“You may hate me, but I am going to stay with you,” she said. “How cold you are!”
Just for a minute or two Mr. Leeson bore the loving caress and the endearing words. She was very sweet, and she was his—his only child—bone of his bone. Yes, it was nicer to be warm than cold, nicer to be loved than to be hated, nicer to——But was he loved? Those trunks up-stairs; that costly, useless finery; those initials which were not Sylvia’s!
“Oh that I could tell her!” he said to himself. “She pretends; she is untrue—untrue as our first mother. What woman was ever yet to be trusted?”
“Go, Sylvia,” he replied vehemently; and he started up and shook her off cruelly, so that she fell and hurt herself.
She rose, pushed her hair back from her forehead and gazed at him in bewilderment. Was he going mad?
“Come and eat your dinner before it gets cold,” she said. “It is extravagant to waste good food; come and eat it.”
“Made from some of those old fowls?” he queried; and a scornful smile curled his lips.
“Come and eat it; it costs you practically nothing,” she added. “Come, it is extravagant to waste it.”
He pondered in his own mind; there were still about three fowls left. He would not take her hand but he followed her into the dining-room. He sat down before the dainty dish, helped her to a small portion, and ate the rest.
“Now you are better,” she said cheerfully.
He gave her a glance which seemed to her to be one of almost venom.
“I am going into my sitting-room,” he said; “do not disturb me again to-day.”
“But you must have a fire!”
“I decline to have a fire.”
“You will die of cold.”
“Much you care.”
“Father!”
“Yes, Sylvia, much you care; you are like the one who gave you being. I will not say any more.”
She started away at this; he knew she would. She was patient with him almost beyond the limits of human patience, but she could not stand having her mother abused.
He went down the passage, and locked himself in his sitting-room.
“Now I can think,” he thought; “and to-night when Sylvia is in bed I will bury the last canvas bag.”
When Sylvia went into the kitchen Jasper asked her at once what was the matter. She stood for a moment without speaking; then she said in a low, broken-hearted voice:
“Father sometimes gets these moods, but I never saw him as bad before. He refuses to have a fire in the parlor; he will die of this cold.”
“Let him,” muttered Jasper under her breath. She did not say these words aloud; she knew Sylvia too well by this time.
“What has put him into this state of mind?” she asked as she dished up a hot dinner for Sylvia and herself.
“It was my dress, Jasper; I ought not to have allowed you to make it for me. I ran in to put it on to go to church on Sunday; and he saw me and drew his own conclusions, as he said. He asked me where I got it, and I refused to tell him.”
“Now, if I were you, dear,” said Jasper, “I would just up and tell him the whole story. I would tell him that I am here, and that I mean to stay, and that he has been living on me for some time now. I would tell him everything. He would rage and fume, but not more than he has raged and fumed. Things are past bearing, darling. Why, your pretty, young, and brave heart will be broken. I would not bear it. It is best for him too, dear; he must learn to know you, and if necessary to fearyou. He cannot go on killing himself and every one else with impunity. It is past bearing, Sylvia, my love—past bearing.”
“I know, Jasper—I know—but I dare not tell him. You cannot imagine what he is when he is really roused. He would turn you out.”
“Well, darling, and you would come with me. Why should we not go out?”
“In the first place, Jasper, you have no money to support us both. Why, poor, dear old thing, you are using up all your little savings to keep me going! And in the next place, even if you could afford it, I promised mother that I would never leave him. I could not break my word to her. Oh! it hurt much; but the pain is over. I will never leave him while he lives, Jasper.”
“Dear, dear!” said Jasper, “what a power of love is wasted on worthless people! It is the most extraordinary fact on earth.”
Sylvia half-smiled. She thought of Evelyn, who was also in her opinion more or less worthless, and how Jasper was wasting both substance and heart on her.
“Well,” she said, “I can eat if I can do nothing else ; but the thought of father dying of cold does come between me and all peace.”
She finished her dinner, and then went and stood by the window.
“It is a perfect miracle he has not found me out before,” said Jasper; “and, by the same token,” she added, “I heard footsteps in the attic up-stairs whileI was preparing his fowl for dinner. My heart stood still. It must have been he; and I thought he would see the smoke curling up through that stack of chimneys just alongside of the attics. What was he doing up stairs?”
“Oh, I know—I know!” said Sylvia; and her face turned very white, and her eyes seemed to start from her head. “He went to look in mother’s trunks; he thought that I had got my brown dress from there.”
“And he will discover Evelyn’s trunks as sure as fate,” said Jasper; “and what a state he will be in! That accounts for it, Sylvia. Well, darling, discovery is imminent now; and for my part the sooner it is over the better.”
“I wonder if he did discover! Something has put him into a terrible rage,” thought the girl.
She went out of the kitchen, and stole softly up-stairs to the attic where the trunks were kept. It was locked. Doubt was now, of course, at an end. Sylvia went back and told her discovery to Jasper.
According to her promise, Jasper went that evening to meet Evelyn at the stile. Evelyn was there, and the news she had for her faithful nurse was the reverse of soothing.
“You cannot stand it,” said Jasper; “you cannot demean yourself. I don’t know that I’d have done it—yes, perhaps I would—but having done it, you must stick to your guns.”
“Yes,” said Evelyn in a mournful tone; “I must run away. I have quite, quite, absolutely made up my mind.”
“And when, darling?” said Jasper, trembling a good deal.
“The night before the week is up. I will come to you here, Jasper, and you must take me.”
“Of course, love; you will come back with me to The Priory. I can hide you there as well as anywhere on earth—yes, love, as well as anywhere on earth.”
“Oh, I’d be so frightened! It would be so close to them all!”
“The closer the better, dear. If you went into any village or any town near you would be discovered; but they’d never think of looking for youat The Priory. Why, darling, I have lived there unsuspected for some time now—weeks, I might say. Sylvia will not tell. You shall sleep in my bed, and I will keep you safe. Only you must bring some money, Evelyn, for mine is getting sadly short.”
“Yes,” said Evelyn. “I will ask Uncle Edward; he will not refuse me. He is very kind to me, and I love him better than any one on earth—better even than Jasper, because he is father’s very own brother, and because I am his heiress. He likes to talk to me about the place and what I am to do when it belongs to me. He is not angry with me when I am quite alone with him and I talk of these things; only he has taught me to say nothing about it in public. If I could be sorry for having got into this scrape it would be on his account; but there, I was not brought up with his thoughts, and I cannot think things wrong that he thinks wrong. Can you, Jasper?”
