Chapter 16 A Very Naughty Girl by L. T. Meade
SYLVIA’S DRIVE
“I have something very delightful to tell you, Sylvia,” said her father.
He was standing in his cold and desolate sitting-room. The fire was burning low in the grate. Sylvia shivered slightly, and bending down, took up a pair of tongs to put some more coals on the expiring fire.
“No, no, my dear – don’t,” said her father. “There is nothing more disagreeable than a person who always needs coddling. The night is quite hot for the time of year. Do you know, Sylvia, that I made during the last week a distinct saving. I allowed you, as I always do, ten shillings for the household expenses. You managed capitally on eight shillings. We really lived like fighting-cocks; and what is nicest of all, my dear daughter, you look the better in consequence.”
Sylvia did not speak.
“I notice, too,” continued Mr. Leeson, a still more satisfied smile playing round his lips, “that you eat less than you did before. Last night I was pleased to observe how truly abstemious you were at supper.”
“Father,” said Sylvia suddenly, “you eat less and less; how can you keep up your strength at this rate? Cannot you see, clever man that you are, that you need food and warmth to keep you alive?”
“It depends absolutely,” replied Mr. Leeson, “on how we accustom ourselves to certain habits. Habits, my dear daughter, are the chains which link us to life, and we forge them ourselves. With good habits we lead good lives. With pernicious habits we sink: the chains of those habits are too thick, too rusty, too heavy; we cannot soar. I am glad to see that you, my dear little girl, are no longer the victim of habits of greediness and desire for unnecessary luxuries.”
“Well, father, dinner is ready now. Won’t you come and eat it?”
“Always harping on food,” said Mr. Leeson. “It is really sad.”
“You must come and eat while the things are hot,” answered Sylvia.
Mr. Leeson followed his daughter. He was, notwithstanding all his words to the contrary, slightly hungry that morning; the intense cold – although he spoke of the heat – made him so. He sat down, therefore, and removed the cover from a dish on which reposed a tiny chop.
“Ah,” he said, “how tempting it looks! We will divide it, dear. I will take the bone; far be it from me to wish to starve you, my sweet child.”
He took up his knife to cut the chop. As he did so Sylvia’s face turned white.
“No, thank you,” she said. “It really so happens that I don’t want it. Please eat it all. And see,” she continued, with a little pride, lifting the cover of a dish which stood in front of her own plate; “I have been teaching myself to cook; you cannot blame me for making the best of my materials. How nice these fried potatoes look! Have some, won’t you, father?”
“You must have used something to fry them in,” said Mr. Leeson, an angry frown on his face. “Well, well,” he added, mollified by the delicious smell, which could not but gratify his hungry feelings – “all right; I will take a few.”
Sylvia piled his plate. She played with a few potatoes herself, and Mr. Leeson ate in satisfied silence.
“Really they are nice,” he said. “I have enjoyed my dinner. I do not know when I made such a luxurious meal. I shall not need any supper to-night.”
“But I shall,” said Sylvia stoutly. “There will be supper at nine o’clock as usual, and I hope you will be present, father.”
“Well, my dear, have something very plain. I am absolutely satisfied for twenty-four hours. And you, darling – did you make a good meal?”
“Yes, thank you, father.”
“There were a great many potatoes cooked. I see they are all finished.”
“Yes, father.”
“I am now going back to my sitting-room. I shall be engaged for some hours. What are you going to do, Sylvia?”
“I shall go out presently for a walk.”
“Is it not rather dangerous for you to wander about in such deep snow?”
“Oh, I like it, father; I enjoy it. I could not possibly stay at home.”
“Very well, my dear child. You are a good girl. But, Sylvia dear, it strikes me that we had better not have any more frying done; it must consume a great quantity of fuel. Now, that chop might have been boiled in a small saucepan, and it really would have been quite as nutritious. And, my dear, there would have been the broth – the liquor, I mean – that it had been boiled in; it would have made an excellent soup with rice in it. I have been lately compiling some recipes for living what is called the unluxurious life. When I have completed my little recipes I will hand them down to posterity. I shall publish them. I quite imagine that they will have a large sale, and may bring me in some trifling returns – eh, Sylvia?”
Sylvia made no answer.
“My dear,” said her father suddenly, “I have noticed of late that you are a little extravagant in the amount of coals you use. It is your only extravagance, my dear child, so I will not say much about it.”
