by L. T. Meade
CHAPTER XII.--HUNGER.
When Jasper was conveyed from Wynford Castle she drove to the "GreenMan" in the village. There she asked the landlady if she could give hera small bedroom for the night. The landlady, a certain Mrs. Simpson, wasquite willing to oblige Miss Jasper. She was accommodated with abedroom, and having seen her boxes deposited there, wandered about thevillage. She took the bearings of the place, which was small andunimportant, and altogether devoted to the interests of the great folksat Castle Wynford. Wynford village lived, indeed, for the Castle;without the big house, as they called it, the villagers would havelittle or no existence. The village received its patronage from theSquire and his family. Every house in the village belonged to SquireWynford. The inhabitants regarded him as if he were their feudal lord.He was kindly to all, sympathetic in sorrow, ready to rejoice whenbright moments visited each or any of his tenants. Lady Frances was anadmirable almoner of the different charities which came from the greathouse. There was not a poor woman in the length and breadth of Wynfordvillage who was not perfectly well aware that her ladyship knew allabout her, even to her little sins and her small transgressions; allabout her struggles as well as her falls, her temptations as well as hermoments of victory. Lady Frances was loved and feared; the Squire wasloved and respected; Audrey was loved in the sort of passionate way inwhich people will regard the girl who always has been to them more orless a little princess. Therefore now, as Jasper walked slowly throughthe village with the fading light falling all over her, she knew she wasa person of interest. Beyond doubt that was the case; but although thevillagers were interested in her, and peeped outside their houses towatch her (even the grocer, who did a roaring trade, and took the tenorsolo on Sunday in the church choir, peered round his doorstep with theothers), she knew that she was favored with no admiring looks, and thatthe villagers one and all were prepared to fight her. That was indeedthe case, for secrets are no secrets where a great family are concerned,and the villagers knew that Jasper had come over from the other side ofthe world with the real heiress.
"A dowdy, ill-favored girl," they said one to the other; "butnevertheless, when the Squire--bless him!--is gathered to his fathers, shewill reign in his stead, and sweet, darling, beautiful Miss Audrey willbe nowhere."
They said this, repeating the disagreeable news one to the other, andvowing each and all that they would never care for the Australian girl,and never give her a welcome.
As Jasper slowly walked she was conscious of the feeling of hostilitywhich surrounded her.
"It won't do," she said to herself. "I meant to take up my abode at the'Green Man,' and I meant that no one in the place should turn me out,but I do not believe I shall be able to continue there; and yet, to gofar away from my sweet little Eve is not to be thought of. I have moneyof my own. Her mother was a wise woman when she said to me, 'Jasper, thetime may come when you will need it; and although it belongs to Eve, youmust spend it as you think best in her service.'
"It ain't much," thought Jasper to herself, "but it is sixty pounds, andI have it in gold sovereigns, scattered here and there in my big blacktrunk, and I mean to spend it in watching over the dear angel lamb. Mrs.Simpson of the 'Green Man' would be the better of it, but she sha'n'thave much of it--of that I am resolved."
So Jasper presently left the village and began strolling in thedirection where the river Earn flows between dark rocks until it losesitself in a narrow stream among the peaceful hills. In that directionlay The Priory, with its thick yew hedge and its shut-in appearance.
As Jasper continued her walk she knew nothing of the near neighborhoodof The Priory, and no one in all the world was farther from her thoughtsthan the pretty, tall slip of a girl who lived there.
Now, it so happened that Sylvia was taking her walks abroad also in thehour of dusk. It was one of her peculiarities never to spend an hourthat she could help indoors. She had to sleep indoors, and she had totake what food she could manage to secure also under the roof which sheso hated; but, come rain or shine, storm or calm, every scrap of therest of her time was spent wandering about. To the amount of fresh airwhich she breathed she owed her health and a good deal of her beauty.She was out now as usual, her big mastiff, Pilot, bearing her company.She was never afraid where she wandered with this protection, for Pilotwas a dog of sagacity, and would soon make matters too hot for any onewho meant harm to his young mistress.
Sylvia walked slowly. She was thinking hard. "What a delightful time shewas having twenty-four hours ago! What a good dinner she was about toeat! How pleasant it was to wear Audrey's pretty dress! How delightfulto dance in the hall and talk to Arthur Jervice! She wondered what hissister with the curious name was like. How beautiful his face lookedwhen he spoke of her!
"She must be lovely too," thought Sylvia. "And so restful! There isnothing so cool and comfortable and peaceful as a mossy bank. I supposeshe is called Moss because she comforts people."
Sylvia hurried a little. Presently she stood and looked around her to besure that no one was by. She then deliberately tightened her belt.