“No, my little wild honey-bird—not I. Well, dearie, I will meet you again to-morrow night; and now I must be going back.”
Evelyn returned to the house. She went up to her room, changed her shoes, tidied her hair, and came down to the drawing-room. Lady Frances was leaning back in a chair, turning over the pages of a new magazine. She called Evelyn to her side.
“How do you like school?” she said. Her tones were abrupt; the eyes she fixed on the child were hard.
Evelyn’s worst feelings were always awakened by Lady Frances’s manner to her.
“I do not like it at all,” she said. “I wish to leave.”
“Your wishes, I am afraid, are not to be considered; all the same, you may have to leave.”
“Why?” asked Evelyn, turning white. She wondered if Lady Frances knew.
Her aunt’s eyes were fixed, as though they were gimlets, on her face.
“Sit down,” said Lady Frances, “and tell me how you spend your day. What class are you in? What lessons are you learning?”
“I am in a very low class indeed?” said Evelyn. “Mothery always said I was clever.”
“I do not suppose your mother knew.”
“Why should she not know, she who was so very clever herself? She taught me all sorts of things, and so did poor Jasper.”
“Ah! I am glad at least that I have removed that dreadful woman out of your path,” said Lady Frances.
Evelyn smiled and lowered her eyes. Her manner irritated her aunt extremely.
“Well,” she said, “go on; we will not discuss the fact of the form you ought to be in. What lessons do you do?”
“Oh, history, grammar; I suppose, the usual English subjects.”
“Yes, yes; but history—that is interesting. English history?”
“Yes, Aunt Frances.”
“What part of the history?”
“We are doing the reigns of the Edwards now.”
“Ah! can you tell me anything with regard to the reign of Edward I.?”
Evelyn colored. Lady Frances watched her.
“I am certain she knows,” thought the little girl. “But, oh, this is terrible! Has that awful Miss Henderson told her? What shall I do? I do not think I will wait until the week is up; I think I will run away at once.”
“Answer my question, Evelyn,” said her aunt.
Evelyn did mutter a tiny piece of information with regard to the said reign.
“I shall question you on your history from time to time,” said Lady Frances. “I take an interest in this school experiment. Whether it will last or not I cannot say; but I may as well say one thing—if for any reason your presence is not found suitable in the school where I have now sent you, you will go to a very different order of establishment and to a much stricterrégimeelsewhere.”
“What is arégime?” asked Evelyn.
“I am too tired to answer your silly questions. Now go and read your book in that corner. Do not make a noise; I have a headache.”
Evelyn slouched away, looking as cross and ill-tempered as a little girl could look.
“Audrey darling,” called her mother in a totally different tone of voice, “play me that pretty thing of Chopin’s which you know I am so fond of.”
Audrey approached the piano and began to play.
Evelyn read her book for a time without attending much to the meaning of the words. Then she observed that her uncle, who had been asleep behind his newspaper, had risen and left the room. Here was the very opportunity that she sought. If she could only get her Uncle Edward quite by himself, and when he was in the best of good humors, he might give her some money. She could not run away without money to go with. Jasper, she knew, had not a large supply. Evelyn, with all her ignorance of many things, had early in her life come into contact with the want of money. Her mother had often and often been short of funds. When Mrs. Wynford was short, the ranch did without even, at times, the necessaries of life. Evelyn had a painful remembrance of butterless breakfasts and meatless dinners; of shoes which were patched so often that they would scarcely keep out the winter snows; of little garments turned and turned again. Then money had come back, and life became smooth and pleasant; there was an abundance of good food for the various meals, and Evelyn had shoes to her heart’s content, and the sort of gay-colored garments which her mother delighted in. Yes, she understood Jasper’s appeal for money, and determined on no account to go to that good woman’s protection without a sufficient sum in hand.
Therefore, as Audrey was playing some of the most seductive music of that past master of the art, Chopin, and Lady Frances lay back in her chairwith closed eyes and listened, Evelyn left the room. She knew where to find her uncle, and going down a corridor, opened the door of his smoking-room without knocking. He was seated by the fire smoking. A newspaper lay by his side; a pile of letters which had come by the evening post were waiting to be opened. When Evelyn quietly opened the door he looked round and said:
“Ah, it is you, Eve. Do you want anything, my dear?”
“May I speak to you for a minute or two, Uncle Edward?”
“Certainly, my dear Evelyn; come in. What is the matter, dear?”
“Oh, nothing much.”
Evelyn went and leant up against her uncle. She had never a scrap of fear of him, which was one reason why he liked her, and thought her far more tolerable than did his wife or Audrey. Even Audrey, who was his own child, held him in a certain awe; but Evelyn leant comfortably now against his side, and presently she took his arm of her own accord and passed it securely round her waist.
“Now, that is nice,” she said; “when I lean up against you I always remember that you are father’s brother.”
“I am glad that you should remember that fact, Evelyn.”
“You are pleased with me on the whole, aren’t you, Uncle Edward?” asked the little girl. Evelyn backed her head against his shoulder as she spoke,and looked into his face with her big and curious eyes.
“On the whole, yes.”
“But Aunt Frances does not like me.”
“You must try to win her affection, Evelyn; it will all come in good time.”
“It is not pleasant to be in the house with a person who does not like you, is it, Uncle Edward?”
“I can understand you, Evelyn; it is not pleasant.”
“And Audrey only half-likes me.”
“My dear little girl,” said her uncle, rousing himself to talk in a more serious strain, “would it not be wisest for you to give over thinking of who likes you and who does not, and to devote all your time to doing what is right?”
Evelyn made a wry face.
“I don’t care about doing what is right,” she said; “I don’t like it.”
Her uncle smiled.
“You are a strange girl; but I believe you have improved,” he said.
“You would be sorry if I did anything very, very naughty, Uncle Edward?”
“I certainly should.”
Evelyn lowered her eyes.
“He must not know. I must keep him from knowing somehow, but I wonder how I shall,” she thought.
“And perhaps you would be sorry,” she continued, “if I were not here—if your naughty, naughty Eve was no longer in the house?”
“I should. I often think of you. I——”
“What, Uncle Edward?”
“Love you, little girl.”
“Love me! Do you?” she asked in a tone of affection. “Do you really? Please say that again.”