“But, father, I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“There is smoke —smoke issuing from the kitchen chimney at times when there ought to be none,” said Mr. Leeson in a severe voice. “But there, dear, I won’t keep you now. I expect to have a busy afternoon. I am feeling so nicely after our simple little lunch, my dear daughter.”
Mr. Leeson touched Sylvia’s smooth cheek with his lips, went into the sitting-room, and shut the door.
“The fire must be quite out by now,” she said to herself. “Poor, poor father! Oh dear! oh dear! if he discovers that Jasper is here I shall be done for. Now that I know the difference which Jasper’s presence makes, I really could not live without her.”
She listened for a moment, noticed that all was still in the big sitting-room (as likely as not her father had dropped asleep), and then, turning to her left, went quickly away in the direction of the kitchen. When she entered the kitchen she locked the door. There was a clear and almost smokeless fire in the range, and drawn up close to it was a table covered with a white cloth; on the table were preparations for a meal.
“Well, Sylvia,” said Jasper, “and how did he enjoy his chop? How much of it did he give to you, my dear?”
“Oh, none at all, Jasper. I pretended I was not hungry. It was such a pleasure to see him eat it!”
“And what about the fried potatoes, love?”
“He ate them too with such an appetite – I just took a few to satisfy him. Do you know, Jasper, he says that he thinks an abstemious life agrees with me. He says that I am looking very well, and that he is quite sure no one needs big fires and plenty of food in cold weather – it is simply and entirely a matter of habit.”
“Oh! don’t talk to me of him any more,” said Jasper. “He is the sort of man to give me the dismals. I cannot tell you how often I dream of him at night. You are a great deal too good to him, Sylvia, and that is the truth. But here – here is our dinner, you poor frozen lamb. Eat now and satisfy yourself.”
Sylvia sat down and ate with considerable appetite the good and nourishing food which Jasper had provided. As she did so her bright, clear, dark eyes grew brighter than ever, and her young cheeks became full of the lovely color of the damask rose. She pushed her hair from her forehead, and looked thoughtfully into the fire.
“You feel better, dear, don’t you?” asked Jasper.
“Better!” said the young girl. “I feel alive. I wonder, Jasper, how long it will last.”
“Why should it not go on for some time, dear? I have money – enough, that is, for the present.”
“But you are spending your money on me.”
“Not at all. You are keeping me and feeding me. I give you twenty shillings a week, and out of that you feed me as well as yourself.”
“Oh, that twenty shillings!” cried Sylvia. “What riches it seems! The first week I got it I really felt that I should never, never be able to come to the end of it. I quite trembled when I was in father’s presence. I dreaded that he might see the money lying in my pocket. It seemed impossible that he, who loves money so much, would not notice it; but he did not, and now I am almost accustomed to it. Oh Jasper, you have saved my life!”
“It is well to have lived for some good purpose,” said Jasper in a guarded tone. She looked at the young girl, and a quick sigh came to her lips.
“Do you know,” she said abruptly, “that I mean to do more than feed you and warm you?”
“But what more could you do?”
“Why, clothe you, love – clothe you.”
“No, Jasper; you must not.”
“But I must and will,” said Jasper. “I have smuggled in all my belongings, and the dear old gentleman does not know a single bit about it. Bless you! notwithstanding that Pilot of his, and the way he himself sneaks about and watches – notwithstanding all these things, I, Amelia Jasper, am a match for him. Yes, my dear, my belongings are in this house, and one of the trunks contains little Evelyn’s clothes – the clothes she is not allowed to wear. I mean to alter them, and add to them, and rearrange them, and make them fit for you, my bonny girl.”
“It is a temptation,” said Sylvia; “but, Jasper dear, I dare not allow you to do it. If I were to appear in anything but the very plainest clothes father would discover there was something up; he would get into a state of terror, and my life would not be worth living. When mother was alive she sometimes tried to dress me as I ought to be dressed, and I remember now a terrible scene and mother’s tears. There was an occasion when mother gave me a little crimson velvet frock, and I ran into the dining-room to father. I was quite small then, and the frock suited me, and mother was, oh, so proud! But half an hour later I was in my room, drowned in tears, and ordered to bed immediately, and the frock had been torn off my back by father himself.”
