When Jasper was conveyed from Wynford Castle she drove to the "Green
Man" in the village. There she asked the landlady if she could give her
a small bedroom for the night. The landlady, a certain Mrs. Simpson, was
quite willing to oblige Miss Jasper. She was accommodated with a
bedroom, and having seen her boxes deposited there, wandered about the
village. She took the bearings of the place, which was small and
unimportant, and altogether devoted to the interests of the great folks
at Castle Wynford. Wynford village lived, indeed, for the Castle;
without the big house, as they called it, the villagers would have
little or no existence. The village received its patronage from the
Squire and his family. Every house in the village belonged to Squire
Wynford. The inhabitants regarded him as if he were their feudal lord.
He was kindly to all, sympathetic in sorrow, ready to rejoice when
bright moments visited each or any of his tenants. Lady Frances was an
admirable almoner of the different charities which came from the great
house. There was not a poor woman in the length and breadth of Wynford
village who was not perfectly well aware that her ladyship knew all
about her, even to her little sins and her small transgressions; all
about her struggles as well as her falls, her temptations as well as her
moments of victory. Lady Frances was loved and feared; the Squire was
loved and respected; Audrey was loved in the sort of passionate way in
which people will regard the girl who always has been to them more or
less a little princess. Therefore now, as Jasper walked slowly through
the village with the fading light falling all over her, she knew she was
a person of interest. Beyond doubt that was the case; but although the
villagers were interested in her, and peeped outside their houses to
watch her (even the grocer, who did a roaring trade, and took the tenor
solo on Sunday in the church choir, peered round his doorstep with the
others), she knew that she was favored with no admiring looks, and that
the villagers one and all were prepared to fight her. That was indeed
the case, for secrets are no secrets where a great family are concerned,
and the villagers knew that Jasper had come over from the other side of
the world with the real heiress.
"A dowdy, ill-favored girl," they said one to the other; "but
nevertheless, when the Squire--bless him!--is gathered to his fathers, she
will reign in his stead, and sweet, darling, beautiful Miss Audrey will
be nowhere."
They said this, repeating the disagreeable news one to the other, and
vowing each and all that they would never care for the Australian girl,
and never give her a welcome.
As Jasper slowly walked she was conscious of the feeling of hostility
which surrounded her.
"It won't do," she said to herself. "I meant to take up my abode at the
'Green Man,' and I meant that no one in the place should turn me out,
but I do not believe I shall be able to continue there; and yet, to go
far away from my sweet little Eve is not to be thought of. I have money
of my own. Her mother was a wise woman when she said to me, 'Jasper, the
time may come when you will need it; and although it belongs to Eve, you
must spend it as you think best in her service.'
"It ain't much," thought Jasper to herself, "but it is sixty pounds, and
I have it in gold sovereigns, scattered here and there in my big black
trunk, and I mean to spend it in watching over the dear angel lamb. Mrs.
Simpson of the 'Green Man' would be the better of it, but she sha'n't
have much of it--of that I am resolved."
So Jasper presently left the village and began strolling in the
direction where the river Earn flows between dark rocks until it loses
itself in a narrow stream among the peaceful hills. In that direction
lay The Priory, with its thick yew hedge and its shut-in appearance.
As Jasper continued her walk she knew nothing of the near neighborhood
of The Priory, and no one in all the world was farther from her thoughts
than the pretty, tall slip of a girl who lived there.
Now, it so happened that Sylvia was taking her walks abroad also in the
hour of dusk. It was one of her peculiarities never to spend an hour
that she could help indoors. She had to sleep indoors, and she had to
take what food she could manage to secure also under the roof which she
so hated; but, come rain or shine, storm or calm, every scrap of the
rest of her time was spent wandering about. To the amount of fresh air
which she breathed she owed her health and a good deal of her beauty.
She was out now as usual, her big mastiff, Pilot, bearing her company.
She was never afraid where she wandered with this protection, for Pilot
was a dog of sagacity, and would soon make matters too hot for any one
who meant harm to his young mistress.
Sylvia walked slowly. She was thinking hard. "What a delightful time she
was having twenty-four hours ago! What a good dinner she was about to
eat! How pleasant it was to wear Audrey's pretty dress! How delightful
to dance in the hall and talk to Arthur Jervice! She wondered what his
sister with the curious name was like. How beautiful his face looked
when he spoke of her!
"She must be lovely too," thought Sylvia. "And so restful! There is
nothing so cool and comfortable and peaceful as a mossy bank. I suppose
she is called Moss because she comforts people."
Sylvia hurried a little. Presently she stood and looked around her to be
sure that no one was by. She then deliberately tightened her belt.