“I love you, Evelyn.”
“Uncle Edward, may I give you just the tiniest kiss?”
“Yes, dear.”
Evelyn raised her soft face and pressed a light kiss on her uncle’s cheek. She was quite silent then for a minute; truth to tell, her heart was expanding and opening out and softening, and great thrills of pure love were filling it, so that soon, soon that heart might have melted utterly and been no longer a hard heart of stone. But, alas! as these good thoughts visited her, there came also the remembrance of the sin she had committed, and of the desperate measures she was about to take to save herself—for she had by no means come to the stage of confessing that sin, and by so doing getting rid of her naughtiness.
“Uncle Edward,” she said abruptly, “I want you to give me a little money. I have come here to ask you. I want it all for my very own self. I want some money which no one else need know anything about.”
“Of course, dear, you shall have money. How much do you want?”
“Well, a good bit. I want to give Jasper a present.”
“Your old nurse?”
“Yes. You know it was unkind of Aunt Frances to send her away; mothery wished her to stay with me.”
“I know that, Evelyn, and as far as I personally am concerned, I am sorry; but your aunt knows very much more about little girls than I do.”
“She does not know half so much about this girl.”
“Well, anyhow, dear, it was her wish, and you and I must submit.”
“But you are sorry?”
“For some reasons, yes.”
“And you would like me to help Jasper?”
“Certainly. Do you know where your nurse is now, Evelyn?”
“I do.”
“Where?”
“I would rather not say; only, may I send her some money?”
“That seems reasonable enough,” thought the Squire.
“How much do you want?” he asked.
“Would twenty pounds be too much?”
“I think not. It is a good deal, but she was a faithful servant. I will give you twenty pounds for her now.”
The Squire rose and took out his check-book.
“Oh, please,” said Evelyn, “I want it in gold.”
“But how will you send it to her?”
“Never, never mind; I must have it in gold.”
“Poor child! She is in earnest,” thought the Squire. “Perhaps the woman will come to meet her somewhere. I really cannot see why she should be tabooed from having a short interview with her old nurse. Frances and I differ on this head. Yes, I will let her have the money; the child has a good deal of heart when all is said and done.”
So the Squire put two little rolls, neatly made up in brown paper, into Evelyn’s hands.
“There,” he said; “it is a great deal of money to trust a little girl with, but you shall have it; only you must not ask me for any more.”
“Oh, what a darling you are, Uncle Edward! I feel as if I must kiss you again. There! those kisses are full of love. Now I must go. But, oh, I say,whata funny parcel!”
“What parcel, dear?”
“That long parcel on that table.”
“It is a gun-case which I have not yet unpacked. Now run away.”
“But that reminds me. You said I might go out some day to shoot with you.”
“On some future day. I do not much care for girls using firearms; and you are so busy now with your school.”
“You think, perhaps, that I cannot fire a gun, but I can aim well; I can kill a bird on the wing as neatly as any one. I told Audrey, and she would not believe me. Please—please show me your new gun.
“Not now; I have not looked at it myself yet.”
“But you do believe that I can shoot?”
“Oh yes, dear—yes, I suppose so. All the same, I should be sorry to trust you; I do not approve of women carrying firearms. Now leave me, Evelyn; I have a good deal to attend to.”
Evelyn went to bed to think over her uncle’s words; her disgrace at school; the terribledénouementwhich lay before her; the money, which seemed to her to be the only way out, and which would insure her comfort with Jasper wherever Jasper might like to take her; and finally, and by no means least, she meditated over the subject of her uncle’s new gun. On the ranch she had often carried a gun of her own; from her earliest days she had been accustomed to regard the women of her family as first-class shots. Her mother had herself taught her how to aim, how to fire, how to make allowance in order to bring her bird down on the wing, and Evelyn had followed out her instructions many times. She felt now that her uncle did not believe her, and the fear that this was the case irritated her beyond words.
“I do not pretend to be learned,” thought Evelyn, “and I do not pretend to be good, but there is one thing that I am, and that is a first-rate shot. Uncle Edward might show me his new gun. How little he guesses that I can manage it quite as well as he can himself!”
Two or three days passed without anything special occurring. Evelyn was fairly good at school; it was not, she considered, worth her while any longer toshirk her lessons. She began in spite of herself, and quite against her declared inclination, to have a sort of liking for her books. History was the only lesson which she thoroughly detested. She could not be civil to Miss Thompson, whom she considered her enemy; but to her other teachers she was fairly agreeable, and had already to a certain extent won the hearts of more than one of the girls in her form. She was bright and cheerful, and could say funny things; and as also she brought an unlimited supply of chocolates and other sweetmeats to school, these facts alone insured her being more or less of a favorite. At home she avoided her aunt and Audrey, and evening after evening she went to the stile to have a chat with Jasper.
Jasper never failed to meet her little girl, as she called Evelyn, at their arranged rendezvous. Evelyn managed to slip out without, as she thought, any one noticing her; and the days went by until there was only one day left before Miss Henderson would proclaim to the entire school that Evelyn Wynford was the guilty person who had torn the precious volume of Ruskin.
“When you come for me to-morrow night, Jasper,” said Evelyn, “I will go away with you. Are you quite sure that it is safe to take me back to The Priory?”
“Quite, quite safe, darling; hardly a soul knows that I am at The Priory, and certainly no one will suspect that you are there. Besides, the place is all undermined with cellars, and at the worst you andI could hide there together while the house was searched.”
“What fun!” cried Evelyn, clapping her hands. “I declare, Jasper, it is almost as good as a fairy story.”
“Quite as good, my little love.”
“And you will be sure to have a very, very nice supper ready for me to-morrow night?”
“Oh yes, dear; just the supper you like best—chocolate and sweet cakes.”
“And you will tuck me up in bed as you used to?”
“Darling, I have put a little white bed close to my own, where you shall sleep.”
“Oh Jasper, it will be nice to be with you again! And you are positive Sylvia will not tell?”
“She is sad about you, Evelyn, but she will not tell. I have arranged that.”
“And that terrible old man, her father, will he find out?”
“I think not, dear; he has not yet found out about me at any rate.”
“Perhaps, Jasper, I had better go back now; it is later than usual.”
“Be sure you bring the twenty pounds when you come to-morrow night,” said Jasper; “for my funds, what with one thing and another, are getting low.”
“Yes, I will bring the money,” replied Evelyn.
