Chapter 26 A Very Naughty Girl by L. T. Meade
TANGLES
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 herself looking 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’s Sesame 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 of Sesame 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 your father; 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 could not 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 are you doing 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 had been 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 —why did 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 naughty girl 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.”