"It makes me feel the pangs less," she thought. "Oh dear, how
delightful, how happy those must be who are never, never hungry!
Sometimes I can scarcely bear it; I almost feel that I could steal
something to have a big, big meal. What a lot I ate last night, and how
I longed to pocket even that great hunch of bread which was placed near
my plate! But I did not dare. I thought my big meal would keep off my
hunger to-day, but I believe it has made it worse than ever. I must have
a straight talk with father to-night. I must tell him plainly that,
however coarse the food, I must at least have enough of it. Oh dear, I
ache--I _ache_ for a good meal!"
The poor girl stood still. Footsteps were heard approaching. They were
now close by. Pilot pricked up his ears and listened. A moment later
Jasper appeared on the scene.
When she saw Sylvia she stopped, dropped a little courtesy, and said in
a semi-familiar tone:
"And how are you this evening, Miss Leeson?"
Sylvia had not seen her as she approached. The girl started now and
turned quickly round.
"You are Jasper?" she said. "What are you doing here?"
"Taking the air, miss. Have you any objection?"
"None, of course," replied Sylvia.
Had there been light enough to see, Jasper would have noticed that the
girl's face took on a cheerful expression. She laid her hand on Pilot's
forehead. Pilot growled. Sylvia said to him:
"Be quiet; this is a friend."
Pilot evidently understood the words. He wagged his bushy tail and
looked in Jasper's direction. Jasper came boldly up and laid her hand
beside Sylvia's on the dog's forehead. The tail wagged more
demonstratively.
"You have won him," said Sylvia in a tone of delight. "Do you know, I am
glad, although I cannot tell why I should be."
"He looks as if he could be very formidable," said Jasper.--"Ah, good
dog--good dog! Noble creature! So I am your friend? Good dog!"
"But it must be rather unpleasant for visitors to come to call on you,
Miss Sylvia, with such a dog as that loose about the place. Now, I, for
instance----"
"If you had a message from Evelyn for me," said Sylvia, "you could call
now with impunity. Strangers cannot; that is why father keeps Pilot. He
is trained never to touch any one, but he is also trained to keep every
one out. He does that in the best manner possible. He stands right in
the person's path and shows his big fangs and growls. Nobody would dream
of going past him; but you would be safe."
Jasper stood silent.
"It may be useful," she repeated.
"You have not come now with a message from Evelyn?" said Sylvia, a
pathetic tone in her voice.
"No, miss, I have not; but do you know, miss--do you know what has
happened to me?"
"How should I?" replied Sylvia.
"I am turned out, miss--turned out by her ladyship--I who had a letter
from Mrs. Wynford in Tasmania asking her ladyship to keep me always as
my little Evelyn's friend and nurse and guardian. Yes, Miss Sylvia, I am
turned away as though I were dirt. I am turned away, miss, although it
was only yesterday that her ladyship got the letter which the dying
mother wrote. It is hard, is it not, Miss Leeson? It is cruel, is it
not?"
"Hard and cruel!" echoed Sylvia. "It is worse. It is a horrible sin. I
wonder you stand it!"
"Now, miss, for such a pretty young lady I wonder you have not more
sense. Do you think I'd go if I could help it?"
"What does Evelyn say?" asked Sylvia, intensely excited.
"What does she say? Nothing. She is stunned, I take it; but she will
wake up and know what it means. No chocolate, and no one to sleep in the
little white bed by her side."
"Oh, how she must enjoy her chocolate!" said poor Sylvia, a sigh of
longing in her voice.
"I am grand at making it," said Jasper. "I have spent my life in many
out-of-the-way places. It was in Madrid I learnt to make chocolate; no
one can excel me with it. I'd like well to make a cup for you."
"And I'd like to drink it," said Sylvia.
"As well as I can see you in this light," continued Jasper, "you look as
if a cup of my chocolate would do you good. Chocolate made all of milk,
with plenty of bread and butter, is a meal which no one need despise. I
say, miss, shall we go back to the "Green Man," and shall you and me
have a bit of supper together? You would not be too proud to take it
with me although I am only my young lady's maid?"
"I wish I could," said Sylvia. There was a wild desire in her heart, a
sort of passion of hunger. "But," she continued, "I cannot; I must go
home now."
"Is your home near, miss?"
"Oh yes; it is just at the other side of that wall. But please do not
talk of it--father hates people knowing. He likes us to live quite
solitary."
"And it is a big house. Yes, I can see that," continued Jasper, peering
through the trees.