She returned to the house. No one saw her as she slipped in by the back entrance. She ran up to her room, smoothed her hair, and went down to the drawing-room. Lady Frances and Audrey werealone in the big room. They had been talking together, but instantly became silent when Evelyn entered.
“They have been abusing me, of course,” thought the little girl; and she flashed an angry glance first at one and then at the other.
“Evelyn,” said her aunt, “have you finished learning your lessons? You know how extremely particular Miss Henderson is that school tasks should be perfectly prepared.”
“My lessons are all right, thank you,” replied Evelyn in her brusquest voice. She flung herself into a chair and crossed her legs.
“Uncross your legs, my dear; that is a very unlady-like thing to do.”
Evelyn muttered something, but did what her aunt told her.
“Do not lean back so much, Evelyn; it is not good style. Do not poke out your chin, either; observe how Audrey sits.”
“I don’t want to observe how Audrey sits,” said Evelyn.
Lady Frances colored. She was about to speak, but a glance from her daughter restrained her. Just then Read came into the room. Between Read and Evelyn there was already a silent feud. Read now glanced at the young lady, tossed her head a trifle, and went up to Lady Frances.
“I am very sorry to trouble you, madam,” she said, “but if I may see you quite by yourself for a few moments I shall be very much obliged.”
“Certainly, Read; go into my boudoir and I will join you there,” said her mistress. “I know,” added Lady Frances graciously, “that you would not disturb me if you had not something important to say.”
“No, madam; I should be very sorry to do so.”
Lady Frances and Read now left the room, and Audrey and Evelyn were alone. Audrey uttered a sigh.
“What is the matter, Audrey?” asked her cousin.
“I am thinking of the day after to-morrow,” answered Audrey. “The unhappy girl who has kept her secret all this time will be openly denounced. It will be terribly exciting.”
“You do not pretend that you pity her!” said Evelyn in a voice of scorn.
“Indeed I do pity her.”
“What nonsense! That is not at all your way.”
“Why should you say that? It is my way. I pity all people who have done wrong most terribly.”
“Then have you ever pitied me since I came to England?”
“Oh yes, Evelyn—oh, indeed I have!”
“Please keep your pity to yourself; I don’t want it.”
Audrey relapsed into silence.
By and by Lady Frances came back; she was still accompanied by Read.
“What does a servant want in this room?” said Evelyn in her most disagreeable voice.
“Evelyn, come here,” said her aunt; “I have something to say to you.”
Evelyn went very unwillingly. Read stood a little in the background.
“Evelyn,” said Lady Frances, “I have just heard something that surprises me extremely, that pains me inexpressibly; it is true, so there is no use in your denying it, but I must tell you what Read has discovered.”
“Read!” cried Evelyn, her voice choking with passion and her face white. “Who believes what a tell-tale-tit of that sort says?”
“You must not be impertinent, my dear. I wish to tell you that Read has found you out. Your maid Jasper has not left this neighborhood, and you, Evelyn—you are naughty enough and daring enough to meet her every night by the stile that leads into the seven-acre meadow. Read observed your absence one night, and followed you herself to-night, and she discovered everything.”
“Did you hear what I was saying to Jasper?” asked Evelyn, turning her white face now and looking full at Read.
“No, Miss Evelyn,” replied the maid; “I would not demean myself to listen.”
“You would demean yourself to follow,” said Evelyn.
“Confess your sin, Evelyn, and do not scold Read,” interrupted Lady Frances.
“I have nothing to confess, Aunt Frances.”
“But you did it?”
“Certainly I did it.”
“You dared to go to meet a woman privately,clandestinely, whom I, your aunt, prohibited the house?”
“I dared to go to meet the woman my mother loved,” replied Evelyn, “and I am not a bit ashamed of it; and if I had the chance I would do it again.”
“You are a very, very naughty girl. I am more than angry with you. I am pained beyond words. What is to become of you I know not. You are a bad girl; I cannot bear to think that you should be in the same house with Audrey.”
“Loving the woman whom my mother loved does not make me a bad girl,” replied Evelyn. “But as you do not like to have me in the room, Aunt Frances, I will go away—I will go up-stairs. I think you are very, very unkind to me; I think you have been so from the first.”
“Do not dare to say another word to me, miss; go away immediately.”
Evelyn left the room. She was half-way up-stairs when she paused.
“What is the use of being good?” she said to herself. “What is the use of ever trying to please anybody? I really did not mean to be naughty when first I came, and if Aunt Frances had been different I might have been different too. What right had she to deprive me of Jasper when mothery said that Jasper was to stay with me? It is Aunt Frances’s fault that I am such a bad girl now. Well, thank goodness! I shall not be here much longer; I shall be away this time to-morrow night. The only person I shall be sorry to leave is Uncle Edward.Audrey and I will be going to school early in the morning, and then there will be the fuss and bustle and the getting away before Read sees me. Oh, that dreadful old Read! what can I do to blind her eyes to-morrow night? Throw dust into them in some fashion I must. I will just go and have one word of good-by with Uncle Edward now.”
Evelyn ran down the corridor which led to her uncle’s room. She tapped at the door. There was no answer. She opened the door softly and peeped in. The room was empty. She was just about to go away again, considerably crestfallen and disappointed, when her eyes fell upon the gun-case. Instantly a sparkle came into her eyes; she went up to the case, and removing the gun, proceeded to examine it. It was made on the newest pattern, and was light and easily carried. It held six chambers, all of which could be most simply and conveniently loaded.
Evelyn knew well how to load a gun, and finding the proper cartridges, now proceeded to enjoy herself by making the gun ready for use. Having loaded it, she returned it to its case.
“I know what I’ll do,” she thought. “Uncle Edward thinks that I cannot shoot; he thinks that I am not good at any one single thing. But I will show him. I’ll go out and shoot two birds on the wing before breakfast to-morrow; whether they are crows or whether they are doves or whether they are game, it does not matter in the least; I’ll bring them in and lay them at his feet, and say:
“Here is what your wild niece Evelyn can do; and now you will believe that she has one accomplishment which is not vouchsafed to other girls.”
So, having completed her task of putting the gun in absolute readiness for its first essay in the field, she returned the case to its corner and went up-stairs to bed.
When Audrey and her mother found themselves alone, Lady Frances turned at once to her daughter.
“Audrey,” she said, “I feel that I must confide in you.”
