What will not hunger--real, healthy hunger--effect? Lady Frances, after
her last words, swept out of the room; and Jasper, her bosom heaving,
her black eyes flashing angry fire, looked full at her little charge.
What would Evelyn do now? The spoilt child, who could scarcely brook the
smallest contradiction, who had declined to get up even to breakfast, to
do without Jasper! To allow her friend Jasper to be torn from her
arms--Jasper, who had been her mother's dearest companion, who had sworn
to that mother that she would not leave Evelyn come what might, that she
would protect her against the tyrant aunt and the tyrant uncle, that if
necessary she would fight for her with the power which the law bestows!
Oh, what an awful moment had arrived! Jasper was to go. What would
Evelyn do now?
Evelyn's first impulse had been all that was satisfactory. Her fury had
burst forth in wild, indignant words. But now, when the child and the
maid found themselves alone, Jasper waited in expectancy which was
almost certainty. Evelyn would not submit to this? She and her charge
would leave Castle Wynford together that very day. If they were
eventually parted, the law should part them.
Still Evelyn was silent.
"Oh Eve--my dear Miss Evelyn--my treasure!" said the afflicted woman.
"Yes, Jasper?" said Evelyn then. "It is an awful nuisance."
"A nuisance! Is that all you have got to say?"
Evelyn rubbed her eyes.
"I won't submit, of course," she said. "No, I won't submit for a minute.
But, Jasper, I must have some breakfast; I am too hungry for anything.
Perhaps you had better take all my darling, lovely clothes; and if you
have to go, Jasper, I'll--I'll never forget you; but I'll talk to you
more about it when I have had something to eat."
Evelyn turned and left the room. She was in an ugly dress, beyond doubt,
but in her neat black shoes and stockings, and with her fair hair tied
back according to Lady Frances's directions, she looked rather more
presentable than she had done the previous day. She entered the
breakfast-room. The remains of a meal still lay upon the table. Evelyn
looked impatiently round. Surely some one ought to appear--a servant at
the very least! Hot tea she required, hot coffee, dishes nicely cooked
and tempting and fresh. The little girl went to the bell and rang it. A
footman appeared.
"Get my breakfast immediately," said Evelyn.
The man withdrew, endeavoring to hide a smile. Evelyn's conduct in
daring to defy Lady Frances had been the amusement of the servants' hall
that morning. The man went to the kitchen premises now with the
announcement that "miss" had come to her senses.
"She is as white as a sheet, and looks as mad as a hatter," said the
man; "but her spirit ain't broke. My word! she 'ave got a will of her
own. 'My breakfast, immediate,' says she, as though she were the lady of
the manor."
"Which she will be some day," said cook; "and I 'ates to think of it.
Our beautiful Miss Audrey supplanted by the like of her. There, Johnson!
my missus said that Miss Wynford was to have quite a plain breakfast, so
take it up--do."
Toast, fresh tea, and one solitary new-laid egg were placed on a tray
and brought up to the breakfast-room.
Evelyn sat down without a word, poured herself out some tea, ate every
crumb of toast, finished her egg, and felt refreshed. She had just
concluded her meal when Audrey, accompanied by Arthur Jervice, ran into
the room.
"Oh, I say, Evelyn," cried Audrey, "you are the very person that we
want. We are getting up charades for to-night; will you join us?"
"Yes, do, please," said Arthur. "And we are most anxious that Sylvia
should join too."
"I wish I knew her address," said Audrey. "She is such a mystery! Mother
is rather disturbed about her. I am afraid, Arthur, we cannot have her
to-night; we must manage without.--But will you join us, Evelyn? Do you
know anything about acting?"
"I have never acted, but I have seen plays," said Evelyn. "I am sure I
can manage all right. I'll do my best if you will give me a big part. I
won't take a little part, for it would not be suitable."
Audrey colored and laughed.
"Well, come, anyway, and we will do our best for you," she said. "Have
you finished your breakfast? The rest of us are in my schoolroom. You
have not been introduced to it yet. Come if you are ready; we are all
waiting."
After her miserable morning, Evelyn considered this an agreeable change.
She had intended to go up-stairs to comfort Jasper, but really and truly
Jasper must wait. She accordingly went with her cousin, and was welcomed
by all the children, who pitied her and wanted to make her as much at
home as possible. A couple of charades were discussed, and Evelyn was
thoroughly satisfied with the _rôle_ assigned her. She was a clever
child enough, and had some powers of mimicry. As the different
arrangements were being made she suddenly remembered something, and
uttered a cry.
"Oh dear!" she said--"oh dear! What a pity!"
"What is it now, Evelyn?" asked her cousin.
"Why, your mother is so--I suppose I ought not to say it--your
mother--I---- There! I must not say that either. Your mother----"
"Oh, for goodness' sake speak out!" said Audrey. "What has poor, dear
mother done?"
"She is sending Jasper away; she is--she is. Oh, can I bear it? Don't you
think it is awful of her?"
"I am sorry for you," said Audrey.
