He was standing2 in his cold and desolate3 sitting-room4. The fire was burning low in the grate. Sylvia shivered slightly, and bending down, took up a pair of tongs5 to put some more coals on the expiring fire.
“No, no, my dear—don’t,” said her father. “There is nothing more disagreeable than a person who always needs coddling. The night is quite hot for the time of year. Do you know, Sylvia, that I made during the last week a distinct saving. I allowed you, as I always do, ten shillings for the household expenses. You managed capitally on eight shillings. We really lived like fighting-cocks; and what is nicest of all, my dear daughter, you look the better in consequence.”
Sylvia did not speak.
“I notice, too,” continued Mr. Leeson, a still more satisfied smile playing round his lips, “that you eat less than you did before. Last night I was pleased to observe how truly abstemious6 you were at supper.” 199
“Father,” said Sylvia suddenly, “you eat less and less; how can you keep up your strength at this rate? Cannot you see, clever man that you are, that you need food and warmth to keep you alive?”
“It depends absolutely,” replied Mr. Leeson, “on how we accustom7 ourselves to certain habits. Habits, my dear daughter, are the chains which link us to life, and we forge them ourselves. With good habits we lead good lives. With pernicious habits we sink: the chains of those habits are too thick, too rusty8, too heavy; we cannot soar. I am glad to see that you, my dear little girl, are no longer the victim of habits of greediness and desire for unnecessary luxuries.”
“Well, father, dinner is ready now. Won’t you come and eat it?”
“Always harping9 on food,” said Mr. Leeson. “It is really sad.”
“You must come and eat while the things are hot,” answered Sylvia.
Mr. Leeson followed his daughter. He was, notwithstanding all his words to the contrary, slightly hungry that morning; the intense cold—although he spoke10 of the heat—made him so. He sat down, therefore, and removed the cover from a dish on which reposed11 a tiny chop.
“Ah,” he said, “how tempting12 it looks! We will divide it, dear. I will take the bone; far be it from me to wish to starve you, my sweet child.”
He took up his knife to cut the chop. As he did so Sylvia’s face turned white. 200
“No, thank you,” she said. “It really so happens that I don’t want it. Please eat it all. And see,” she continued, with a little pride, lifting the cover of a dish which stood in front of her own plate; “I have been teaching myself to cook; you cannot blame me for making the best of my materials. How nice these fried potatoes look! Have some, won’t you, father?”
“You must have used something to fry them in,” said Mr. Leeson, an angry frown on his face. “Well, well,” he added, mollified by the delicious smell, which could not but gratify his hungry feelings—“all right; I will take a few.”
Sylvia piled his plate. She played with a few potatoes herself, and Mr. Leeson ate in satisfied silence.
“Really they are nice,” he said. “I have enjoyed my dinner. I do not know when I made such a luxurious13 meal. I shall not need any supper to-night.”
“But I shall,” said Sylvia stoutly14. “There will be supper at nine o’clock as usual, and I hope you will be present, father.”
“Well, my dear, have something very plain. I am absolutely satisfied for twenty-four hours. And you, darling—did you make a good meal?”
“Yes, thank you, father.”
“There were a great many potatoes cooked. I see they are all finished.”
“Yes, father.”
“I am now going back to my sitting-room. I shall 201 be engaged for some hours. What are you going to do, Sylvia?”
“I shall go out presently for a walk.”
“Is it not rather dangerous for you to wander about in such deep snow?”
“Oh, I like it, father; I enjoy it. I could not possibly stay at home.”
“Very well, my dear child. You are a good girl. But, Sylvia dear, it strikes me that we had better not have any more frying done; it must consume a great quantity of fuel. Now, that chop might have been boiled in a small saucepan, and it really would have been quite as nutritious15. And, my dear, there would have been the broth—the liquor, I mean—that it had been boiled in; it would have made an excellent soup with rice in it. I have been lately compiling some recipes for living what is called the unluxurious life. When I have completed my little recipes I will hand them down to posterity16. I shall publish them. I quite imagine that they will have a large sale, and may bring me in some trifling17 returns—eh, Sylvia?”
Sylvia made no answer.