“What about, mother?” asked Audrey.
“About Evelyn.”
“Yes, mother?”
Audrey’s face looked anxious and troubled; Lady Frances’s scarcely less so.
“The child hates me,” said Lady Frances. “What I have done to excite such a feeling is more than I can tell you; from the first I have done my utmost to be kind to her.”
“It is difficult to know how best to be kind to Evelyn,” said Audrey in a thoughtful voice.
“What do you mean, my dear?”
“I mean, mother, that she is something of a little savage. She has never been brought up with our ideas. Do you think, mother—I scarcely like to say it to one whom I honor and love and respect as I do you—but do you think you understand her?”
“No, I do not,” said Lady Frances. “I have never understood her from the first. Your father seems to manage her better.”
“Ah, yes,” said Audrey; “but then, she belongs to him.”
Lady Frances looked annoyed.
“She belongs to us all,” she remarked. “She is your first cousin, and my niece, of course, by marriage. Her father was a very dear fellow; how such a daughter could have been given to him is one of those puzzles which will never be unraveled. But now, dear, we must descend from generalities to facts. Something very grave and terrible has occurred. Read did right when she told me about Evelyn’s secret visits to Jasper at the stile. You know how from the very first I have distrusted and disliked that woman. You must not suppose, Audrey, that I felt no pain when I turned the woman away after the letter which Evelyn’s mother had written to me; but there are times when it is wrong to yield, and I felt that such was the case.”
“I knew, my darling mother, that you must have acted from the best of motives,” said Audrey.
“I did, my dearest child; I did. Well, Evelyn has managed to meet this woman, and instead of being removed from her influence, is under it to a remarkable and dangerous degree—for the woman, of course, thinks herself wronged, and Evelyn agrees with her. Now, the fact is this, Audrey: I happen to know about that very disagreeable occurrence which took place at Chepstow House.”
“What, mother—what?” cried Audrey. “You speak as if you knew something special.”
“I do, Audrey.”
“But what, mother?”
Audrey’s face turned red; her eyes shone. She went close to her mother, knelt by her, and took her hand.
“Who has spoken to you about it?” she asked.
“Miss Henderson.”
“Oh mother! and what did she say?”
“My darling, I am afraid you will be terribly grieved; I can scarcely tell you how upset I am. Audrey, the strongest, the very strongest, circumstantial evidence points to Evelyn as the guilty person.”
“Oh mother! Evelyn! But why? Oh, surely, surely whoever accuses poor Evelyn is mistaken!”
“I agreed with you, Audrey; I felt just as indignant as you do when first I heard what Miss Henderson told me; but the more I see of Evelyn the more sure I am that she would be capable of this action, that if the opportunity came she would do this cruel and unjustifiable wrong, and after having done it the unhappy child would try to conceal it.”
“But, mother darling, what motive could she have?”
“Well, dear, let me tell you. Miss Henderson seems to be well aware of the entire story. On the first day when Evelyn went to school she was asked during class to read over the reign of Edward I. in the history of England. Evelyn, in her usual pert way which we all know so well, declared that she knew the reign, and while the other girls in her form were busy with their lessons she amused herselflooking about her. As it was the first day, Miss Thompson took no notice; but when the girls went into the playground for recess she called Evelyn to her and questioned her with regard to the history. Evelyn’s wicked lie was immediately manifest, for she did not know a single word about the reign. Miss Thompson was naturally angry, and desired her to stay in the schoolroom and learn the reign while the other girls were at play. Evelyn was angry, but could not resist. About six o’clock that evening Miss Thompson came into the schoolroom, found Ruskin’sSesame and Lilies, which she had left there that morning, and took it away with her. She was preparing a lecture out of the book, and did not open it at once. When she did so she perceived, to her horror, that some pages had been torn out. You know, my dear, what followed. You know what a strained and unhappy condition the school is now in.”
“Oh yes, mother—yes, I know all that; the only part that is new to me is that Evelyn was kept indoors to learn her history.”
“Yes, dear, and that supplies the motive; not to one like you, my Audrey, but to such a perverted, such an unhappy and ignorant child as poor Evelyn, one who has never learnt self-control, one whose passions are ever in the ascendency.”
“Oh, poor Evelyn, poor Evelyn!” said Audrey. “But still, mother—still——Oh, I am sure she never did it! She has denied it, mother; whatever she is, she is not a coward. She might have done it in a fit of rage; but if she did she would confess.Why should she wreak her anger on Miss Henderson? Oh, mother darling, there is nothing proved against her!”
“Wait, Audrey; I have not finished my story. Two days passed before Miss Thompson needed to open the history-book which Evelyn had been using; when she did, she found, lying in the pages which commenced the reign of Edward I., some scraps of torn paper, all too evidently torn out ofSesame and Lilies.
“Mother!”
“It is true, Audrey.”
“Who told you this?”
“Miss Henderson.”
“Does Miss Henderson believe that Evelyn is guilty?”
“Yes; and so do I.”
“Mother, mother, what will happen?”
“Who knows? But Miss Henderson is determined—and, yes, my dear, I must say I agree with her—she is determined to expose Evelyn; she said she would give her a week in which to repent.”
“And that week will be up the day after to-morrow,” said Audrey.
“Yes, Audrey—yes; there is only to-morrow left.”
“Oh mother, how can I bear it?”
“My poor child, it will be dreadful for you.”
“Oh mother, why did she come here? I could almost hate her! And yet—no, I do not hate her—no, I do not; I pity her.”
“You are an angel! When I think that you, my sweet, will be mixed up in this, and—and injured by it, and brought to low esteem by it, oh, my dearest, what can I say?”
Audrey was silent for a moment. She bent her head and looked down; then she spoke.
“It is a trial,” she said, “but I am not to be pitied as Evelyn is to be pitied. Mother darling, there is but one thing to be done.”
“What is that, dearest?”
“To get her to repent—to get her to confess between now and the morning after next. Oh mother! leave her to me.”
“I will, Audrey. If any one can influence her, you can; you are so brave, so good, so strong!”
“Nay, I have but little influence over her,” said Audrey. “Let me think for a few moments, mother.”
Audrey sank into a chair and sat silent. Her sweet, pure, high-bred face was turned in profile to her mother. Lady Frances glanced at it, and thought over the circumstances which had brought Evelyn into their midst.
