A Very Naughty Girl

“I wish you would come and skate to-morrow,” he said, as the dinner was coming to an end and the signal for the ladies to withdraw might be expected at any moment. “I wish you would, Sylvia. I cannot see why you should refuse. One has so little chance of skating in England that no one ought to be off the ice who knows how to skate when the weather is suitable. Cannot you come? Shall I ask Lady Frances if you may?”

“No, thank you,” said Sylvia; then she added: “I long to skate just as much as you do, and I probably shall skate, although not on your pond; but there is a long reach of water just where the pond narrows and beyond where the stream rushes away towards the river. I may skate there. The water is nearly a mile in extent.”

“Then I will meet you,” said Arthur. “I will get Robert and Hennie to come with me; Juliet will never stir from Audrey’s side when she comes to Castle Wynford; but I’ll make up a party and we can meet at the narrow stretch. What do you call it?”

“The Yellow Danger,” said Sylvia promptly.

“What a curious name! What does it mean?”

“I don’t know; I have not been long enough in this neighborhood. Oh, there is Lady Frances rising from the table; I must go. If you do happen to come to the Yellow Danger to-morrow I shall probably be there.”

She nodded to him, and followed the rest of the ladies and the girls to one of the drawing-rooms.

Soon afterwards games of all sorts were started, and the children, and their elders as well, had a right merry time. There was no one smarter at guessing conundrums and proposing vigorous games of chance than Sylvia. The party was sufficiently large to divide itself into two groups, and “clumps,” amongst other games, was played with much laughter and vigor. Finally, the whole party wandered into the hall, where an impromptu dance was struck up, and in this also Sylvia managed to excel herself.

“Who is that remarkably graceful and handsome girl?” said Mrs. Jervice to Lady Frances.

“My dear Agnes,” was the answer, “I have not the slightest idea. She is a girl from the neighborhood; that terrible aborigine Evelyn picked her up. She certainly is handsome, and clever too; and she is well dressed. That dress she has on reminds me of one which I bought for Audrey in Paris last year. I suppose the girl’s people are very well off, for that special kind of muslin, with its quantities of real lace, would not be in the possession of a poor girl. On the whole, I like the girl, but the way in which Evelyn has brought her into the house is beyond enduring.”

“My Arthur has quite lost his heart to her,” said Mrs. Jervice, with a laugh. “He said something to me about asking her to join our skating party to-morrow.”

“Well, dear, I will make inquiries, and if she belongs to any nice people I will call on her mother if she happens to have one; but I make it a rule to be very particular what girls Audrey becomes acquainted with.”

“And you are quite right,” said Mrs. Jervice. “Any one can see how very carefully your Audrey has been brought up.”

“She is a sweet girl,” said the mother, “and repays me for all the trouble I have taken with her; but what I shall do with Evelyn is a problem, for her uncle has put down his foot and declares that go to school she shall not.”

The ladies moved away, chatting as they did so. The music kept up its merry sounds; the young feet tripped happily over the polished floor; all went on gaily, and Sylvia felt herself in paradise. Warmed and fed, petted and surrounded by luxury, she looked a totally different creature from the wild, defiant girl who had pushed past Audrey in order to have a hearty meal on New Year’s Day.

But by and by the happy evening came to an end, and Sylvia ran up to Evelyn.

“It is time for me to go,” she said. “I must say good night to Lady Frances; and then will you take me to your room just to change my dress, Evelyn?”

“Oh, what a nuisance you are!” said Evelyn. “I am not thinking of going to bed yet.”

“Yes; but you are at home, remember. I have to go to my home.”

“Well, I do not see why I should go to bed an hour before I wish to. Do go if you wish, Sylvia; I will see you another time. You will find Jasper up-stairs, and she will do anything for you you want.”

Sylvia said nothing more. She stood silent for a minute; then noticing Lady Frances in the distance, she ran up to her.

“Good night, Lady Frances,” she said; “and thank you very much.”

“I am glad you have enjoyed yourself, Miss Leeson,” said the lady. She looked full into the sparkling eyes, and suddenly felt a curious drawing towards the girl. “Tell me where you live,” she said, “and who your mother is; I should like to have the pleasure of calling on her.”

Sylvia’s face suddenly became white. Her eyes took on a wild and startled glance.

“I have no mother,” she said slowly; “and please do not call, Lady Frances – please don’t.”

“As you please, of course,” said Lady Frances in a very stiff tone. “I only thought – ”

“I cannot explain. I cannot help what you think of me. I know I shall not see you, perhaps, ever again – I mean, ever again like this,” said Sylvia; “but thank you all the same.”

