A Very Naughty Girl

“This brings back old times,” he said to himself, “and old times create old feelings. I never knew then that she would be cursed by the demon of extravagance, and that her child – her only child – would inherit her failing. Well, it is my bounden duty to nip it in the bud, or Sylvia will end her days in the workhouse. I thought I had sold most of the clothes, but doubtless she found some materials to make up that unsuitable costume.”

He dragged the trunks forward. They were unlocked, being supposed to contain nothing of value. He pulled them open and went on his knees to examine them. Most of them were empty; some contained old bundles of letters; there was one in the corner which still had a couple of muslin dresses and an old-fashioned black lace mantilla. Mr. Leeson remembered the mantilla and the day when he bought it, and how pretty his handsome wife had looked in it. He flung it from him now as if it distressed him.

“Faugh!” he said. “I remember I gave ten guineas for it. Think of any man being such a fool!”

He was about to leave the attic, more mystified than ever, when his eyes suddenly fell upon the two trunks which contained that portion of Evelyn Wynford’s wardrobe which Lady Frances had discarded. The trunks were comparatively new. They were handsome and good, being made of crushed cane. They bore the initials E. W. in large white letters on their arched roofs.

“But who in the name of fortune is E. W.?” thought Mr. Leeson; and now his heart beat in ungovernable excitement. “E. W.! What can those initials stand for?”

He came close to the trunks as though they fascinated him. They were unlocked, and he pulled them open. Soon Evelyn’s gay and useless wardrobe was lying helter-skelter on the attic floor – silk dresses, evening dresses, morning dresses, afternoon dresses, furs, hats, cloaks, costumes. He kicked them about in his rage; his anger reached white-heat. What was the meaning of this?

E. W. and E. W.’s clothes took such an effect on his brain that he could scarcely speak or think. He left the attic with all the things scattered about, and stumbled rather than walked down-stairs. He had nearly got to his own part of the house when he remembered something. He went back, turned the key in the attic door, and put it in his pocket. He then breathed a sigh of relief, and went back to his sitting-room. The fire was nearly out; the day was colder than ever – a keen north wind was blowing. It came in at the badly fitting windows and shook the old panes of glass. The attic in which Mr. Leeson had stood so long had also been icy-cold. He shivered and crept close to the remains of the fire. Then a thought came to him, and he deliberately took up the poker and poked out the remaining embers. They flamed up feebly on the hearth and died out.

“No more fires for me,” he said to himself; “I cannot afford it. She is ruining – ruining me. Who is E. W.? Where did she get all those clothes? Oh, I shall go mad!”

He stood shivering and frowning and muttering. Then a change came over him.

“There is a secret, and I mean to discover it,” he said to himself; “and until I do I shall say nothing. I shall find out who E. W. is, where those trunks came from, what money Sylvia stole to purchase those awful and ridiculous and terrible garments. I shall find out before I act. Sylvia thinks that she can make a fool of her old father; she will discover her mistake.”

The postman’s ring was heard at the gate. The postman was never allowed to go up the avenue. Mr. Leeson kept a box locked in the gate, with a little slit for the postman to drop in the letters. He allowed no one to open this box but himself. Without even putting on his greatcoat, he went down the snowy path now, unlocked the box, and took out a letter. He returned with it to the house; it was addressed to himself, and was from his broker in London. The letter contained news which affected him pretty considerably. The gold mine in which he had invested nearly the whole of his available capital was discovered to be by no means so rich in ore as was at first anticipated. Prices were going down steadily, and the shares which Mr. Leeson had bought were now worth only half their value.

“I’ll sell out – I’ll sell out this minute,” thought the wretched man; “if I don’t I shall lose all.”

But then he paused, for there was a postscript to the letter.

“It would be madness to sell now,” wrote the broker. “Doubtless the present scare is a passing one; the moment the shares are likely to go up then sell.”

Mr. Leeson flung the letter from him and tore his gray hair. He paced up and down the room.

“Disaster after disaster,” he murmured. “I am like Job; all these things are against me. But nothing cuts me like Sylvia. To buy those things – two trunks full of useless finery! Oh yes, I have money on the premises – money which I saved and never invested; I wonder if that is safe. For all I can tell – But, oh, no, no, no! I will not think that. That way madness lies. I will bury the canvas bag to-night; I have delayed too long. No one can discover that hiding-place. I will bury the canvas bag, come what may, to-night.”

Mr. Leeson wrote to his broker, telling him to seize the first propitious moment to sell out from the gold-mine, and then sat moodily, getting colder and colder, in front of the empty grate.

Sylvia came in presently.

“Dinner is ready, father,” she said.

“I don’t want dinner,” he muttered.

She went up to him and laid her hand on his arm.

“Why are you like ice?” she said.

He pushed her away.

“The fire is out,” she continued; “let me light it.”

“No!” he thundered. “Leave it alone; I wish for no fire. I tell you I am a beggar, and worse; and I wish for no fire!”

“Oh father – father darling!” said the girl.

“Don’t ‘darling’ me; don’t come near me. I am displeased with you. You have cut me to the quick. I am angry with you. Leave me.”

“You may be angry,” she answered, “but I will not leave you; and if you are cold – cold to death – and cannot afford a fire, you will warm yourself with me. Let me put my arms round you; let me lay my cheek against yours. Feel how my cheek glows. There, is not that better?”