“To think that that girl should supplant her!” thought the mother; and her anger was so great that she could not keep quiet. She was going out of the room to speak to her husband, but before she reached the door Audrey called her.
“What are you going to do, mother?”
“It is only right that I should tell you, Audrey. An idea has come to me. Evelyn respects yourfather; if I told him just what I have told you he might induce her to confess.”
“No, mother,” said Audrey suddenly; “do not let us lower her in his eyes. The strongest possible motive for Evelyn to confess her sin will be that father does not know; that he need never know if she confesses. Do not tell him, please, mother; I have got another thought.”
“What is that, my darling?”
“Do you not remember Sylvia—pretty Sylvia?”
“Of course. A dear, bright, fascinating girl!”
“Evelyn is fond of her—fonder of Sylvia than she is of me; perhaps Sylvia could induce her to confess.”
“It is a good thought, Audrey. I will ask Sylvia over here to dine to-morrow evening.”
“Oh, mother darling, that is too late! May I not send a messenger for her to come in the morning? Oh mother, if she could only come now!”
“No dearest; it is too late to-night.”
“But Evelyn ought to see her before she goes to school.”
“My dearest, you have both to be at school at nine o’clock.”
“Oh, I don’t know what is to be done! I do feel that I have very little influence, and Sylvia may have much. Oh dear! oh dear!”
“Audrey, I am almost sorry I have told you; you take it too much to heart.”
“Dear mother, you must have told me; I couldnot have stood the shock, the surprise, unprepared. Oh mother, think of the morning after next! Think of our all standing up in school, and Evelyn, my cousin, being proclaimed guilty! And yet, mother, I ought only to think of Evelyn, and not of myself; but I cannot help thinking of myself—I cannot—I cannot.”
“Something must be done to help you, Audrey. Let me think. I will write a line to Miss Henderson and say I am detaining you both till afternoon school. Then, dearest, you can have your talk with Evelyn in the morning, and afterwards Sylvia can see her, and perhaps the unhappy child may be brought to repentance, and may speak to Miss Henderson and confess her sin in the afternoon. That is the best thing. Now go to bed, and do not let the trouble worry you, my sweet; that would indeed be the last straw.”
Audrey left the room. But during that night she could not sleep. From side to side of her pillow she tossed; and early in the morning, an hour or more before her usual time of rising, she got up. She dressed herself quickly and went in the direction of Evelyn’s room. Her idea was to speak to Evelyn there and then before her courage failed her. She opened the door of her cousin’s room softly. She expected to see Evelyn, who was very lazy as a rule, sound asleep in bed; but, to her astonishment, the room was empty. Where could she be?
“What can be the matter?” thought Audrey; and in some alarm she ran down-stairs.
The first person she saw was Evelyn, who was making straight for her uncle’s room, intending to go out with the well-loaded gun. Evelyn scowled when she saw her cousin, and a look of anger swept over her face.
“What are you doing up so early, Evelyn?” asked Audrey.
“May I ask what areyoudoing up so early,” retorted Evelyn.
“I got up early on purpose to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk just now.”
“Do come with me, Evelyn—please do. Why should you turn against me and be so disagreeable? Oh, dear! oh dear! I am so terribly sorry for you! Do you know that I was awake all night thinking of you?”
“Then you were very silly,” said Evelyn, “for certainly I was not awake thinking of you. What is it you want to say?” she continued.
She recognized that she must give up her sport. How more than provoking! for the next morning she would be no longer at Wynford Castle; she would be under the safe shelter of her beloved Jasper’s wing.
“The morning is quite fine,” said Audrey; “do come out and let us walk.”
Evelyn looked very cross, but finally agreed, and they went out together. Audrey wondered how she should proceed. What could she say to influence Evelyn? In truth, they were not the sort of girls who would ever pull well together. Audrey hadbeen brought up in the strictest school, with the highest sense of honor. Evelyn had been left to grow up at her own sweet will; honorable actions had never appealed to her. Tricks, cheating, smart doings, clever ways, which were not the ways of righteousness, were the ways to which she had been accustomed. It was impossible for her to see things with Audrey’s eyes.
“What do you want to say to me?” said Evelyn. “Why do you look so mysterious?”
“I want to say something—something which I must say. Evelyn, do not ask me any questions, but do just listen. You know what is going to happen to-morrow morning at school?”
“Lessons, I suppose,” said Evelyn.
“Please don’t be silly; you must know what I mean.”
“Oh, you allude to the row about that stupid, stupid book. What a fuss! I used to think I liked school, but I don’t now. I am sure mistresses don’t go on in that silly way in Tasmania, for mothery said she loved school. Oh, the fun she had at school! Stolen parties in the attics; suppers brought in clandestinely; lessons shirked! Oh dear! oh dear! she had a time of excitement. But at this school you are all so proper! I do really think you English girls have no spunk and no spirit.”
“But I’ll tell you what we have,” said Audrey; and she turned and faced her cousin. “We have honor; we have truth. We like to work straight, not crooked; we like to do right, not wrong. Yes,we do, and we are the better for it. That is what we English girls are. Don’t abuse us, Evelyn, for in your heart of hearts—yes, Evelyn, I repeat it—in your heart of hearts you must long to be one of us.”
There was something in Audrey’s tone which startled Evelyn.
“How like Uncle Edward you look!” she said; and perhaps she could not have paid her cousin a higher compliment.
The look which for just a moment flitted across the queer little face of the Tasmanian girl upset Audrey. She struggled to retain her composure, but the next moment burst into tears.
“Oh dear!” said Evelyn, who hated people who cried, “what is the matter?”
“You are the matter. Oh, why—whydid you do it?”
“I do what?” said Evelyn, a little startled, and turning very pale.
“Oh! you know you did it, and—and—— There is Sylvia Leeson coming across the grass. Do let Sylvia speak to you. Oh, you know—you know you did it!”
“What is the matter?” said Sylvia, running up, panting and breathless. “I have been asked to breakfast here. Such fun! I slipped off without father knowing. But are not you two going to school? Why was I asked? Audrey, what are you crying about?”
“About Evelyn. I am awfully unhappy——”
“Have you told, Evelyn?” asked Sylvia breathlessly.
“No,” said Evelyn; “and if you do, Sylvia——”
“Sylvia, do you know about this?” cried Audrey.
“About what?” asked Sylvia.
“About the book which got injured at Miss Henderson’s school.”
