. The guilty person has not confessed, but I may as well say that the injury has been traced home to one of your number—but to whom, I am at present resolved not to tell. I give that person one week in order to make her confession. I do this for reasons which my sister and I consider all-sufficient; but during that week, I am sorry to say, my dear girls, you must all bear with her and for her the penalty of her wrong-doing. I must withhold indulgences, holidays, half-holidays, visits from friends; all that makes life pleasant and bright and home-like will have to be withdrawn. Work will have to be the order of the hour—work without the impetus of reward—work for the sake of work. I am sorry to have to do this, but I feel that such a course of conduct is due to myself. In a week’s time from now, if the girl has not confessed, I must take further steps; but I can assure the school that the cloud of my displeasure will then alone visit the guilty person, on whom it will fall with great severity.”
There was a long, significant pause when Miss Henderson ceased speaking. She was about to descend from her seat when Brenda Fox spoke.
“Is this quite fair?” she said. “I hope I am not asking an impertinent question, but is it fair that the innocent should suffer for the guilty?”
“I must ask you all to do so. Think of the historyof the past, girls. Take courage; it is not the first time.”
“I think,” said Brenda Fox later on that same day to Audrey, “that Miss Henderson is right.”
“Then I think her wrong,” answered Audrey. “Of course I do not know her as well as you do, Brenda, and I am also ignorant with regard to the ordinary rules of school-life, but I cannot but feel it would be much better, if the guilty girl will not confess, to punish her at once and put an end to the thing.”
“It would be pleasanter for us,” replied Brenda Fox; “but then, Miss Henderson never thinks of that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Miss Henderson is the sort of woman who would think very little of small personal pain and inconvenience compared with the injury which might be permanently inflicted on a girl who was harshly dealt with.”
“Still I do not quite understand. If any girl in the school did such a disgraceful thing it ought to be known at once.”
“Miss Henderson evidently does know, but for some reason she hopes the girl will repent.”
“And we are to be punished?”
“Is it not worth having a little discomfort if the girl’s character can be saved?”
“Yes, of course; if it does save her.”
“We must hope for that. For my part,” saidBrenda in a reverent tone, “I shall pray about it. I believe in prayer.”
“And so do I,” answered Audrey. “But do you know, Brenda, that I think Miss Henderson was greatly wanting in tact when she mentioned my poor little cousin’s name two days ago.”
“Why so? Your cousin did happen to be alone in the room.”
“But it seemed to draw a very unworthy suspicion upon her head.”
“Oh no, no, Audrey!” answered Brenda. “Who could think that your cousin would do it? Besides, she is quite a stranger; it was her first day at school.”
“Then have you the least idea who did it?”
“None; no one has. We are all very fond of Miss Thompson. We are all fond of Miss Henderson; we respect her and Miss Lucy as most able and worthy mistresses. We enjoy our school-life. Who could have been so unkind?”
Audrey had an uncomfortable sensation at her heart that Evelyn at least did not enjoy her school-life; that Evelyn disliked Miss Thompson, and openly said that she hated Miss Henderson. Still, that Evelyn could really be guilty did not for an instant visit her brain.
Meanwhile Evelyn went recklessly on her way. Thedénouement, of whatever nature, was still a week off. For a week she could be gay or impertinent or rude or defiant or good, just as the mood took her;at the end of the week, or towards the end, she would run away. She would go to Jasper and tell her she must hide her. This was her resolve. She was as inconsequent as an infant. To save herself trouble and pain was her one paramount idea; even her schoolfellows’ annoyance and distress scarcely worried her. As she and Audrey always spent their evenings at home, the dulness of the school, the increase of lessons and the absence of play, the walks two and two in absolute silence, scarcely depressed her; she could laugh and play at home, and talk to her uncle and draw him out to tell her stories of her father. The one redeeming trait in her character was her love for Uncle Edward. She was certainly going downhill very rapidly at this time. Poor child! who was there to understand her, to bring her to a standstill, to help her to choose right?
The one person who might have helped Evelyn was too busy with her own troubles just then to think a great deal about her. Poor Sylvia was visited with a very great dread. Her father’s manner was strange; she began to fear that he suspected Jasper’s presence in the house. If Jasper left, Sylvia felt that things must come to a crisis; she could not stand the life she had lived before the comfortable advent of this kindly but ill-informed woman. Sylvia was really very much attached to Jasper, and although she argued much over Evelyn, and disagreed strongly with her with regard to the best way to treat this unruly little member of society, Sylvia’s very life depended on Jasper’s purse and Jasper’s tact.