Just then a young crescent moon showed its face, a bank of clouds swept
away to the left, and Jasper could distinctly see the square outline of
an ugly house. She saw something else also--the very white face of the
hungry Sylvia, the look which was almost starvation in her eyes. Jasper
was clever; she might not be highly educated in the ordinary sense, but
she had been taught to use her brains, and she had excellent brains to
use. Now, as she looked at the girl, an idea flashed through her mind.
"For some extraordinary reason that child is downright hungry," she said
to herself. "Now, nothing would suit my purpose better."
She came close to Sylvia and laid her hand on her arm.
"I have taken a great fancy to you, miss," she said.
"Have you?" answered Sylvia.
"Yes, miss; and I am very lonely, and I don't mean to stay far away from
my dear young lady."
"Are you going to live in the village?" asked Sylvia.
"I have a room now at the 'Green Man,' Miss Leeson, but I don't mean to
stay there; I don't care for the landlady. And I don't want to be, so to
speak, under her ladyship's nose. Her ladyship has took a mortal hatred
to me, and as the village, so to speak, belongs to the Castle, if the
Castle was to inform the 'Green Man' that my absence was more to be
desired than my company, why, out I'd have to go. You can understand
that, can you not, miss?"
"Yes--of course."
"And it is the way with all the houses round here," continued Jasper;
"they are all under the thumb of the Castle--under the thumb of her
ladyship--and I cannot possibly stay near my dear young lady unless----"
"Unless?" questioned Sylvia.
"You was to give me shelter, miss, in your house."
Sylvia backed away, absolute terror creeping over her face.
"Oh! I could not," she said. "You do not know what you are asking. We
never have any one at The Priory. I could not possibly do it."
"I'd pay you a pound a week," said Jasper, throwing down her trump
card--"a pound a week," she continued--"twenty whole shillings put in the
palm of that pretty little hand of yours, paid regularly in advance; and
you might have me in a big house like that without anybody knowing. I
heard you speak of the gentleman, your father; he need never know. Is
there not a room at The Priory which no one goes into, and could not I
sleep there? And you'd have money, miss--twenty shillings; and I'd feed
you up with chocolate, miss, and bread and butter, and--oh! lots of other
things. I have not been on a ranch in Tasmania for nothing. You could
hide me at The Priory, and you could keep me acquainted with all that
happened to my little Eve, and I'd pay for it, miss, and not a soul on
earth would be the wiser."
"Oh, don't!" said Sylvia--"don't!" She covered her face with her hands;
she shook all over. "Don't tempt me!" she said. "Go away; do go away! Of
course I cannot have you. To deceive him--to shock him--why----Oh, I dare
not--I dare not! It would not be safe. There are times when he is
scarcely--yes, scarcely himself; and I must not try him too far. Oh, what
have I said?"
"Nothing, my dear--nothing. You are a bit overcome. And now, shall I tell
you why?"
"No, don't tell me anything more. Go; do go--do go!"
"I will go," said Jasper, "after I have spoken. You are trembling, and
you are cold, and you are frightened--you who ought never to tremble; you
who under ordinary circumstances ought to know no fear; you who are
beautiful--yes, beautiful! But you tremble because that poor young body
of yours needs food and warmth--poor child!--I know."
"Go!" said Sylvia. They were her only words.
"I will go," answered Jasper after a pause; "but I will come again to
this same spot to-morrow night, and then you can answer me. Her ladyship
cannot turn me out between now and to-morrow night, and I will come then
for my answer."
She turned and left Sylvia and went straight back to the village.
Sylvia stood still for a minute after she had gone. She then turned very
slowly and re-entered The Priory grounds. A moment later she was in the
ugly, ill-furnished house. The hall into which she had admitted herself
was perfectly dark. There were no carpets on the floor, and the wind
whistled through the ill-fitting casements. The young girl fumbled about
until she found a box of matches. She struck one and lit a candle which
stood in a brass candlestick on a shelf. She then drearily mounted the
uncarpeted stairs. She went to her own room, and opening a box, looked
quickly and furtively around her. The box contained some crusts of bread
and a few dried figs. Sylvia counted the crusts with fingers that shook.
There were five. The crusts were not large, and they were dry.
"I will eat one to-night," she said to herself, "and--yes, two of the
figs. I will not eat anything now. I wish Jasper had not tempted me.
Twenty shillings, and paid in advance; and father need never know! Lots
of room in the house! Yes; I know the one she could have, and I could
make it comfortable; and father never goes there--never. It is away
beyond the kitchen. I could make it very comfortable. She should have a
fire, and we could have our chocolate there. We must never, never have
any cooking that smells; we must never have anything fried; we must just
have plain things. Oh! I dare not think any more. Mother once said to
me, 'If your father ever, ever finds out, Sylvia, that you have deceived
him, all, all will be up.' I won't yield to temptation; it would be an
awful act of deceit. I cannot--I will not do it! If he will only give me
enough I will resist Jasper; but it is hard on a girl to be so
frightfully hungry."