Sylvia glanced at Evelyn; then her face flushed, her eyes brightened, and she said emphatically:
“I know; and dear little Evelyn will tell you herself.—Won’t you, darling—won’t you?”
Evelyn looked from one to the other.
“You are enough, both of you, to drive me mad,” she said. “Do you think for a single moment that I am going to speak against myself? I hate you, Sylvia, as much as I ever loved you.”
Before either girl could prevent her she slipped away, and flying round the shrubberies, was lost to view.
“Then she did do it?” said Audrey. “She told you?”
Sylvia shut her lips.
“I must not say any more,” she answered.
“But, Sylvia, it is no secret. Miss Henderson knows; there is circumstantial evidence. Mother told me last night. Evelyn will be exposed before the whole school.”
Now Jasper, for wise reasons, had said nothing to Sylvia of Evelyn’s proposed flight to The Priory, and consequently she was unaware that the naughtygirl had no intention of exposing herself to public disgrace.
“She must be brought to confess,” continued Audrey, “and you must find her and talk to her. You must show her how hopeless and helpless she is. Show her that if she tells, the disgrace will not be quite so awful. Oh, do please get her to tell!”
“I can but try,” said Sylvia; “only, somehow,” she added, “I have not yet quite fathomed Evelyn.”
“But I thought she was fond of you?”
“You see what she said. She did confide something to me, only I must not tell you any more; and she is angry with me because she thinks I have not respected her confidence. Oh, what is to be done? Yes, I will go and have a talk with her. Go in, please, Audrey; you look dead tired.”
“Oh! as if anything mattered,” said Audrey. “I could almost wish that I were dead; the disgrace is past enduring.”
In vain Sylvia pleaded and argued. She brought all her persuasions to bear; she brought all her natural sweetness to the fore. She tried love, with which she was so largely endowed; she tried tact, which had been given to her in full measure; she tried the gentle touch of scorn and sarcasm; finally she tried anger, but for all she said and did she might as well have held her peace. Evelyn put on that stubbornness with which she could encase herself as in armor; nowhere could Sylvia find a crack or a crevice through which her words might pierce the obdurate and naughty little heart. What was to be done? At last she gave up in despair. Audrey met her outside Evelyn’s room. Sylvia shook her head.
“Don’t question me,” she said. “I am very unhappy. I pity you from my heart. I can say nothing; I am bound in honor to say nothing. Poor Evelyn will reap her own punishment.”
“If,” said Audrey, “you have failed I give up all hope.”
After lunch Evelyn and Audrey went back to school. There were a good many classes to be heldthat afternoon—one for deportment, another for dancing, another for recitation. Evelyn could recite extremely well when she chose. She looked almost pretty when she recited some of the spirited ballads of her native land for the benefit of the school. Her eyes glowed, darkened, and deepened; the pallor of her face was transformed and beautified by a faint blush. There was a heart somewhere within her; as Audrey watched her she was obliged to acknowledge that fact.
“She is thinking of her dead mother now,” thought the girl. “Oh, if only that mother had been different we should not be placed in our present terrible position!”
It was the custom of the school for the girls on recitation afternoons to do their pieces in the great hall. Miss Henderson, Miss Lucy, and a few visitors generally came to listen to the recitations. Miss Thompson was the recitation mistress, and right well did she perform her task. If a girl had any dramatic power, if a girl had any talent for seeing behind the story and behind the dream of the poet, Miss Thompson was the one to bring that gift to the surface. Evelyn, who was a dramatist by nature, became like wax in her hands; the way in which she recited that afternoon brought a feeling of astonishment to those who listened to her.
“What remarkable little girl is that?” said a lady of the neighboring town to Miss Henderson.
“She is a Tasmanian and Squire Edward Wynford’s niece,” replied Miss Henderson; but it wasevident that she was not to be drawn out on the subject, nor would she allow herself to express any approbation of Evelyn’s really remarkable powers.
Audrey’s piece, compared with Evelyn’s, was tame and wanting in spirit. It was well rendered, it is true, but the ring of passion was absent.
“Really,” said the same lady again, “I doubt whether recitations such as Miss Evelyn Wynford has given are good for the school; surely girls ought not to have their minds overexcited with such things!”
Miss Henderson was again silent.
The time passed by, and the close of the day arrived. Just as the girls were putting on their cloaks and hats preparatory to going home, and some were collecting round and praising Evelyn for her remarkable performance of the afternoon, Miss Henderson appeared on the scene. She touched the little girl on the arm.
“One moment,” she said.
“What do you want?” said Evelyn, backing.
“To speak to you, my dear.”
Audrey gave Evelyn a beseeching look. Perhaps if Audrey had refrained from looking at that moment, Evelyn, excited by her triumph, touched by the plaudits of her companions, might have done what she was expected to do, and what immediately followed need not have taken place. But Evelyn hated Audrey, and if for no other reason but to annoy her she would stand by her guns.
Miss Henderson took her hand, and entered a roomadjoining the cloakroom. She closed the door, and said:
“The week is nearly up. You know what will happen to-morrow?”
“Yes,” said Evelyn, lowering her eyes.
“You will be present?”
Evelyn was silent.
“I shall see that you are. You must realize already what a pitiable figure you will be, how deep and lasting will be your disgrace. You have just tasted the sweets of success; why should you undergo that which will be said of you to-morrow, that which no English girl can ever forgive? It will not be forgotten in the school that owing to you much enjoyment has been cut short, that owing to you a cloud has rested on the entire place for several days—prizes forgone, liberty curtailed, amusements debarred; and, before and above all these things, the fearful stigma of disgrace resting on every girl at Chepstow House. But even now, Evelyn, there is time; even now, by a full confession, much can be mitigated. You know, my dear, how strong is the case against you. To-morrow morning both Miss Thompson and I proclaim before the entire school what has occurred. You are, in short, as a prisoner at the bar. The school will be the judges; they will declare whether you are innocent or guilty.”
“Let me go,” said Evelyn. “Why do you torture me? I said I did not do it, and I mean to stick to what I said. Let me go.”
“Unhappy child! I shall not be able to retainyou in the school after to-morrow morning. But go now—go. God help you!”
Evelyn walked across the hall. Her school companions were still standing about; many wondered why her face was so pale, and asked one another what Miss Henderson had to say in especial to the little girl.
“It cannot be,” said Sophie, “that she did it. Why, of course she did not do it; she would have no motive.”