"It makes me feel the pangs less," she thought. "Oh dear, howdelightful, how happy those must be who are never, never hungry!Sometimes I can scarcely bear it; I almost feel that I could stealsomething to have a big, big meal. What a lot I ate last night, and howI longed to pocket even that great hunch of bread which was placed nearmy plate! But I did not dare. I thought my big meal would keep off myhunger to-day, but I believe it has made it worse than ever. I must havea straight talk with father to-night. I must tell him plainly that,however coarse the food, I must at least have enough of it. Oh dear, Iache--I _ache_ for a good meal!"
The poor girl stood still. Footsteps were heard approaching. They werenow close by. Pilot pricked up his ears and listened. A moment laterJasper appeared on the scene.
When she saw Sylvia she stopped, dropped a little courtesy, and said ina semi-familiar tone:
"And how are you this evening, Miss Leeson?"
Sylvia had not seen her as she approached. The girl started now andturned quickly round.
"You are Jasper?" she said. "What are you doing here?"
"Taking the air, miss. Have you any objection?"
"None, of course," replied Sylvia.
Had there been light enough to see, Jasper would have noticed that thegirl's face took on a cheerful expression. She laid her hand on Pilot'sforehead. Pilot growled. Sylvia said to him:
"Be quiet; this is a friend."
Pilot evidently understood the words. He wagged his bushy tail andlooked in Jasper's direction. Jasper came boldly up and laid her handbeside Sylvia's on the dog's forehead. The tail wagged moredemonstratively.
"You have won him," said Sylvia in a tone of delight. "Do you know, I amglad, although I cannot tell why I should be."
"He looks as if he could be very formidable," said Jasper.--"Ah, gooddog--good dog! Noble creature! So I am your friend? Good dog!"
"But it must be rather unpleasant for visitors to come to call on you,Miss Sylvia, with such a dog as that loose about the place. Now, I, forinstance----"
"If you had a message from Evelyn for me," said Sylvia, "you could callnow with impunity. Strangers cannot; that is why father keeps Pilot. Heis trained never to touch any one, but he is also trained to keep everyone out. He does that in the best manner possible. He stands right inthe person's path and shows his big fangs and growls. Nobody would dreamof going past him; but you would be safe."
Jasper stood silent.
"It may be useful," she repeated.
"You have not come now with a message from Evelyn?" said Sylvia, apathetic tone in her voice.
"No, miss, I have not; but do you know, miss--do you know what hashappened to me?"
"How should I?" replied Sylvia.
"I am turned out, miss--turned out by her ladyship--I who had a letterfrom Mrs. Wynford in Tasmania asking her ladyship to keep me always asmy little Evelyn's friend and nurse and guardian. Yes, Miss Sylvia, I amturned away as though I wer
e dirt. I am turned away, miss, although itwas only yesterday that her ladyship got the letter which the dyingmother wrote. It is hard, is it not, Miss Leeson? It is cruel, is itnot?"
"Hard and cruel!" echoed Sylvia. "It is worse. It is a horrible sin. Iwonder you stand it!"
"Now, miss, for such a pretty young lady I wonder you have not moresense. Do you think I'd go if I could help it?"
"What does Evelyn say?" asked Sylvia, intensely excited.
"What does she say? Nothing. She is stunned, I take it; but she willwake up and know what it means. No chocolate, and no one to sleep in thelittle white bed by her side."
"Oh, how she must enjoy her chocolate!" said poor Sylvia, a sigh oflonging in her voice.
"I am grand at making it," said Jasper. "I have spent my life in manyout-of-the-way places. It was in Madrid I learnt to make chocolate; noone can excel me with it. I'd like well to make a cup for you."
"And I'd like to drink it," said Sylvia.
"As well as I can see you in this light," continued Jasper, "you look asif a cup of my chocolate would do you good. Chocolate made all of milk,with plenty of bread and butter, is a meal which no one need despise. Isay, miss, shall we go back to the "Green Man," and shall you and mehave a bit of supper together? You would not be too proud to take itwith me although I am only my young lady's maid?"
"I wish I could," said Sylvia. There was a wild desire in her heart, asort of passion of hunger. "But," she continued, "I cannot; I must gohome now."
"Is your home near, miss?"
"Oh yes; it is just at the other side of that wall. But please do nottalk of it--father hates people knowing. He likes us to live quitesolitary."
"And it is a big house. Yes, I can see that," continued Jasper, peeringthrough the trees.