She sighed, pulled herself together, walked to the window, and looked up
at the watery moon.
"My own mother," she whispered, "can you see me, and are you sorry for
me, and are you helping me?"
Then she washed her hands, combed out her pretty, curly black hair, and
ran down-stairs. When she got half-way down she burst into a cheerful
song, and as she bounded into a room where a man sat crouching over a
few embers on the hearth her voice rose to positive gaiety.
"Where have you been all this time?" said the querulous tones.
"Learning a new song for you, dad. Come now; supper is ready."
"Supper!" said the man. He rose, and turned and faced his daughter.
He was a very thin man, with hair which must once have been as black as
Sylvia's own; his eyes, dark as the young girl's, were sunk so far back
in his head that they gleamed like half-burnt-out coals; his cheeks were
very hollow, and he gave a pathetic laugh as he turned and faced the
girl.
"I have been making a calculation," he said, "and it is my firm
impression that we are spending a great deal more than is necessary.
There are further reductions which it is quite possible to make. But
come, child--come. How fat and well and strong you look, and how hearty
your voice is! You are a merry creature, Sylvia, and the joy of my life.
Were it not for you I should never hold out. And you are so good at
pinching and contriving, dear! But there, I give you too many luxuries
don't I, my little one? I spoil you, don't I? What did you say was
ready?"
"Supper, father--supper."
"Supper!" said Mr. Leeson. "Why, it seems only a moment ago that we
dined."
"It is six hours ago, father."
"Now, Sylvia, if there is one thing I dislike more than another, it is
that habit of yours of counting the hours between your meals. It is a
distinct trace of greediness and of the lower nature. Ah, my child, when
will you live high above your mere bodily desires? Supper, you say? I
shall not be able to eat a morsel, but I will go with you, dear, if you
like. Come, lead the way, my singing-bird; lead the way."
Sylvia took a candle and lighted it. She then went on in front of her
father. They traversed a long and dark passage, and presently she threw
open the door of as melancholy and desolate a room as could be found
anywhere in England.
The paper on the wall was scarcely perceptible, so worn was it by the
long passage of time. The floor was bare of any carpet; there was a deal
table at one end of the room; on the table a small white cloth had been
placed. A piece of bread was on a wooden platter on this table. There
was also a jug of water and a couple of baked potatoes. Sylvia had put
these potatoes into the oven before she went out, otherwise there would
not have been anything hot at all for the meager repast. The grate was
destitute of any fire; and although there were blinds to the windows,
there were no curtains. The night was a bitterly cold one, and the girl,
insufficiently clothed as well as unfed, shivered as she went into the
room.
"What a palatial room this is!" said Mr. Leeson. "I really often think I
did wrong to come to this house. I have not the slightest doubt that my
neighbors imagine that I am a man of means. It is extremely wrong to
encourage that impression, and I trust, Sylvia, that you never by word
or action do so. A lady you are, my dear, and a lady you will look
whatever you wear; but that beautiful simplicity which rises above mere
dress and mere food is what I should like to inculcate in your nature,
my sweet child. Ah! potatoes--and hot! My dear Sylvia, was this
necessary?"
"There are only two, father--one for you and one for me."
"Well, well! I suppose the young must have their dainties as long as the
world lasts," said Mr. Leeson. "Sit down, my dear, and eat. I will stand
and watch you."
"Won't you eat anything, father?" said the girl. A curious expression
filled her dark eyes. She longed for him to eat, and yet she could not
help thinking how supporting and soothing and satisfying both those
potatoes would be, and all that hunch of dry bread.
Mr. Leeson paused before replying:
"It would be impossible for you to eat more than one potato, and it
would be a sin that the other should be wasted. I may as well have it."
He dropped into a chair. "Not that I am the least hungry," he added as
he took the largest potato and put it on his plate. "Still, anything is
preferable to waste. What a pity it is that no one has discovered a use
for the skins, for these as a rule have absolutely to be wasted! When I
have gone through some abstruse calculations over which I am at present
engaged, I shall turn my attention to the matter. Quantities of
nourishing food are doubtless wasted every year by the manner in which
potato-skins are thrown away. Ah! and this bread, Sylvia--how long has it
been in the house?"
"I got it exactly a week ago," said Sylvia. "It is quite the ordinary
kind."
"It is too fresh, my dear. In future we must not eat new bread."
"It is a week old, father."