She made a low courtesy, but did not even see the hand which Lady Frances was prepared to hold out. The next instant she was skimming lightly up-stairs.

“Audrey,” said Lady Frances, turning to her daughter, “who is that girl?”

“I cannot tell you, mother. Her name is Sylvia Leeson. She lives somewhere near, I suppose.”

“She is fairly well-bred, and undoubtedly handsome,” said Lady Frances. “I was attracted by her appearance, but when I asked her if I might call on her mother she seemed distressed. She said her mother was dead, and that I was not to call.”

“Poor girl!” said Audrey. “You upset her by talking about her mother, perhaps.”

“I do not think that was it. Do you know anything at all about her, Audrey?”

“Nothing at all, mother, except that I suppose she lives in the neighborhood, and I am sure she is desperately poor.”

“Poor, with that dress!” said Lady Frances. “My dear, you talk rubbish.”

Audrey opened her lips as if to speak; then she shut them again.

“I think she is poor notwithstanding the dress,” she said in a low voice. “But where is she? Has she gone?”

“She bade me good-night a minute ago and ran up-stairs.”

“But Evelyn has not gone up-stairs. Has she let her go alone?”

“Just what I should expect of your cousin,” said Lady Frances.

Audrey crossed the hall and went up to Evelyn’s side.

“Do you notice that Sylvia has gone up-stairs?” she said. “Have you let her go alone?”

“Yes. Don’t bother,” said Evelyn. – “What are you saying, Bob? – that you can cut the figure eight in – ”

Audrey turned away with an expression of disgust. A moment later she said something to her friend Juliet and ran up-stairs herself.

“What are we to do with Evelyn?” was her thought.

The same thought was passing through the minds of almost all the matrons present; but Evelyn herself imagined that she was most fascinating.

Audrey went to Evelyn’s bedroom. There she saw Sylvia already arrayed in her ugly, tattered, and untidy dress. She looked like a different girl. She was pinning her battered sailor-hat on her head; the color had left her cheeks, and her eyes were no longer bright. When she saw Audrey she pointed to the muslin dress, which was lying neatly folded on a chair.

“I am going to take it home; it shall be washed, and you shall have it back again.”

“Never mind about that,” answered Audrey; “I would rather you did not trouble.”

“Very well – as you like; and thank you, Miss Wynford, a hundred times. I have had a heavenly evening – something to live for. I shall live on the thoughts of it for many and many a day. Good night, Miss Wynford.”

“But stay!” cried Audrey – “stay! It is nearly midnight. How are you going to get home?”

“I shall get home all right,” said Sylvia.

“You cannot go alone.”

“Nonsense! Don’t keep me, please.”

Before Audrey had time to say a word Sylvia had rushed down-stairs. A side-door was open, she ran out into the night. Audrey stood still for a moment; then she saw Jasper, who had come silently into the room.

“Follow that young lady immediately,” she said. “Or, stay! Send one of the servants. The servant must find her and go home with her. I do not know where she lives, but she cannot be allowed to go out by herself at this hour of night.”

Jasper ran down-stairs, and Audrey waited in Evelyn’s pretty bedroom. Already there were symptoms all over the room of its new owner’s presence; a marked disarrangement of the furniture had already taken place. The room, from being the very soul of order, seemed now to represent the very spirit of unrest. Jasper came back, panting slightly.

“I sent a man after the young lady, miss, but she is nowhere to be seen. I suppose she knows how to find her way home.”

Audrey was silent for a minute or two; then taking up the dress which Sylvia had worn, she hung it over her arm.

“Shall I take that back to your room, miss?”

“No, thank you; I will take it myself,” replied the girl.

She walked slowly down the passage, descended some steps, and entered her own pretty room in a distant wing. She opened her wardrobe and hung up the dress.

“I do hope one thing,” thought Audrey. “Yes, I earnestly hope that mother will never, never discover that poor Sylvia wore my dress. Poor Sylvia! Who is she? Where does she live? What is she?”

Meanwhile Sylvia Leeson was walking fast through the dark and silent night. She was not at all afraid; nor did she choose the frequented paths. On the contrary, after plunging through the shrubbery, she mounted a stile, got into a field, crossed it, squeezed through a hedge at the farther end, and so, by devious paths and many unexpected windings, found herself at the entrance of a curious, old-fashioned house. The house was surrounded by thick yew-trees, which grew up almost to the windows. There was a wall round it, and the enclosed space within was evidently very confined. In the gleam of light which came now and then through wintry, driving clouds, a stray flower-bed or a thick holly-bush was visible, but the entire aspect of the place was gloomy, neglected, and disagreeable in the extreme. Sylvia pushed a certain spring in the gate; it immediately opened, and she let herself in. She closed the gate softly and silently behind her, and then, looking eagerly around, began to approach the house. The house stood not thirty yards from the gate. Sylvia now for the first time showed symptoms of fear. Suddenly a big dog in a kennel near uttered a bay. She called his name.