One by one the fowls disappeared, the same boy receiving them over the hedge day by day from Jasper. The boy sold each of the old hens for sixpence, and reaped quite a harvest in consequence. He was all too willing to keep Jasper’s secret. Jasper bought tender young cockerels from a neighbor in the village, conveyed them home under her arm, killed them, and dressed them in various anddainty manners for Mr. Leeson’s meals. He was loud in his praise of Sylvia, and told her that if the worst came to the worst she could go out as a lady cook.
“Nothing could give me such horror, my dear child,” he said, “as to think that a Leeson, and a member of one of the proudest families in the kingdom, should ever demean herself to earn money; but, my dear girl, in these days of chance and change one must be prepared for the worst—there never is any telling. Sylvia, I go through anxious moments—very, very anxious moments.”
“You do, father,” answered the girl. “You watch the post too much. I cannot imagine,” she continued, “why you are so fretted and so miserable, for surely we must spend very, very little indeed.”
“We spend more than we ought, Sylvia—far more. But there, dear, I am not complaining; I suppose a young girl must have dainties and fine dress.”
“Fine dress!” said Sylvia. She looked down at her shabby garment and colored painfully.
Mr. Leeson faced her with his bright and sunken dark eyes.
“Come here,” he said.
She went up to him, trembling and her head hanging.
“I saw you two days ago; it was Sunday, and you went to church. I was standing in the shrubbery. I was lost—yes, lost—in painful thoughts. Those recipes which I was about to give to the world were occupying my mind, and other things as well.You rushed by in your shabby dress; you went into the house by the back entrance. Sylvia dear, I sometimes think it would be wise to lock that door. With you and me alone in the house it might be safest to have only one mode of ingress.”
“But I always lock it when I go out,” said Sylvia; “and it saves so much time to be able to use the back entrance.”
“It is just like you, Sylvia; you argue about every thing I say. However, to proceed. You went in; I wondered at your speed. You came out again in a quarter of an hour transformed. Where did you get that dress?”
“What dress, father?”
“Do not prevaricate. Look me straight in the face and tell me. You were dressed in brown of rich shade and good material. You had a stylish and fanciful and hideous hat upon your head; it had feathers. My very breath was arrested when I saw the merry-andrew you made of yourself. You had furs, too—doubtless imitations, but still, to all appearance, rich furs—round neck and wrist. Sylvia, have you during these months and years been secretly saving money?”
“No, father.”
“You say ‘No, father,’ in a very strange tone. If you had no money to buy the dress, how did you get it?”
“It was—given to me.”
“By whom?”
“I would rather not say.”
“But you must say.”
Here Mr. Leeson took Sylvia by both her wrists; he held them tightly in his bony hands. He was seated, and he pulled her down towards him.
“Tell me at once. I insist upon knowing.”
“I cannot—there! I will not.”
“You defy me?”
“If that is defying you, father, yes. The dress was given to me.”
“You refuse to say by whom?”
“Yes, father.”
“Then leave my presence. I am angry, hurt. Sylvia, you must return it.”
“Again, no, father.”
“Sylvia, have you ever heard of the Fifth Commandment?”
“I have, father; but I will break it rather than return the dress. I have been a good daughter to you, but there are limits. You have no right to interfere. The dress was given to me; I did not steal it.”
“Now you are intolerable. I will not be agitated by you; I have enough to bear. Leave me this minute.”
Sylvia left the room. She did not go to Jasper; she felt that she could not expose her father in the eyes of this woman. She ran up to her own bedroom, locked the door, and flung herself on her bed. Of late she had not done this quite so often. Circumstances had been happier for her of late: her father had been strange, but at the same time affectionate;she had been fed, too, and warmed; and, oh! the pretty dress—the pretty dress—she had liked it. She was determined that she would not give it up; she would not submit to what she deemed tyranny. She wept for a little; then she got up, dried her tears, put on her cloak (sadly thin from wear), and went out. Pilot came, looked into her face, and begged for her company. She shook her head.
“No, darling; stay at home—guard him,” she whispered.