Just then a young crescent moon showed its face, a bank of clouds sweptaway to the left, and Jasper could distinctly see the square outline ofan ugly house. She saw something else also--the very white face of thehungry Sylvia, the look which was almost starvation in her eyes. Jasperwas clever; she might not be highly educated in the ordinary sense, butshe had been taught to use her brains, and she had excellent brains touse. Now, as she looked at the girl, an idea flashed through her mind.
"For some extraordinary reason that child is downright hungry," she saidto herself. "Now, nothing would suit my purpose better."
She came close to Sylvia and laid her hand on her arm.
"I have taken a great fancy to you, miss," she said.
"Have you?" answered Sylvia.
"Yes, miss; and I am very lonely, and I don't mean to stay far away frommy dear young lady."
"Are you going to live in the village?" asked Sylvia.
"I have a room now at the 'Green Man,' Miss Leeson, but I don't mean tostay there; I don't care for the landlady. And I don't want to be, so tospeak, under her ladyship's nose. Her ladyship has took a mortal hatredto me, and as the village, so to speak, belongs to the Castle, if theCastle was to inform the 'Green Man' that my absence was more to bedesired than my company, why, out I'd have to go. You can understandthat, can you not, miss?"
"Yes--of course."
"And it is the way with all the houses round here," continued Jasper;"they are all under the thumb of the Castle--under the thumb of herladyship--and I cannot possibly stay near my dear young lady unless----"
"Unless?" questioned Sylvia.
"You was to give me shelter, miss, in your house."
Sylvia backed away, absolute terror creeping over her face.
"Oh! I could not," she said. "You do not know what you are asking. Wenever have any one at The Priory. I could not possibly do it."
"I'd pay you a pound a week," said Jasper, throwing down her trumpcard--"a pound a week," she continued--"twenty whole shillings put in thepalm of that pretty little hand of yours, paid regularly in advance; andyou might have me in a big house like that without anybody knowing. Iheard you speak of the gentleman, your father; he need never know. Isthere not a room at The Priory which no one goes into, and could not Isleep there? And you'd have money, miss--twenty shillings; and I'd feedyou up with chocolate, miss, and bread and butter, and--oh! lots of otherthings. I have not been on a ranch in Tasmania for nothing. You couldhide me at The Priory, and you could keep me acquainted with all thathappened to my little Eve, and I'd pay for it, miss, and not a soul onearth would be the wiser."
"Oh, don't!" said Sylvia--"don't!" She covered her face with her hands;she shook all over. "Don't tempt me!" she said. "Go away; do go away! Ofcourse I cannot have you. To deceive him--to shock him--why----Oh, I darenot--I dare not! It would not be safe. There are times when he isscarcely--yes, scarcely himself; and I must not try him too far. Oh, whathave I said?"
"Nothing, my dear--nothing. You are a bit overcome. And now, shall I tellyou why?"
"No, don't tell me anything more. Go; do go--do go!"
"I will go," said Jasper, "after I have spoken. You are trembling, andyou are cold, and you are frightened--you who ought never to tremble; youwho under ordinary circumstances ought to know no fear; you who arebeautiful--yes, beautiful! But you tremble because that poor young bodyof yours needs food and warmth--poor child!--I know."
"Go!" said Sylvia. They were her only words.
"I will go," answered Jasper after a pause; "but I will come again tothis same spot to-morrow night, and then you can answer me. Her ladyshipcannot turn me out between now and to-morrow night, and I will come thenfor my answer."
She turned and left Sylvia and went straight back to the village.
Sylvia stood still for a minute after she had gone. She then turned veryslowly and re-entered The Priory grounds. A moment later she was in theugly, ill-furnished house. The hall into which she had admitted herselfwas perfectly dark. There were no carpets on the floor, and the windwhistled through the ill-fitting casements. The young girl fumbled aboutuntil she found a box of matches. She struck one and lit a candle whichstood in a brass candlestick on a shelf. She then drearily mounted theuncarpeted stairs. She went to her own room, and opening a box, lookedquickly and furtively around her. The box contained some crusts of breadand a few dried figs. Sylvia counted the crusts with fingers that shook.There were five. The crusts were not large, and they were dry.
"I will eat one to-night," she said to herself, "and--yes, two of thefigs. I will not eat anything now. I wish Jasper had not tempted me.Twenty shillings, and paid in advance; and father need never know! Lotsof room in the house! Yes; I know the one she could have, and I couldmake it comfortable; and father never goes there--never. It is awaybeyond the kitchen. I could make it very comfortable. She should have afire, and we could have our chocolate there. We must never, never haveany cooking that smells; we must never have anything fried; we must justhave plain things. Oh! I dare not think any more. Mother once said tome, 'If your father ever, ever finds out, Sylvia, that you have deceivedhim, all, all will be up.' I won't yield to temptation; it would be anawful act of deceit. I cannot--I will not do it! If he will only give meenough I will resist Jasper; but it is hard on a girl to be sofrightfully hungry."