“The man is a maniac,” said Jasper. “Don’t let us talk of him. You can dress fine when you are with me. I mean to have a gay time; I don’t mean to let the grass grow under my feet. What do you say to my smuggling in little Eve some day and letting her have a right jolly time with us two in this old kitchen?”
“But father will certainly, certainly discover it.”
“No; I can manage that. The kitchen is far away from the rest of the house, and with this new sort of coal there is scarcely any smoke. At night – at any rate on dark nights – he cannot see even if there is smoke; and in the daytime I burn this special coal. Oh, we are safe enough, my dear; you need have no fear.”
Sylvia talked a little longer with Jasper, and then she ran to her own room to put on her very threadbare garments preparatory to going out. Yes, she certainly felt much, much better. The air was keen and crisp; she was no longer hungry – that gnawing pain in her side had absolutely ceased; she was warm, too, and she longed for exercise. A moment or two later, accompanied by Pilot, she was racing along the snow-covered roads. The splendid color in her cheeks could not but draw the attention of any chance passer-by.
“What a handsome – what a very handsome girl!” more than one person said; and it so happened that as Sylvia was flying round a corner, her great mastiff gamboling in front of her, she came face to face with Lady Frances, who was driving to make some calls in the neighborhood.
Lady Frances Wynford was never proof against a pretty face, and she had seldom seen a more lovely vision than those dark eyes and glowing cheeks presented at that moment. She desired her coachman to stop, and bending forward, greeted Sylvia in quite an affectionate way.
“How do you do, Miss Leeson?” she said. “You never came to see me after I invited you to do so. I meant to call on your mother, but you did not greet my proposal with enthusiasm. How is she, by the way?”
“Mother is dead,” replied Sylvia in a low tone. The rich color faded slowly from her cheeks, but she would not cry. She looked full up at Lady Frances.
“Poor child!” said that lady kindly; “you must miss her. How old are you, Miss Leeson?”
“I am just sixteen,” was the reply.
“Would you like to come for a drive with me?”
“May I?” said the girl in an almost incredulous voice.
“You certainly may; I should like to have you. – Johnson, get down and open the carriage door for Miss Leeson. – But, oh, my dear, what is to be done with the dog?”
“Pilot will go home if I speak to him,” said Sylvia. – “Come here, Pilot.”
The mastiff strode slowly up.
“Go home, dear,” said Sylvia. “Go, and knock as you know how at the gates, and father will let you in. Be quick, dear dog; go at once.”
Pilot put on a shrewd and wonderfully knowing expression, cocked one ear a little, wagged his tail a trifle, glanced at Lady Frances, seemed on the whole to approve of her, and then turning on his heel, trotted off in the direction of The Priory.
“What a wonderfully intelligent dog, and how you have trained him!” said Lady Frances.
“Yes; he is almost human,” replied Sylvia. “How nice this is!” she continued as the carriage began to roll smoothly away. She leant back against her comfortable cushions.
“But you will soon be cold, my dear, in that very thin jacket,” said Lady Frances. “Let me wrap this warm fur cloak round you. Oh, yes, I insist; it would never do for you to catch cold while driving with me.”
Sylvia submitted to the warm and comforting touch of the fur, and the smile on her young face grew brighter than ever.
“And now you must tell me all about yourself,” said Lady Frances. “Do you know, I am quite curious about you – a girl like you living such a strange and lonely life!”
“Lady Frances,” said Sylvia.
“Yes my dear; what?”
“I am going to say something which may not be quite polite, but I am obliged to say it. I cannot answer any of your questions; I cannot tell you anything about myself.”
“Really?”
“Not because I mean to be rude, for in many ways I should like to confide in you; but it would not be honorable. Do you understand?”
“I certainly understand what honor means,” said Lady Frances; “but whether a child like you is acting wisely in keeping up an unnecessary mystery is more than I can tell.”
“I would much rather tell you everything about myself than keep silence, but I cannot speak,” said Sylvia simply.
Lady Frances looked at her in some wonder.
“She is a lady when all is said and done,” she said to herself. “As to poverty, I do not know that I ever saw any one so badly dressed; the child has not sufficient clothing to keep her warm. When last I saw her she was painfully thin, too; she has more color in her cheeks now, and more flesh on her poor young bones, so perhaps whoever she lives with is taking better care of her. I am curious, and I will not pretend to deny it, but of course I can question the child no further.”