Pilot understood, and turned away. Sylvia found herself on the high-road. As she approached the gate, and as she spoke to Pilot, eager eyes watched her over the wire screen which protected the lower part of Mr. Leeson’s sitting-room.
“What can all this mean?” he said to himself. “There is a mystery about Sylvia. Sometimes I feel that there is a mystery about this house. Sylvia used to be a shocking cook; now the most dainty chef who has ever condescended to cook meals for my pampered palate can scarcely excel her. She confessed that she did not get the recipe from the gipsy; the gipsies had left the common, so she could not get what I gave her a shilling to obtain. Or, did I give her the shilling? I think not—I hope not. Oh, good gracious! if I did, and she lost it! I did not; I must have it here.”
He fumbled anxiously in his waistcoat pocket.
“Yes, yes,” he said, with a sigh of relief. “I put it here for her, but she did not need it. Thank goodness, it is safe!”
He looked at it affectionately, replaced it in its harbor of refuge, and thought on.
“Now, who gave her those rich and extravagant clothes? Can she possibly have been ransacking her mother’s trunks? I was under the impression that I had sold all my poor wife’s things, but it is possible I may have overlooked something. I will go and have a look now in the attics. I had her trunks conveyed there. I will go and have a look.”
When Mr. Leeson was engaged in what he was pleased to call a voyage of discovery, he, as a rule, stepped on tiptoe. As he wore, for purposes of economy, felt slippers when in the house, his steps made no noise. Now, it so happened that when Jasper arrived at The Priory she brought not only her own luggage, which was pretty considerable, but two or three boxes of Evelyn’s finery. These trunks having filled up Jasper’s bedroom and the kitchens to an unnecessary extent, she and Sylvia had contrived to drag them up to the attics in a distant part of the house without Mr. Leeson hearing. The trunks, therefore, mostly empty, which had contained the late Mrs. Leeson’s wardrobe and Evelyn’s trunks were now all together, in what was known as the back attic—that attic which stood, with Sylvia’s room between, exactly over the kitchen.
Mr. Leeson knew, as he imagined, every corner of the house. He was well aware of the room where his wife’s trunks were kept, and he went there now, determined, as he expressed it, to ferret out the mystery which was unsettling his life.
He reached the attic in question, and stared about him. There were the trunks which he remembered so well. Many marks of travel were on them—names of foreign hotels, names of distant places. Here was a trophy of a good time at Florence; here a remembrance of a delightful fortnight at Rome; here, again, of a week in Cairo; here, yet more, of a never-to-be-forgotten visit to Constantinople. He stared at the hall-marks of his past life as he gazed at his wife’s trunks, and for a time memory overpowered the lonely man, and he stood with his hands clasped and his head slightly bent, thinking—thinking of the days that were no more. No remorse, it is true, seized his conscience. He did not recognize how, step by step, the demon of his life had gained more and more power over him; how the trunks became too shabby for use, but the desire for money prevented his buying new ones. Those labels were old, and the places he and his wife had visited were much changed, and the hotels where they had stayed had many of them ceased to exist, but the labels put on by the hall porters remained on the trunks and bore witness against Mr. Leeson. He turned quickly from the sight.
“This brings back old times,” he said to himself, “and old times create old feelings. I never knew then that she would be cursed by the demon of extravagance, and that her child—her only child—would inherit her failing. Well, it is my bounden duty to nip it in the bud, or Sylvia will end her days in the workhouse. I thought I had sold mostof the clothes, but doubtless she found some materials to make up that unsuitable costume.”
He dragged the trunks forward. They were unlocked, being supposed to contain nothing of value. He pulled them open and went on his knees to examine them. Most of them were empty; some contained old bundles of letters; there was one in the corner which still had a couple of muslin dresses and an old-fashioned black lace mantilla. Mr. Leeson remembered the mantilla and the day when he bought it, and how pretty his handsome wife had looked in it. He flung it from him now as if it distressed him.
“Faugh!” he said. “I remember I gave ten guineas for it. Think of any man being such a fool!”
He was about to leave the attic, more mystified than ever, when his eyes suddenly fell upon the two trunks which contained that portion of Evelyn Wynford’s wardrobe which Lady Frances had discarded. The trunks were comparatively new. They were handsome and good, being made of crushed cane. They bore the initials E. W. in large white letters on their arched roofs.
“But who in the name of fortune is E. W.?” thought Mr. Leeson; and now his heart beat in ungovernable excitement. “E. W.! What can those initials stand for?”
