Now, the Squire¹ had produced a decidedly softening² effect upon Evelyn, and if she had not had the misfortune to meet Lady Frances just as she left his room, much that followed need never taken place. But Lady Frances, who had never in the very least returned poor Frank Wynford’s affection for her, and who had no sentimental³ feelings with regard to Evelyn—Lady Frances, who simply regarded the little girl as a troublesome and very tiresome⁴ member of the family—was not disposed to be too soothing⁵ in her manner.  
“Come here, my dear,” she said. “Come over here to the light. What have you got on?”
 
“My pretty red velvet⁶ dress,” replied Evelyn, tossing her head. “A suitable dress for an heiress like myself.”
 
“Come, this is quite beyond enduring. I want to speak to you, Evelyn. I have several things to say. Come into my boudoir.”
 
“But, if you please,” said Evelyn, “I have nothing to say to you, and I have a great deal to do in other directions. I am going back to Jasper; she wants me.” 58
“Oh, that reminds me,” began Lady Frances. “Come in here this moment, my dear.”
 
She took Evelyn’s hand and dragged the unwilling⁷ child into her private apartment. A bright fire burned in the grate. The room looked cozy⁸, cheerful, orderly. Lady Frances was a woman of method. She had piles of papers lying neatly⁹ docketed on her writing-table; a sheaf of unanswered letters lay on one side. A Remington typewriter stood on a table near, and a slim-looking girl was standing¹⁰ by the typewriter.
 
“You will leave me for the present, Miss Andrews,” she said, turning to her amanuensis. “I shall require you here again in a quarter of an hour.”
 
Miss Andrews, with a low bow, instantly left the room.
 
“You see, Evelyn,” said her aunt, “you are taking up the time of a very busy woman. I manage the financial part of several charities—in short, we are very busy people in this house—and in the morning I, as a rule, allow no one to interrupt me. When the afternoon comes I am ready and willing to be agreeable to my guests.”
 
“But I am not your guest. The house belongs to me—or at least it will be mine,” said Evelyn.
 
“You are quite right in saying you are not my guest. You are my husband’s niece, and in the future you will inherit his property; but if I hear you speaking in that rude way again I shall be forced 59 to punish you. I can see for myself that you are an ill-bred girl and will require a vast lot of breaking-in.”
 
“And you think you can do it?” said Evelyn, her eyes flashing.
 
“I intend to do it. I am going to talk to you for a few minutes this morning, and after I have spoken I wish you to clearly understand that you are to do as I tell you. You will not be unhappy here; on the contrary, you will be happy. At first you may find the necessary rules of a house like this somewhat irksome, but you will get into the way of them before long. You need discipline, and you will have it here. I will not say much more on that subject this morning. You can find Audrey, and she and Miss Sinclair will take you round the grounds and amuse you, and you must be very much obliged to them for their attentions. Audrey is my daughter, and I think I may say without undue¹¹ flattery that you will find her a most estimable companion. She is well brought up, and is a charming girl in every sense of the word. Miss Sinclair is her governess; she will also instruct you, but time enough for that in the future. Now, when you leave here go straight to your room and desire your servant—Jasper, I think, you call her—to dress you in a plain and suitable frock.”
 
“A frock!” said Evelyn. “I wear dresses—long dresses. I am not a child; mothery said I had the sense of several grown-up people.”
 
“The garment you are now in you are not to wear 60 again; it is unsuitable, and I forbid you to be even seen in it. Do you understand?”
 
“I hear you,” said Evelyn.
 
“Go up-stairs and do what I tell you, and then you can go into the grounds. Audrey is having holidays at present; you will find her with her governess in the shrubbery. Now go; the time I can devote to you for the present is up.”
 
“I had better give you this first,” said Evelyn.
 
She thrust her hand into her pocket and took out the ill-spelt and now exceedingly dirty note which poor Mrs. Wynford in Tasmania had written to Lady Frances before her death.
 
“This is from mothery, who is dead,” continued the child. “It is for you. She wrote it to you. I expect she is watching you now; she told me that she would come back if she could and see how people treated me. I am going. Don’t lose the note; it was written by mothery, and she is dead.”
 
Evelyn laid the dirty letter on the blotting-pad on Lady Frances’s table. It looked strangely out of keeping with the rest of her correspondence. The little girl left the room, banging the door behind her.
 
“A dreadful child!” thought Lady Frances. “How are we to endure her? My poor, sweet Audrey! I must get Edward to allow me to send Evelyn to school; she really is not a fit companion for my young daughter.”
 
Miss Andrews came back.
 