“My dear,” said her father suddenly, “I have noticed of late that you are a little extravagant18 in the amount of coals you use. It is your only extravagance, my dear child, so I will not say much about it.”
“But, father, I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
“There is smoke—smoke issuing from the kitchen 202 chimney at times when there ought to be none,” said Mr. Leeson in a severe voice. “But there, dear, I won’t keep you now. I expect to have a busy afternoon. I am feeling so nicely after our simple little lunch, my dear daughter.”
Mr. Leeson touched Sylvia’s smooth cheek with his lips, went into the sitting-room, and shut the door.
“The fire must be quite out by now,” she said to herself. “Poor, poor father! Oh dear! oh dear! if he discovers that Jasper is here I shall be done for. Now that I know the difference which Jasper’s presence makes, I really could not live without her.”
She listened for a moment, noticed that all was still in the big sitting-room (as likely as not her father had dropped asleep), and then, turning to her left, went quickly away in the direction of the kitchen. When she entered the kitchen she locked the door. There was a clear and almost smokeless fire in the range, and drawn19 up close to it was a table covered with a white cloth; on the table were preparations for a meal.
“Well, Sylvia,” said Jasper, “and how did he enjoy his chop? How much of it did he give to you, my dear?”
“Oh, none at all, Jasper. I pretended I was not hungry. It was such a pleasure to see him eat it!”
“And what about the fried potatoes, love?”
“He ate them too with such an appetite—I just took a few to satisfy him. Do you know, Jasper, he says that he thinks an abstemious life agrees with 203 me. He says that I am looking very well, and that he is quite sure no one needs big fires and plenty of food in cold weather—it is simply and entirely20 a matter of habit.”
“Oh! don’t talk to me of him any more,” said Jasper. “He is the sort of man to give me the dismals. I cannot tell you how often I dream of him at night. You are a great deal too good to him, Sylvia, and that is the truth. But here—here is our dinner, you poor frozen lamb. Eat now and satisfy yourself.”
Sylvia sat down and ate with considerable appetite the good and nourishing food which Jasper had provided. As she did so her bright, clear, dark eyes grew brighter than ever, and her young cheeks became full of the lovely color of the damask rose. She pushed her hair from her forehead, and looked thoughtfully into the fire.
“You feel better, dear, don’t you?” asked Jasper.
“Better!” said the young girl. “I feel alive. I wonder, Jasper, how long it will last.”
“Why should it not go on for some time, dear? I have money—enough, that is, for the present.”
“But you are spending your money on me.”
“Not at all. You are keeping me and feeding me. I give you twenty shillings a week, and out of that you feed me as well as yourself.”
“Oh, that twenty shillings!” cried Sylvia. “What riches it seems! The first week I got it I really felt that I should never, never be able to come to the end of it. I quite trembled when I was in father’s 204 presence. I dreaded21 that he might see the money lying in my pocket. It seemed impossible that he, who loves money so much, would not notice it; but he did not, and now I am almost accustomed to it. Oh Jasper, you have saved my life!”
“It is well to have lived for some good purpose,” said Jasper in a guarded tone. She looked at the young girl, and a quick sigh came to her lips.
“Do you know,” she said abruptly22, “that I mean to do more than feed you and warm you?”
“But what more could you do?”
“Why, clothe you, love—clothe you.”
“No, Jasper; you must not.”
“But I must and will,” said Jasper. “I have smuggled23 in all my belongings24, and the dear old gentleman does not know a single bit about it. Bless you! notwithstanding that Pilot of his, and the way he himself sneaks25 about and watches—notwithstanding all these things, I, Amelia Jasper, am a match for him. Yes, my dear, my belongings are in this house, and one of the trunks contains little Evelyn’s clothes—the clothes she is not allowed to wear. I mean to alter them, and add to them, and rearrange them, and make them fit for you, my bonny girl.”
“It is a temptation,” said Sylvia; “but, Jasper dear, I dare not allow you to do it. If I were to appear in anything but the very plainest clothes father would discover there was something up; he would get into a state of terror, and my life would not be worth living. When mother was alive she 205 sometimes tried to dress me as I ought to be dressed, and I remember now a terrible scene and mother’s tears. There was an occasion when mother gave me a little
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