She sighed, pulled herself together, walked to the window, and looked upat the watery moon.
"My own mother," she whispered, "can you see me, and are you sorry forme, and are you helping me?"
Then she washed her hands, combed out her pretty, curly black hair, andran down-stairs. When she got half-way down she burst into a cheerfulsong, and as she bounded into a room where a man sat crouching over afew embers on the hearth her voice rose to positive gaiety.
"Where have you been all this time?" said the querulous tones.
"Learning a new song for you, dad. Come now; supper is ready."
"Supper!" said the man. He rose, and turned and faced his daughter.
He was a very thin man, with hair which must once have been as black asSylvia's own; his eyes, dark as the young girl's, were sunk so far backin his head that they gleamed like half-burnt-out coals; his cheeks werevery hollow, and he gave a
pathetic laugh as he turned and faced thegirl.
"I have been making a calculation," he said, "and it is my firmimpression that we are spending a great deal more than is necessary.There are further reductions which it is quite possible to make. Butcome, child--come. How fat and well and strong you look, and how heartyyour voice is! You are a merry creature, Sylvia, and the joy of my life.Were it not for you I should never hold out. And you are so good atpinching and contriving, dear! But there, I give you too many luxuriesdon't I, my little one? I spoil you, don't I? What did you say wasready?"
"Supper, father--supper."
"Supper!" said Mr. Leeson. "Why, it seems only a moment ago that wedined."
"It is six hours ago, father."
"Now, Sylvia, if there is one thing I dislike more than another, it isthat habit of yours of counting the hours between your meals. It is adistinct trace of greediness and of the lower nature. Ah, my child, whenwill you live high above your mere bodily desires? Supper, you say? Ishall not be able to eat a morsel, but I will go with you, dear, if youlike. Come, lead the way, my singing-bird; lead the way."
Sylvia took a candle and lighted it. She then went on in front of herfather. They traversed a long and dark passage, and presently she threwopen the door of as melancholy and desolate a room as could be foundanywhere in England.
The paper on the wall was scarcely perceptible, so worn was it by thelong passage of time. The floor was bare of any carpet; there was a dealtable at one end of the room; on the table a small white cloth had beenplaced. A piece of bread was on a wooden platter on this table. Therewas also a jug of water and a couple of baked potatoes. Sylvia had putthese potatoes into the oven before she went out, otherwise there wouldnot have been anything hot at all for the meager repast. The grate wasdestitute of any fire; and although there were blinds to the windows,there were no curtains. The night was a bitterly cold one, and the girl,insufficiently clothed as well as unfed, shivered as she went into theroom.
"What a palatial room this is!" said Mr. Leeson. "I really often think Idid wrong to come to this house. I have not the slightest doubt that myneighbors imagine that I am a man of means. It is extremely wrong toencourage that impression, and I trust, Sylvia, that you never by wordor action do so. A lady you are, my dear, and a lady you will lookwhatever you wear; but that beautiful simplicity which rises above meredress and mere food is what I should like to inculcate in your nature,my sweet child. Ah! potatoes--and hot! My dear Sylvia, was thisnecessary?"
"There are only two, father--one for you and one for me."
"Well, well! I suppose the young must have their dainties as long as theworld lasts," said Mr. Leeson. "Sit down, my dear, and eat. I will standand watch you."
"Won't you eat anything, father?" said the girl. A curious expressionfilled her dark eyes. She longed for him to eat, and yet she could nothelp thinking how supporting and soothing and satisfying both thosepotatoes would be, and all that hunch of dry bread.
Mr. Leeson paused before replying:
"It would be impossible for you to eat more than one potato, and itwould be a sin that the other should be wasted. I may as well have it."He dropped into a chair. "Not that I am the least hungry," he added ashe took the largest potato and put it on his plate. "Still, anything ispreferable to waste. What a pity it is that no one has discovered a usefor the skins, for these as a rule have absolutely to be wasted! When Ihave gone through some abstruse calculations over which I am at presentengaged, I shall turn my attention to the matter. Quantities ofnourishing food are doubtless wasted every year by the manner in whichpotato-skins are thrown away. Ah! and this bread, Sylvia--how long has itbeen in the house?"
"I got it exactly a week ago," said Sylvia. "It is quite the ordinarykind."
"It is too fresh, my dear. In future we must not eat new bread."
"It is a week old, father."
