University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE STRANGE VISITOR IN THE BACK BEDROOM.

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 held that 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 was evident 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 over-excited 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 room adjoining 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 foregone, 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 retain you 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 some-thing 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 and her 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-bye," 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 few things 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 deal to 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 downstairs. 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 upstairs."

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!

"What a fool I am!" thought Evelyn. "Why should I not snake a rope and descend in that way? Aunt Frances has locked me in, but she does not

know how daring is the nature of Evelyn Wynford. I inherit it from my darling mothery; I will not allow myself to be defeated."

Her courage and her spirits revived when she thought of the rope. She must wait, however, at least until half-past seven. The great gong sounded once more. Evelyn rushed to her door, and heard the rustle of the silken dresses of the ladies as they descended. She had her eye at the keyhole, and fancied that she detected the hated form of her aunt robed in ruby velvet. A slim young figure in white also softly descended.

"My cousin Audrey," thought the girl. "Oh dear! oh dear! and they leave me here, locked up like a rat in a trap. They leave me here, and I am out of everything. Oh, I cannot, will not stand it!"

She ran to her bed, tore off the sheets, took a pair of scissors, and cut them into strips. She had all the ways and quick knowledge of a girl from the wilds. She knew how to make a knot which would hold. Soon her rope was ready. It was quite strong enough to bear her light weight. She fastened it to a heavy article of furniture just inside the French windows of her sitting-room, and then dropping her little bag to the ground below, she herself swiftly descended.

"Free! free!" she murmured. "Free in spite of her! She will see how I have gone. Oh, won't she rage? What fun! It is almost worth the misery of the last half-hour to have escaped as I have done."

There was no one now to watch the little culprit as she stole across the grass. She ran up to the stile where Jasper was still waiting for her.

"My darling," said Jasper, "how late you are! I was just going back; I had given you up."

"Kiss me, Jasper," said Evelyn. "Hug me and

love me and carry me a bit of the way in your strong arms; and, oh! be quick — be very quick — for we must hide, you and I, where no one can ever, ever find us. Oh Jasper, Jasper, I have had such a time!"

It was not Jasper's way to say much in moments of emergency. She took Evelyn up, wrapped her warm fur cloak well round the little girl, and proceeded as quickly as she could in the direction of The Priory. Evelyn laid her head on her faithful nurse's shoulder, and a ray of warmth and comfort visited her miserable little soul.

"Oh, I am lost but for you!" she murmured once or twice. "How I hate England! How I hate Aunt Frances! How I hate the horrid, horrid school, and even Audrey! But I love you, darling, darling Jasper, and I am happy once more."

"You are not lost with me, my little white Eve," said Jasper. "You are safe with me; and I tell you what it is, my sweet, you and I will part no more."

"We never, never will," said the little girl with fervor; and she clasped Jasper still more tightly round the neck.

But notwithstanding all Jasper's love and goodwill, the little figure began to grow heavy, and the way seemed twice as long as usual; and when Evelyn begged and implored of her nurse to hurry, hurry, hurry, poor Jasper's heart began to beat in great thumps, and finally she paused, and said with panting breath:

"I must drop you to the ground, my dearie, and you must run beside me, for I have lost my breath, pet, and I cannot carry you any farther."

"Oh, how selfish I am!" said Evelyn at once. "Yes, of course I will run, Jasper, I can walk quite well now. I have got over my first fright. The great thing of all is to hurry. And you are certain,

certain sure they will not look for me at The Priory?"

"Well, now, darling, how could they? Nobody but Sylvia knows that I live at The Priory, and why should they think that you had gone there? No; it is the police they will question, and the village they will go to, and the railway maybe. But it is fun to think of the fine chase we are giving them, and all to no purpose."

Evelyn laughed, and the two, holding each other's hands, continued on their way. By-and-by they reached the back entrance to The Priory. Jasper had left the gate a little ajar. Pilot came up to show attentions; he began to growl at Evelyn, but Jasper laid her hand on his big forehead.

"A friend, good dog! A little friend, Pilot," was Jasper's remark; and then Pilot wagged his tail and allowed his friend Jasper — to whom he was much attached, as she furnished him with unlimited chicken-bones — to go to the house. Two or three minutes later Evelyn found herself established in Jasper's snug, pretty little bedroom. There the fire blazed; supper was in course of preparation Evelyn flung herself down on a chair and panted slightly.

"So this is where you live?" she said.

"Yes, my darling, this is where I live."

"And where is Sylvia?" asked Evelyn.

"She is having supper with her father at the present moment."

"Oh! I should like to see her. How excited and astonished she will be! She won't tell — you are sure of that Jasper?"

"Tell! Sylvia tell!" said Jasper. "Not quite, my dearie."

"Well, I should like to see her."

"She'll be here presently."

"You have not told that I was coming?"

"No, darling; I thought it best not."

"That is famous, Jasper; and do you know, I am quite hungry, so you might get something to eat without delay."

"You did not by any chance forget the money?" said Jasper, looking anxiously at Evelyn.

"Oh no; it is in my little black bag; you had better take it while you think of it. It is in two rolls; uncle Edward gave it to me. It is all gold — gold sovereigns; and there are twenty of them."