“Don’t let us talk about it,” said her companion. “For my part I rather like Evelyn—there is something so quaint and out-of-the-common about her—only I wish she would not look so angry sometimes.”
“But how splendidly she recited that song of the ranch!” said Sophie. “I could see the whole picture. We must not expect her to be quite like ourselves; before she came here she was only a wild little savage.”
The governess-cart had come for the two girls. They drove home in silence. Audrey was thinking of the misery of the following morning. Evelyn was planning her escape. She meant to go before dinner. She had asked Jasper to meet her at seven o’clock precisely. She had thought everything out, and that seemed to be the best hour; the family would be in their different rooms dressing. Evelyn would make an excuse to send Read away—indeed, she seldom now required her services, preferring to dress alone. Read would be busy with her mistress andher own young lady, and Evelyn would thus be able to slip away without her prying eyes observing it.
Tea was ready for the girls when they got home. They took it almost without speaking. Evelyn avoided looking at Audrey. Audrey felt that it was now absolutely hopeless to say a word to Evelyn.
“I should just like to bid Uncle Edward good-by,” thought the child. “Perhaps I may never come back again. I do not suppose Aunt Frances will ever allow me to live at the Castle again. I should like to kiss Uncle Edward; he is the one person in this house whom I love.”
She hesitated between her desire and her frantic wish to be out of reach of danger as soon as possible, but in the end the thought that her uncle might notice something different from usual about her made her afraid of making the attempt. She went up to her room.
“It is not necessary to dress yet,” said Audrey, who was going slowly in the direction of the pretty schoolroom.
“No; but I have a slight headache,” said Evelyn. “I will lie down for a few minutes before dinner. And, oh! please, Audrey, tell Read I do not want her to come and dress me this evening. I shall put on my white frock, and I know how to fasten it myself.”
“All right; I will tell her,” replied Audrey.
She did not say any more, but went on her way. Evelyn entered her room. There she packed a fewthings in a bag; she was not going to take much. In the bottom of the bag she placed for security the two little rolls of gold. These she covered over with a stout piece of brown paper; over the brown paper she laid the treasures she most valued. It did not occur to her to take any of the clothes which her Aunt Frances had bought for her.
“I do not need them,” she said to herself. “I shall have my own dear old things to wear again. Jasper took my trunks, and they are waiting for me at The Priory. How happy I shall be in a few minutes! I shall have forgotten the awful misery of my life at Castle Wynford. I shall have forgotten that horrid scene which is to take place to-morrow morning. I shall be the old Evelyn again. How astonished Sylvia will be! Whatever Sylvia is, she is true to Jasper; and she will be true to me, and she will not betray me.”
The time flew on; soon it was a quarter to seven. Evelyn could see the minute and hour hand of the pretty clock on her mantelpiece. The time seemed to go on leaden wings. She did not dare to stir until a few minutes after the dressing-gong had sounded; then she knew she should find the coast clear. At last seven silvery chimes sounded from the little clock, and a minute later the great gong in the central hall pealed through the house. There was the gentle rustle of ladies’ silk dresses as they went to their rooms to dress—for a few visitors had arrived at the Castle that day. Evelyn knew this, and had made her plans accordingly. The family had a good dealto think of; Read would be specially busy. She went to the table where she had put her little bag, caught it up, took a thick shawl on her arm, and prepared to rush down-stairs. She opened the door of her room and peeped out. All was stillness in the corridor. All was stillness in the hall below. She hoped that she could reach the side entrance and get away into the shrubberies without any one seeing her. Cautiously and swiftly she descended the stairs. The stairs were made of white marble, and of course there was no sound. She crossed the big hall and went down by a side corridor. Once she looked back, having a horrible suspicion that some one was watching her. There was no one in sight. She opened the side door, and the next instant had shut it behind her. She gave a gasp of pleasure. She was free; the horrid house would know her no more.
“Not until I go back as mistress and pay them all out,” thought the angry little girl. “Never again will I live at Castle Wynford until I am mistress here.”
Then she put wings to her feet and began to run. But, alas for Evelyn! the best-laid plans are sometimes upset, and at the moment of greatest security comes the sudden fall. For she had not gone a dozen yards before a hand was laid on her shoulder, and turning round and trying to extricate herself, she saw her Aunt Frances. Lady Frances, who she supposed was safe in her room was standing by her side.
“Evelyn,” she said, “what are you doing?”
“Nothing,” said Evelyn, trying to wriggle out of her aunt’s grasp.
“Then come back to the house with me.”
She took the little girl’s hand, and they re-entered the house side by side.
“You were running away,” said Lady Frances, “but I do not permit that. We will not argue the point; come up-stairs.”
She took Evelyn up to her room. There she opened the door and pushed her in.
“Doubtless you can do without dinner as you intended to run away,” said Lady Frances. “I will speak to you afterwards; for the present you stay in your room.” She locked the door and put the key into her pocket.
The angry child was locked in. To say that Evelyn was wild with passion, despair, and rage is but lightly to express the situation. For a time she was almost speechless; then she looked round her prison. Were there any means of escape? Oh! she would not stand it; she would burst open the door. Alas, alas for her puny strength! the door was of solid oak, firmly fastened, securely locked; it would defy the efforts of twenty little girls of Evelyn’s size and age. The window—she would escape by the window! She rushed to it, opened it, and looked out. Evelyn’s room was, it is true, on the first floor, but the drop to the ground beneath seemed too much for her. She shuddered as she looked below.
“If I were on the ranch, twenty Aunt Franceses would not keep me,” she thought; and then she ran into her sitting-room.
Of late she had scarcely ever used her sitting-room, but now she remembered it. The windows here were French; they looked on the flower-garden. To drop down here would not perhaps be so difficult; the ground at least would be soft. Evelyn wondered if she might venture; but she had once seen, long ago in Tasmania, a black woman try to escape. She had heard the thud of the woman’s body as it alighted on the ground, and the shriek which followed. This woman had been found and brought back to the house, and had suffered for weeks from a badly-broken leg. Evelyn now remembered that thud, and that broken leg, and the shriek of the victim. It would be worse than folly to injure herself. But, oh, was it not maddening? Jasper would be waiting for her—Jasper with her big heart and her great black eyes and her affectionate manner; and the little white bed would be made, and the delicious chocolate in preparation; and the fun and the delightful escapade and the daring adventure must all be at an end. But they should not—no, no, they should not!