"Don't take me up in that captious way. I say we must not eat new bread.
It was only to-day I came across a book which said that bread when
turning slightly--very slightly--moldy satisfies the appetite far more
readily than new bread. Then you will see for yourself, Sylvia, that a
loaf of such bread may be made to go nearly as far as two loaves of the
ordinary kind. You follow me, do you not, singing-bird?"
"Yes, father--yes. But may I eat my potato now while it is hot?"
"How the young do crave for unnecessary indulgences!" said Mr. Leeson;
but he broke his own potato in half, and Sylvia seized the opportunity
to demolish hers.
Alack and alas! when it was finished, every scrap of it, scarcely any
even of the skin being left, she felt almost more hungry than ever. She
stretched out her hand for the bread. Mr. Leeson raised his eyes as she
did so and gave her a reproachful glance.
"You will be ill," he said. "You will suffer from a bilious attack. Take
it--take it if you want it; I am the last to interfere with your natural
appetite."
Sylvia ate; she ate although her father's displeased eyes were fixed on
her face. She helped herself twice to the stale and untempting loaf.
Delicious it tasted. She could even have demolished every scrap of it
and still have felt half-wild with hunger. But she was eating it now to
give herself courage, for she had made up her mind--speak she must.
The meal came to an end. Mr. Leeson had finished his potato; Sylvia had
very nearly consumed the bread.
"There will be a very small breakfast to-morrow," he said in a mournful
tone; "but you, Sylvia, after your enormous supper, will scarcely
require a large one."
Sylvia made no answer. She took her father's hand and walked back with
him through the passage. The fire was out now in the sitting-room;
Sylvia brought her father's greatcoat.
"Put it on," she said. "I want to sit close to you, and I want to talk."
He smiled at her and wrapped himself obediently in his coat. It was
lined with fur, a relic of bygone and happier days. Sylvia turned the
big fur collar up round his ears; then she drew herself close to him.
She seated herself on his lap.
"Put your arm round me; I am cold," she said.
"Cold, my dear little girl!" he said. "Why, so you are! How very
strange! It is doubtless from overeating."
"No, father."
"Why that 'No, father'? What a curious expression is in your voice,
Sylvia, my dear! Since your mother's death you have been my one comfort.
Heart and soul you have gone with me through the painful life which I am
obliged to lead. I know that I am doing the right thing. I am no longer
lavishly wasting that which has been entrusted to me, but am, on the
contrary, saving for the day of need. My dear girl, you and I have
planned our life of retrenchment. How much does our food cost us for a
week?"
"Very, very little, father. Too little."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Father, forgive me; I must speak."
"What is wrong?"
Mr. Leeson pushed his daughter away. His eyes, which had been full of
kindness, grew sharp and became slightly narrowed; a watchful expression
came into his face.
"Beware, Sylvia, how you agitate me; you know the consequences."
"Since mother died," answered the girl, "I have never agitated you; I
have always tried to do exactly as you wished."
"On the whole you have been a good girl; your one and only fault has
been your greediness. Last night, it is true, you displeased me very
deeply, but on your promise never to transgress so again I have forgiven
you."
"Father," said Sylvia in a tremulous tone, "I must speak, and now. You
must not be angry, father; but you say that we spend too much on
housekeeping. We do not; we spend too little."
"Sylvia!"
"Yes; I am not going to be afraid," continued the girl. "You were
displeased with me to-night--yes, I know you were--because I nearly
finished the bread. I finished it because--because I was hungry; yes,
hungry. And, father, I do not mind how stale the bread is, nor how poor
the food, but I must--I must have enough. You do not give me enough. No,
you do not. I cannot bear the pain. I cannot bear the neuralgia. I
cannot bear the cold of this house. I want warmth, and I want food, and
I want clothes that will keep the chill away. That is all--just physical
things. I do not ask for fun, nor for companions of my own age, nor for
anything of that sort, but I do ask you, father, not to oblige me to
lead this miserable, starved life in the future."
Sylvia paused; her courage, after all, was short-lived. The look on her
father's face arrested her words. He wore a stony look. His face, which
had been fairly animated, had lost almost all expression. The pupils of
his eyes were narrowed to a pin's point. Those eyes fixed themselves on
the girl's face as though they were gimlets, as though they meant to
pierce right into her very soul. Alarm now took the place of beseeching.
"Never mind," she said--"never mind; it was just your wild little
rebellious Sylvia. Don't look at me like that. Don't--don't! Oh, I will
bear it--I will bear it! Don't look at me like that!"
"Go to your room," was his answer, "at once. Go to your room."
She was a spirited girl, but she crept out of the room as though some
one had beaten her.