He came close to the trunks as though they fascinated him. They were unlocked, and he pulled them open. Soon Evelyn’s gay and useless wardrobe waslying helter-skelter on the attic floor—silk dresses, evening dresses, morning dresses, afternoon dresses, furs, hats, cloaks, costumes. He kicked them about in his rage; his anger reached white-heat. What was the meaning of this?
E. W. and E. W.’s clothes took such an effect on his brain that he could scarcely speak or think. He left the attic with all the things scattered about, and stumbled rather than walked down-stairs. He had nearly got to his own part of the house when he remembered something. He went back, turned the key in the attic door, and put it in his pocket. He then breathed a sigh of relief, and went back to his sitting-room. The fire was nearly out; the day was colder than ever—a keen north wind was blowing. It came in at the badly fitting windows and shook the old panes of glass. The attic in which Mr. Leeson had stood so long had also been icy-cold. He shivered and crept close to the remains of the fire. Then a thought came to him, and he deliberately took up the poker and poked out the remaining embers. They flamed up feebly on the hearth and died out.
“No more fires for me,” he said to himself; “I cannot afford it. She is ruining—ruining me. Who is E. W.? Where did she get all those clothes? Oh, I shall go mad!”
He stood shivering and frowning and muttering. Then a change came over him.
“There is a secret, and I mean to discover it,” he said to himself; “and until I do I shall say nothing.I shall find out who E. W. is, where those trunks came from, what money Sylvia stole to purchase those awful and ridiculous and terrible garments. I shall find out before I act. Sylvia thinks that she can make a fool of her old father; she will discover her mistake.”
The postman’s ring was heard at the gate. The postman was never allowed to go up the avenue. Mr. Leeson kept a box locked in the gate, with a little slit for the postman to drop in the letters. He allowed no one to open this box but himself. Without even putting on his greatcoat, he went down the snowy path now, unlocked the box, and took out a letter. He returned with it to the house; it was addressed to himself, and was from his broker in London. The letter contained news which affected him pretty considerably. The gold mine in which he had invested nearly the whole of his available capital was discovered to be by no means so rich in ore as was at first anticipated. Prices were going down steadily, and the shares which Mr. Leeson had bought were now worth only half their value.
“I’ll sell out—I’ll sell out this minute,” thought the wretched man; “if I don’t I shall lose all.”
But then he paused, for there was a postscript to the letter.
“It would be madness to sell now,” wrote the broker. “Doubtless the present scare is a passing one; the moment the shares are likely to go up then sell.”
Mr. Leeson flung the letter from him and tore his gray hair. He paced up and down the room.
“Disaster after disaster,” he murmured. “I am like Job; all these things are against me. But nothing cuts me like Sylvia. To buy those things—two trunks full of useless finery! Oh yes, I have money on the premises—money which I saved and never invested; I wonder if that is safe. For all I can tell——But, oh, no, no, no! I will not think that. That way madness lies. I will bury the canvas bag to-night; I have delayed too long. No one can discover that hiding-place. I will bury the canvas bag, come what may, to-night.”
Mr. Leeson wrote to his broker, telling him to seize the first propitious moment to sell out from the gold-mine, and then sat moodily, getting colder and colder, in front of the empty grate.
Sylvia came in presently.
“Dinner is ready, father,” she said.
“I don’t want dinner,” he muttered.
She went up to him and laid her hand on his arm.
“Why are you like ice?” she said.
He pushed her away.
“The fire is out,” she continued; “let me light it.”
“No!” he thundered. “Leave it alone; I wish for no fire. I tell you I am a beggar, and worse; and I wish for no fire!”
“Oh father—father darling!” said the girl.
“Don’t ‘darling’ me; don’t come near me. I am displeased with you. You have cut me to the quick. I am angry with you. Leave me.”
“You may be angry,” she answered, “but I will not leave you ; and if you are cold—cold to death—and cannot afford a fire, you will warm yourself with me. Let me put my arms round you; let me lay my cheek against yours. Feel how my cheek glows. There, is not that better?”
He struggled, but she insisted. She sat on his knee now and put the cloak she was wearing, thin and poor enough in itself, round his neck. Inside the cloak she circled him with her arms. Her dark luxuriant hair fell against his white and scanty locks; she pressed her face close to his.