“Please direct these envelopes, and answer some of these letters according to the notes which I have 61 put down for you,” said Lady Frances; and her secretary began to work. But Lady Frances did not ask Miss Andrews to read or reply to the dirty little note. She took it up very much as though she would like to drop it into the fire, but finally she opened it and read the contents. The letter was rude and curt¹², and Lady Frances’s fine black eyes flashed as she read the words. Finally, she locked the letter up in a private bureau, and sitting down, calmly proceeded with her morning’s work.
 
Meanwhile Evelyn, choking with rage and utterly¹³ determined¹⁴ to disobey Lady Frances, left the room. She stood still for a moment in the long corridor and looked disconsolately¹⁵ to right and to left of her.
 
“How ugly it all is!” she said to herself. “How I hate it! Mothery, why did you die? Why did I ever leave my darling, darling ranch¹⁶ in Tasmania?”
 
She turned and very slowly walked up the white marble staircase. Presently she reached her own luxurious¹⁷ room. It was in the hands of a maid, however, who was removing the dust and putting the chamber¹⁸ in order.
 
“Where is Jasper?” asked the little girl.
 
“Miss Jasper has gone out of doors, miss.”
 
“Do you know how long she has been out?” asked Evelyn in a tone of keen interest.
 
“About half an hour, miss.”
 
“Then I’ll follow her.”
 
Evelyn went to her wardrobe. Jasper had 62 already unpacked¹⁹ her young lady’s things and laid them higgledy-piggledy in the spacious²⁰ wardrobe. It took the little girl a long time to find a tall velvet hat trimmed with plumes²¹ of crimson²² feathers. This she put on before the glass, arranging her hair to look as thick as possible, and smirking²³ at her face while she arrayed herself.
 
“I would not wear this hat, for I got it quite for Sunday best, but I want her to see that she cannot master me,” thought the child. She then wrapped a crimson silk scarf round her neck and shoulders, and so attired²⁴ looked very much like a little lady of the time of Vandyck. Once more she went down-stairs.
 
Audrey she did not wish to meet; Miss Sinclair she intended to be hideously²⁵ rude to; but Jasper—where was Jasper?
 
Evelyn looked all round. Suddenly she saw a figure on the other side of a small lake which adorned²⁶ part of the grounds. The figure was too far off for her to see it distinctly. It must be Jasper, for it surely was not in the least like the tall, fair, and stately Aubrey, not like Miss Sinclair.
 
Picking up her skirts, which were too long for her to run comfortably, the small figure now skidded²⁷ across the grass. She soon reached the side of the lake, and shouted:
 
“Jasper! Oh Jasper! Jasper, I have news for you! You never knew anything like the——”
 
The next instant she had rushed into the arms of Sylvia Leeson. Sylvia cried out eagerly: 63
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
 
Evelyn stared for a moment at the strange girl, then burst into a hearty²⁸ laugh.
 
“Do tell me—quick, quick!—are you one of the Wynfords?” she asked.
 
“I a Wynford!” cried Sylvia. “I only wish I were. Are you a Wynford? Do you live at the Castle?”
 
“Do I live at the Castle!” cried Evelyn. “Why, the Castle is mine—I mean it will be when Uncle Ned dies. I came here yesterday; and, oh! I am miserable²⁹, and I want Jasper?”
 
“Who is Jasper?”
 
“My maid. Such a darling!—the only person here who cares in the least for me. Oh, please, please tell me your name! If you do not live at the Castle, and if you can assure me from the bottom of your heart that you do not love any one—any one who lives in the Castle—why, I will love you. You are sweetly pretty! What is your name?”
 
“Sylvia Leeson. I live three miles from here, but I adore the Castle. I should like to come here often.”
 
“You adore it! Then that is because you know nothing about it. Do you adore Audrey?”
 
“Is Audrey the young lady of the Castle?”
 
“She is not the young lady of the Castle. I am the young lady of the Castle. But have you ever seen her?”
 
“Once; and then she was rude to me.”
 
“Ah! I thought so. I don’t think she could be 64 very polite to anybody. Now, suppose you and I become friends? The Castle belongs to me—or will when Uncle Ned dies. I can order people to come or people to go; and I order you to come. You shall come up to the house with me. You shall have lunch with me; you shall really. I have got a lovely suite³⁰ of rooms—a bedroom of blue-and-silver and a little sitting-room³¹ for my own use; and you shall come there, and Jasper shall serve us both. Do you know that you are sweetly pretty?—just like a gipsy. You are lovely! Will you come with me now? Do! come at once.”
 
Sylvia laughed. She looked full at Evelyn; then she said abruptly³²:
 
“May I ask you a very straight question?”
 