"Are not you a darling, a duck, and all the rest!" said Jasper, much relieved at this information. "I would not worry you for the money, darling," she continued as she bustled about and set the milk on to boil for Evelyn's favorite beverage, "but that my own funds are getting seriously low. You never knew such a state as we live in here. But we have fun, darling; and we shall have all the more fun now that you have come."

Evelyn leant back in her chair without replying. She had lived through a good deal that day, and she was tired and glad to rest. She felt secure. She was hungry, too; and it was nice to be petted by Jasper. She watched the preparations for the chocolate, and when it was made she sipped it eagerly, and munched a sponge-cake, and tried to believe that she was the happiest little girl in the world. But, oh! what ailed her? How was it that she could not quite forget the horrid days at the Castle, and the dreadful days at school, and Audrey's face, and Lady Frances's manner, and — last but not least — dear, sweet, kind Uncle Edward?

"And I never proved to him that I could shoot a bird on the wing," she thought. "What a pity what a sad pity! He will find the gun loaded, and

how astonished he will be! And he will never, never know that it was his Evelyn loaded it and left it ready. Oh dear! I am sorry that I am not likely to see Uncle Edward for a long time again. I am sorry that Uncle Edward will be angry, I do not mind about any one else, but I am sorry about him."

Just then there came the sound of a high-pitched and sweet voice in the kitchen outside.

"There is Sylvia," said Jasper. "I am going to tell her now, and to bring her in."

She went into the outside kitchen. Sylvia, in her shabbiest dress, with a pinched, cold look on her face, was standing by the embers of the fire.

"Oh, Jasper," she said eagerly, "I do not know what to make of my father to-night! He has evidently had bad news by the post to-day — something about his last investments. I never saw him so low or so irritable, and he was quite cross about the nice little hash you made for his supper. He says that he will cut down the fuel-supply, and that I am not to have big fires for cooking; and, worst of all, Jasper, he threatens to come into the kitchen to see for himself how I manage. Do you know, I feel quite frightened to-night. He is very strange in his manner, and suspicious; and he looks so cold, too. No fire will he allow in the sitting-room. He gets worse and worse."

"Well, darling," said Jasper as cheerfully as she could, "this is an old story, is it not? He did eat his hash, when all is said and done."

"Yes but I don't like his manner. And you know he discovered about the boxes in the box-room."

"That is over and done with too," said Jasper. "He cannot say much about that; he can only puzzle and wonder, but it would take him a long time to find out the truth."

"I don't like his way," repeated Sylvia.

"And perhaps you don't like my way either, Sylvia," said a strange voice; and Sylvia uttered a scream, for Evelyn stood before her.

"Evelyn!" cried the girl. "Where have you come from? Oh, what is the matter? Oh, I do declare my head is going round!"

She clasped her bands to her forehead in absolute bewilderment. Jasper went and locked the kitchen door.

"Now we are safe," she said; "and you two had best go into the bedroom. Yes, you had, for when he comes along it is the wisest plan for him to find the kitchen locked and the place in darkness. He will never think of my bedroom; and, indeed, when the curtains are drawn and the shutters shut you cannot get a blink of light from the outside, however hard you try."

"Come Sylvia," said Evelyn. She took Sylvia's hand and dragged her into the bedrooms.

"But why have you come, Evelyn? Why is it?" said poor Sylvia, in great distress and alarm.

"You will have to welcome me whether you like it or not," said Evelyn; "and what is more, you will have to be true to me. I came here because I have run away — run away from the school and the fuss and the disgrace of to-morrow — run away from horrid Aunt Frances and from the horrid Castle; and I have come here to dear old Jasper; and I have brought my own money, so you need not be at any expense. And if you tell you will — But, oh Sylvia, you will not tell?"

"But this is terrible!" said Sylvia. "I don't understand — I cannot understand."

"Sit down, Miss Sylvia, dearie," said Jasper, "and I will try to explain."

Sylvia sank down on the side of the little white bed.

"Now I know why you were getting this ready," she said. "You would not explain to me, and I thought perhaps it was for me. Oh dear! oh dear!"

"I longed to tell you, but I dared not," said Jasper. "Would I let my sweet little lady die or be disgraced? That is not in me. She will hide here with me for a bit, and afterwards — it will come all right afterwards, my dear Miss Sylvia. Why, there, darlings! I love you both. And see what I have been planning. I mean to go upstairs to-night and sleep in your room, Miss Sylvia. Yes, darling; and you and Miss Evelyn can sleep together here. The supper is all ready, and I have had as much as I want. I mean to go quickly; and then if your father comes along and rattles at the kitchen door he'll get no answer, and if he peers through the keyhole, the place will be black as night. Then being made up of suspicions, poor man, he'll tramp upstairs and he'll thunder at your door; but it will be locked, and after a time I'll answer him in your voice from the heart of the big bed, and all his suspicions will melt away like snow when the sun shines on it. That is all, Miss Sylvia; and I mean to do it, and at once, too; for if we were so careful and chary and anxious before, we must be twice as careful and twice as chary now that I have got the precious little Eve to look after."

Jasper's plan was carried out to the letter. Sylvia did not like it, but at the same time she did not know how to oppose it; and when Evelyn put her arms round her neck and was soft and gentle — she who was so hard with most, and so difficult to manage — and when she pleaded with tears in her big brown eyes and a pathetic look on her white face,

Sylvia yielded for the present. Whatever happened, she would not betray her.