"Don't take me up in that captious way. I say we must not eat new bread.It was only to-day I came across a book which said that bread whenturning slightly--very slightly--moldy satisfies the appetite far morereadily than new bread. Then you will see for yourself, Sylvia, that aloaf of such bread may be made to go nearly as far as two loaves of theordinary kind. You follow me, do you not, singing-bird?"
"Yes, father--yes. But may I eat my potato now while it is hot?"
"How the young do crave for unnecessary indulgences!" said Mr. Leeson;but he broke his own potato in half, and Sylvia seized the opportunityto demolish hers.
Alack and alas! when it was finished, every scrap of it, scarcely anyeven of the skin being left, she felt almost more hungry than ever. Shestretched out her hand for the bread. Mr. Leeson raised his eyes as shedid so and gave her a reproachful glance.
"You will be ill," he said. "You will suffer from a bilious attack. Takeit--take it if you want it; I am the last to interfere with your naturalappetite."
Sylvia ate; she ate although her father's displeased eyes were fixed onher face. She helped herself twice to the stale and untempting loaf.Delicious it tasted. She could even have demolished every scrap of itand still have felt half-wild with hunger. But she was eating it now togive herself courage, for she had made up her mind--speak she must.
The meal came to an end. Mr. Leeson had finished his potato; Sylvia hadvery nearly consumed the bread.
"There will be a very small breakfast to-morrow," he said in a mournfultone; "but you, Sylvia, after your enormous supper, will scarcelyrequire a large one."
Sylvia made no answer. She took her father's hand and walked back withhim through the passage. The fire was out now in the sitting-room;Sylvia brought her father's greatcoat.
"Put it on," she said. "I want to sit close to you, and I want to talk."
He smiled at her and wrapped himself obediently in his coat. It waslined with fur, a relic of bygone and happier days. Sylvia turned thebig fur collar up round his ears; then she drew herself close to him.She seated herself on his lap.
"Put your arm round me; I am cold," she said.
"Cold, my dear little girl!" he said. "Why, so you are! How verystrange! It is doubtless from overeating."
"No, father."
"Why that 'No, father'? What a curious expression is in your voice,Sylvia, my dear! Since your mother's death you have been my one comfort.Heart and soul you have gone with me through the painful life which I amobliged to lead. I know that I am doing the right thing. I am no longerlavishly wasting that which has been entrusted to me, but am, on thecontrary, saving for the day of need. My dear girl, you and I haveplanned our life of retrenchment. How much does our food cost us for aweek?"
"Very, very little, father. Too little."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Father, forgive me; I must speak."
"What is wrong?"
Mr. Leeson pushed his daughter away. His eyes, which had been full ofkindness, grew sharp and became slightly narrowed; a watchful expressioncame into his face.
"Beware, Sylvia, how you agitate me; you know the consequences."
"Since mother died," answered the girl, "I have never agitated you; Ihave always tried to do exactly as you wished."
"On the whole you have been a good girl; your one and only fault hasbeen your greediness. Last night, it is true, you displeased me verydeeply, but on your promise never to transgress so again I have forgivenyou."
"Father," said Sylvia in a tremulous tone, "I must speak, and now. Youmust not be angry, father; but you say that we spend too much onhousekeeping. We do not; we spend too little."
"Sylvia!"
"Yes; I am not going to be afraid," continued the girl. "You weredispleased with me to-night--yes, I know you were--because I nearlyfinished the bread. I finished it because--because I was hungry; yes,hungry. And, father, I do not mind how stale the bread is, nor how poorthe food, but I must--I must have enough. You do not give me enough. No,you do not. I cannot bear the pain. I cannot bear the neuralgia. Icannot bear the cold of this house. I want warmth, and I want food, andI want clothes that wi
ll keep the chill away. That is all--just physicalthings. I do not ask for fun, nor for companions of my own age, nor foranything of that sort, but I do ask you, father, not to oblige me tolead this miserable, starved life in the future."
Sylvia paused; her courage, after all, was short-lived. The look on herfather's face arrested her words. He wore a stony look. His face, whichhad been fairly animated, had lost almost all expression. The pupils ofhis eyes were narrowed to a pin's point. Those eyes fixed themselves onthe girl's face as though they were gimlets, as though they meant topierce right into her very soul. Alarm now took the place of beseeching.
"Never mind," she said--"never mind; it was just your wild littlerebellious Sylvia. Don't look at me like that. Don't--don't! Oh, I willbear it--I will bear it! Don't look at me like that!"
"Go to your room," was his answer, "at once. Go to your room."
She was a spirited girl, but she crept out of the room as though someone had beaten her.