“I love straight questions,” replied Evelyn.
 
“Can you give me a right, good, big lunch? Do you know that I am very hungry? Were you ever very hungry?”
 
“Oh, sometimes,” replied Evelyn, staring very hard at her. “I lived on a ranch, you know—or perhaps you don’t know.”
 
“I don’t know what a ranch is.”
 
“How funny! I thought everybody knew. You see, I am not English; I am Tasmanian. My father was an Englishman, but he died when I was a little baby, and I lived with mothery—the sweetest, the dearest, the darlingest woman on earth—on a ranch in Tasmania. Mothery is dead, and I have come here, and all the place will belong to me—not to Audrey—some day. Yes, I was hungry when we 65 went on long expeditions, which we used to do in fine weather, but there was always something handy to eat. I have heard of people who are hungry and there is nothing handy to eat. Do you belong to that sort?”
 
“Yes, to that sort,” said Sylvia, nodding. “I will tell you about myself presently. Yes, take me to the house, please. I know he will be angry when he knows it, but I am going all the same.”
 
“Who is he?”
 
“I will tell you about him when you know the rest. Take me to the house, quick. I was there once before, on New Year’s Day, when every one—every one has a right to come. I hope you will keep up that splendid custom when you get the property. I ate a lot then. I longed to take some for him, but it was the rule that I must not do that. I told him about it afterwards: game-pie, two helpings³³; venison pasty, two ditto.”
 
“Oh, that is dull!” interrupted Evelyn. “Have you not forgotten yet about a lunch you had some days ago?”
 
“You would not if you were in my shoes,” said Sylvia. “But come; if we stay talking much longer some one will see us and prevent me from going to the house with you.”
 
“I should like to find the person who could prevent me from doing what I like to do!” replied Evelyn. “Come, Sylvia, come.”
 
Evelyn took the tall, dark girl’s hand, and they both set to running, and entered the house by the 66 side entrance. They had the coast clear, as Evelyn expressed it, and ran up at once to her suite of rooms. Jasper was not in; the rooms were empty. They ran through the bedroom and found themselves in the beautifully furnished boudoir. A fire was blazing on the hearth³⁴; the windows were slightly open; the air, quite mild and fresh—for the day was like a spring one—came in at the open casement³⁵. Evelyn ran and shut it, and then turned and faced her companion.
 
“There!” she said. She came close up to Sylvia, and almost whispered, “Suppose Jasper brings lunch for both of us up here? She will if I command her. I will ring the bell and she’ll come. Would you not like that?”
 
“Yes, I’d like it much—much the best,” said Sylvia. “I am afraid of Lady Frances. And Miss Audrey can be very rude. She was very chuff with me on New Year’s Day.”
 
“She won’t be chuff with you in my presence,” said Evelyn. “Ah! here comes Jasper.”
 
Jasper, looking slightly excited, now appeared on the scene.
 
“Well, my darling!” she said. She rushed up to Evelyn and clasped her in her arms. “Oh, my own sweet Eve, and how are you getting on?” she exclaimed. “I am thinking this is not the place for you.”
 
“We will talk of that another time, please, Jasper,” said Evelyn, with unwonted dignity. “I have brought a friend to lunch with me. This young 67 lady is called Miss Sylvia Leeson, and she is awfully³⁶ hungry, and we’d both like a big lunch in this room. Can you smuggle³⁷ things up, Jasper?”
 
“Her ladyship will be mad,” exclaimed Jasper. “I was told in the servants’ hall that she was downright annoyed at your not going to breakfast; if you are not at lunch she will move heaven and earth.”
 
“Let her; it will be fun,” said Evelyn. “I am going to lunch here with my friend Sylvia Leeson. Bring a lot of things up, Jasper—good things, rich things, tempting³⁸ things; you know what sort I like.”
 
“I’ll try if there is a bit of pork and some mincepies and plum-pudding and cream and such-like down-stairs. And you’d fancy your chocolate, would you not?”
 
“Rather! Get all you can, and be as quick as ever you can.”
 
Jasper accordingly withdrew, and in a short time appeared with a laden³⁹ tray in her hands.
 
“I had to run the gauntlet of the footman and the butler too; and what they will tell Lady Frances goodness knows, but I do not,” answered Jasper. “But there, if things have to come to a crisis, why, they must. You will not forget me when the storm breaks, will you, Evelyn?”
 
“I’ll never forget you,” said Evelyn, with enthusiasm. “You are the dearest and darlingest thing left now that mothery is in heaven; and Sylvia will love you too. I have been telling her all about you.—Now, Sylvia, you will not be hungry long.”