“Pilot, it is I,” she said.

The dog ambled towards her; she put her hand on his neck, bent down, and kissed him on the forehead. He wagged his tail, and thrust his cold nose into her hand. She then stood in a listening attitude, her head thrown back; presently, still holding the dog by the collar, she went softly – very softly – round the house. She came to a low window, which was protected by some iron bars.

“Good night, Pilot,” she said then. “Good night, darling; go back and guard the house.”

The dog trotted swiftly and silently away. When he was quite out of sight Sylvia put up her hand and removed one bar from the six which stood in front of the window. A moment later the window had been opened and the girl had crept within. When inside she pushed the bar which had been previously loosened back into its place, shut the window softly, and crossing the room into which she had entered, stole up-stairs, trembling as she did so. Suddenly a door from above was opened, a light streamed across the passage, and a man’s voice said:

“Who goes there?”

There was an instant’s silence on the part of Sylvia. The voice repeated the question in a louder key.

“It is I, father,” she answered. “I am going to bed. It is all right.”

“You impertinent girl!” said the man. “Where have you been all this time? I missed you at dinner; I missed you at supper. Where have you been?”

“Doing no harm, father. It is all right; it is really. Good night, father.”

The light, however, did not recede from the passage. A man stood in the entrance to a room. Sylvia had to pass this man to get to her own bedroom. She was thoroughly frightened now. She was shaking all over. As she approached, the man took up the candle he held and let its light fall full on her face.

“Where have you been?” he said roughly.

“Out, father – out; doing no harm.”

“What, my daughter – at this time of night! You know I cannot afford a servant; you know all about me, and yet you desert me for hours and hours. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? You have been out of doors all this long time and supper ready for you on the table! Oatmeal and skimmed milk – an excellent meal; a princess could not desire better. I am keeping it for your breakfast. You shall have no supper now; you deserve to go to bed supper-less, and you shall. What a disgraceful mess your dress is in!”

“There has been snow, and it is wintry and cold outside,” replied Sylvia; “and I am not hungry. Good night, father.”

“You think to get over me like that! You have no pity for me; you are a most heartless girl. You shall not stir from here until you tell me where you have been.”

“Then I will tell you, father. I know you’ll be angry, but I cannot help it. There is such a thing as dying for want of – oh, not for want of food, and not for want of clothes – for want of pleasure, fun, life, the joy of being alive. I did go, and I am not ashamed.”

“Where?” asked the man.

“I went to Wynford Castle. I have spent the evening there. Now, you may be as angry as you please, but you shall not scold me; no, not a word until the morning.”

With a sudden movement the girl flitted past the angry man. The next instant she had reached her room. She opened the door, shut it behind her, and locked herself in. When she was quite alone she pulled off her hat, and got with frantic speed out of her wet jacket; then she clasped her hands high above her head.

“How am I to bear it! What have I done that I should be so miserable?” she thought.

She flung herself across the bare, uninviting bed, and lay there for some time sobbing heavily. All the joy and animation had left her young frame; all the gaiety had departed from her. But presently her passionate sobs came to an end; she undressed and got into bed.

She was bitterly – most bitterly – cold, and it was a long time before the meager clothes which covered her brought any degree of warmth to her frame. But by-and-by she did doze off into a troubled slumber. In her sleep she dreamt of her mother – her mother who was dead.

She awoke presently, and opening her eyes in the midst of the darkness, the thought of her dream came back to her. She remembered a certain night in her life when she had been awakened suddenly to say good-by to her mother. The mother had asked the father to leave the child alone with her.

“You will be always good to him, Sylvia?” she said then. “You will humor him and be patient. I hand my work on to you. It was too much for me, and God is taking me away, but I pass it on to you. If you promise to take the burden and carry it, and not to fail, I shall die happy. Will you, Sylvia – will you?”

“What am I to do, mother?” asked the child. She was a girl of fourteen then.

“This,” said the mother: “do not leave him whatever happens.”

“Do you mean it, mother? He may go away from here; he may go into the country; he may – do anything. He may become worse – not better. Am I never to be educated? Am I never to be happy? Do you mean it?”

The dying woman looked solemnly at the eager child.

“I mean it,” she said; “and you must promise me that you will not leave him whatever happens.”

“Then I promise you, mother,” Sylvia had said.