"Jasper would be so useful," continued Evelyn. "She is such a splendid
actress; she could help me tremendously. I do wish she could stay even
till to-morrow. Cannot you ask Aunt Frances--cannot you, Audrey? I wish
you would."
"I must not, Evelyn; mother cannot brook interference. She would not
dream of altering her plans just for a play.--Well," she added, looking
round at the rest of her guests, "I think we have arranged everything
now; we must meet here not later than three o'clock for rehearsal. Who
would like to go out?" she added. "The morning is lovely."
The boys and girls picked up hats and cloaks and ran out immediately
into the grounds. Evelyn took the first covering she could find, and
joined the others.
"They ought to consult me more," she said to herself. "I see there is no
help for it; I must live here for a bit and put Audrey down--that at
least is due to me. But when next there are people here I shall be
arranging the charades, and I shall invite them to go out into the
grounds. It is a great bother about Jasper; but there! she must bear it,
poor dear. She will be all right when I tell her that I will get her
back when the Castle belongs to me."
Meanwhile Arthur, remembering his promise to Sylvia, ran away from where
the others were standing. The boy ran fast, hoping to see Sylvia. He had
taken a great fancy to her bright, dark eyes and her vivacious ways.
"She promised to meet me," he said to himself. "She is certain to keep
her word."
By and by he uttered a loud "Hullo!" and a slim young figure, in a
shabby crimson cloak, turned and came towards him.
"Oh, it is you, Arthur!" said Sylvia. "Well, and how are they all?"
"Quite well," replied the boy. "We are going to have charades to-night,
and I am to be the doctor in one. It is rather a difficult part, and I
hope I shall do it right. I never played in a charade before. That
little monkey Evelyn is to be the patient. I do hope she will behave
properly and not spoil everything. She is such an extraordinary child!
And of course she ought to have had quite one of the most unimportant
parts, but she would not hear of it. I wish you were going to play in
the charade, Sylvia."
"I have often played in charades," said Sylvia, with a quick sigh.
"Have you? How strange! You seem to have done everything."
"I have done most things that girls of my age have done."
Arthur looked at her with curiosity. There was--he could not help
noticing it, and he blushed very vividly as he did see--a very roughly
executed patch on the side of her shoe. On the other shoe, too, the toes
were worn white. They were shabby shoes, although the little feet they
encased were neat enough, with high insteps and narrow, tapering toes.
Sylvia knew quite well what was passing in Arthur's mind. After a moment
she spoke.
"You wonder why I look poor," she said. "Sometimes, Arthur, appearances
deceive. I am not poor. It is my pleasure to wear very simple clothes,
and to eat very plain food, and----"
"Not pleasure!" said Arthur. "You don't look as if it were your
pleasure. Why, Sylvia, I do believe you are hungry now!"
Poor Sylvia was groaning inwardly, so keen was her hunger.
"And I am as peckish as I can be," said the boy, a rapid thought
flashing through his mind. "The village is only a quarter of a mile from
here, and I know there are tuck-shops. Why should we not go and have a
lark all by ourselves? Who's to know, and who's to care? Will you come,
Sylvia?"
"No, I cannot," replied Sylvia; "it is impossible. Thank you very much
indeed, Arthur. I am so glad to have seen you! I must go home, however,
in a minute or two. I was out all day yesterday, and there is a great
deal to be done."
"But may I not come with you? Cannot I help you?"
"No, thank you; indeed I could not possibly have you. It is very good of
you to offer, but I cannot have you, and I must not tell you why."
"You do look so sad! Are you sure you cannot join the charades
to-night?"
"Sure--certain," said Sylvia, with a little gasp. "And I am not sad," she
added; "there never was any one more merry. Listen to me now; I am going
to laugh the echoes up."
They were standing where a defile of rocks stretched away to their left.
The stream ran straight between the narrow opening. The girl slightly
changed her position, raised her hand, and called out a clear "Hullo!"
It was echoed back from many points, growing fainter and fainter as it
died away.
"And now you say I am not merry!" she exclaimed. "Listen."
She laughed a ringing laugh. There never was anything more musical than
the way that laughter was taken up, as if there were a thousand sprites
laughing too. Sylvia turned her white face and looked full at Arthur.
"Oh, I am such a merry girl!" she said, "and such a glad one! and such a
thankful one! And I am rich--not poor--but I like simple things. Good-by,
Arthur, for the present."
"I will come and see you again. You are quite wonderful!" he said. "I
wish mother knew you. And I wish my sister Moss were here; I wish she
knew you."
"Moss! What a curious name!" said Sylvia.
"We have always called her that. She is just like moss, so soft and yet
so springy; so comfortable, and yet you dare not take too much liberty
with her. She is fragile, too, and mother had to take great care of her.
I should like you to see her; she would----"
"What would she do?" asked Sylvia.
"She would understand you; she would draw part at least of the trouble
away."
"Oh! don't, Arthur--don't, don't read me like that," said the girl.
The tears just dimmed her eyes. She dashed them away, laughed again
merrily, and the next moment had turned the corner and was lost to view.