No one could make herself more agreeable than Lady Frances Wynford when she chose. She chatted now on many matters, and Sylvia soon felt perfectly at home.
“Why, the child, young as she is, knows some of the ways of society,” thought the great lady. “I only wish that that miserable little Evelyn was half as refined and nice as this poor, neglected girl.”
Presently the drive came to an end. Sylvia had not enjoyed herself so much for many a day.
“Now, listen, Sylvia,” said Lady Frances: “I am a very plain-spoken woman; when I say a thing I mean it, and when I think a thing, as a rule, I say it. I like you. That I am curious about you, and very much inclined to wonder who you are and what you are doing in this place, goes without saying; but of course I do not want to pry into what you do not wish to tell me. Your secret is your own, my dear, and not my affair; but, at the same time, I should like to befriend you. Can you come to the Castle sometimes? When you do come it will be as a welcome guest.”
“I do not know how I can come,” replied Sylvia. She colored, looked down, and her face turned rather white. “I have not a proper dress,” she added. “Oh, not that I am poor, but – ”
Lady Frances looked puzzled. She longed to say, “I will give you the dress you need,” but there was something about Sylvia’s face which forbade her.
“Well,” she said, “if you can manage the dress will you come? This, let me see, is Thursday. The girls are to have a whole holiday on Saturday. Will you spend Saturday with us? Now you must say yes; I will take no refusal.”
Sylvia’s heart gave a bound of pleasure.
“Is it right; is it wrong?” she said to herself. “But I cannot help it,” was her next thought; “I must have my fun – I must. I do like Audrey so much! And I like Evelyn too – not, of course, like Audrey; but I like them both.”
“You will come, dear?” said Lady Frances. “We shall be very pleased to see you. By the way, your address is – ”
“The Priory,” said Sylvia hastily. “Oh, please, Lady Frances, don’t send any message there! If you do I shall not be allowed to come to you. Yes, I will come – perhaps never again, but I will come on Saturday. It is a great pleasure; I do not feel able to refuse.”
“That is right. Then I shall expect you.”
Lady Frances nodded to the young girl, told the coachman to drive home, and the next moment had turned the corner and was lost to view.
“What fun this is!” said Sylvia to herself. “I wish Pilot were here. I should like to have a race with him over the snow. Oh, how beautiful is the world when all is said and done! Now, if only I had a proper dress to go to the Castle in!”
She ran home. Her father was standing on the steps of the house. His face looked pinched, blue, and cold; the nourishment of the chop and the fried potatoes had evidently passed away.
“Why, father, you want your tea!” said the girl. “How sorry I am I was not in sooner to get it for you!”
“Tea, tea!” he said irritably. “Always the same cry – food, nothing but food; the world is becoming impossible. My dear Sylvia, I told you that I should not want to eat again to-day. The fact is, you overfed me at lunch, and I am suffering from a sort of indigestion – I am really. There is nothing better for indigestion than hot water; I have been drinking it sparingly during the afternoon. But where have you been, dear, and why did you send Pilot home? The dog made such a noise at the gate that I went myself to find out what was the matter.”
“I did not want Pilot, so I sent him home,” was Sylvia’s low reply.
“But why so?”
She was silent for a moment; then she looked up into her father’s face.
“We agreed, did we not,” she said, “that we both were to go our own way. You must not question me too closely. I have done nothing wrong – nothing; I am always faithful to you and to my mother’s memory. You must not expect me to tell you everything, father, for you know you do not tell me everything.”
“Silly child!” he answered. “But there, Sylvia, I do trust you. And, my dear little girl, know this, that you are the great – the very greatest – comfort of my life. I will come in; it is somewhat chilly this evening.”
Sylvia rushed before her father into his sitting-room, dashed up to the fire, flung on some bits of wood and what scraps of coal were left in the coal-hod, thrust in a torn newspaper, set a match to the fire she had hastily laid, and before Mr. Leeson strolled languidly into the room, a cheerful fire was crackling and blazing up the chimney.
“How extravagant – ” he began, but when he saw Sylvia’s pretty face as she knelt on the hearth the words were arrested on his lips.
“The child is very like her mother, and her mother was the most beautiful woman on earth when I married her,” he thought. “Poor little Sylvia! I wonder will she have a happier fate!”
He sat down by the fire. The girl knelt by him, took his cold hands, and rubbed them softly. Her heart was full; there were tears in her eyes.