He struggled, but she insisted. She sat on his knee now and put the cloak she was wearing, thin and poor enough in itself, round his neck. Inside the cloak she circled him with her arms. Her dark luxuriant hair fell against his white and scanty locks; she pressed her face close to his.

“You may hate me, but I am going to stay with you,” she said. “How cold you are!”

Just for a minute or two Mr. Leeson bore the loving caress and the endearing words. She was very sweet, and she was his – his only child – bone of his bone. Yes, it was nicer to be warm than cold, nicer to be loved than to be hated, nicer to – But was he loved? Those trunks up-stairs; that costly, useless finery; those initials which were not Sylvia’s!

“Oh that I could tell her!” he said to himself. “She pretends; she is untrue – untrue as our first mother. What woman was ever yet to be trusted?”

“Go, Sylvia,” he replied vehemently; and he started up and shook her off cruelly, so that she fell and hurt herself.

She rose, pushed her hair back from her forehead and gazed at him in bewilderment. Was he going mad?

“Come and eat your dinner before it gets cold,” she said. “It is extravagant to waste good food; come and eat it.”

“Made from some of those old fowls?” he queried; and a scornful smile curled his lips.

“Come and eat it; it costs you practically nothing,” she added. “Come, it is extravagant to waste it.”

He pondered in his own mind; there were still about three fowls left. He would not take her hand but he followed her into the dining-room. He sat down before the dainty dish, helped her to a small portion, and ate the rest.

“Now you are better,” she said cheerfully.

He gave her a glance which seemed to her to be one of almost venom.

“I am going into my sitting-room,” he said; “do not disturb me again to-day.”

“But you must have a fire!”

“I decline to have a fire.”

“You will die of cold.”

“Much you care.”

“Father!”

“Yes, Sylvia, much you care; you are like the one who gave you being. I will not say any more.”

She started away at this; he knew she would. She was patient with him almost beyond the limits of human patience, but she could not stand having her mother abused.

He went down the passage, and locked himself in his sitting-room.

“Now I can think,” he thought; “and to-night when Sylvia is in bed I will bury the last canvas bag.”

When Sylvia went into the kitchen Jasper asked her at once what was the matter. She stood for a moment without speaking; then she said in a low, broken-hearted voice:

“Father sometimes gets these moods, but I never saw him as bad before. He refuses to have a fire in the parlor; he will die of this cold.”

“Let him,” muttered Jasper under her breath. She did not say these words aloud; she knew Sylvia too well by this time.

“What has put him into this state of mind?” she asked as she dished up a hot dinner for Sylvia and herself.

“It was my dress, Jasper; I ought not to have allowed you to make it for me. I ran in to put it on to go to church on Sunday; and he saw me and drew his own conclusions, as he said. He asked me where I got it, and I refused to tell him.”

“Now, if I were you, dear,” said Jasper, “I would just up and tell him the whole story. I would tell him that I am here, and that I mean to stay, and that he has been living on me for some time now. I would tell him everything. He would rage and fume, but not more than he has raged and fumed. Things are past bearing, darling. Why, your pretty, young, and brave heart will be broken. I would not bear it. It is best for him too, dear; he must learn to know you, and if necessary to fear you. He cannot go on killing himself and every one else with impunity. It is past bearing, Sylvia, my love – past bearing.”

“I know, Jasper – I know – but I dare not tell him. You cannot imagine what he is when he is really roused. He would turn you out.”

“Well, darling, and you would come with me. Why should we not go out?”

“In the first place, Jasper, you have no money to support us both. Why, poor, dear old thing, you are using up all your little savings to keep me going! And in the next place, even if you could afford it, I promised mother that I would never leave him. I could not break my word to her. Oh! it hurt much; but the pain is over. I will never leave him while he lives, Jasper.”

“Dear, dear!” said Jasper, “what a power of love is wasted on worthless people! It is the most extraordinary fact on earth.”

Sylvia half-smiled. She thought of Evelyn, who was also in her opinion more or less worthless, and how Jasper was wasting both substance and heart on her.

“Well,” she said, “I can eat if I can do nothing else; but the thought of father dying of cold does come between me and all peace.”

She finished her dinner, and then went and stood by the window.

“It is a perfect miracle he has not found me out before,” said Jasper; “and, by the same token,” she added, “I heard footsteps in the attic up-stairs while I was preparing his fowl for dinner. My heart stood still. It must have been he; and I thought he would see the smoke curling up through that stack of chimneys just alongside of the attics. What was he doing up stairs?”

“Oh, I know – I know!” said Sylvia; and her face turned very white, and her eyes seemed to start from her head. “He went to look in mother’s trunks; he thought that I had got my brown dress from there.”

“And he will discover Evelyn’s trunks as sure as fate,” said Jasper; “and what a state he will be in! That accounts for it, Sylvia. Well, darling, discovery is imminent now; and for my part the sooner it is over the better.”

“I wonder if he did discover! Something has put him into a terrible rage,” thought the girl.

She went out of the kitchen, and stole softly up-stairs to the attic where the trunks were kept. It was locked. Doubt was now, of course, at an end. Sylvia went back and told her discovery to Jasper.