It was very late indeed when Sylvia got home. On this occasion she was not allowed to return to The Priory unaccompanied; Lady Frances insisted on Read going with her. Read said very little as the two walked over the roads together; but she was ever a woman of few words. Sylvia longed to question her, as she wanted to take as much news as possible to Jasper, but Read’s face was decidedly uninviting. As soon as the woman had gone, Sylvia slipped round to the back entrance, where Jasper was waiting for her. Jasper had the gate ajar, and Pilot was standing2 by her side.
“Come, darling—come right in,” she said. “The coast is clear, and, oh! I have a lot to tell you.”
She fastened the back gate, making it look as though it had not been disturbed for years, and a moment later the woman and the girl were standing in the warm kitchen.
“The door is locked, and he will not come,” said Jasper. “He is quite well, and I heard him go up-stairs to his bed an hour ago.”
“And did he eat anything, Jasper?”
“Oh, did he not, my love? Oh, I am fit to die with laughter when I think of it! He imagines 254 that he has demolished3 one quarter of the scraggiest hen in the hen-house.”
“What! old Wallaroo?” replied Sylvia, a smile breaking over her face.
“Wallaroo, or whatever outlandish name you like to call the bird.”
“Please tell me all about it.”
Sylvia sank down as she spoke4 into a chair. Jasper related her morning’s adventure, and the two laughed heartily5.
“Only it seems a shame to deceive him,” said Sylvia at last. “And so Wallaroo has really gone! Do you know, I shall miss her; I have stood and watched her antics for so many long days. She was the most outrageous6 flirt7 of any bird I have ever come across, and so indignant when old Roger paid the least attention to any of his other wives.”
“She has passed her flirting8 days,” replied Jasper, “and is now the property of little Tim Donovan in the village; perhaps, however, she will get more food there. My dear Miss Sylvia, you must make up your mind that each one of those birds has to be disposed of in secret, and that I in exchange get in sleek9 and fat young fowls10 for your father’s benefit. But now, that is enough on the subject for the present. Tell me all about Miss Evelyn; I am just dying to hear.”
“She will meet you on Tuesday evening at nine o’clock by the turnstile in the shrubbery,” replied Sylvia.
“That is right. What a brave, dear, plucky12 pet she is!” 255
Sylvia was silent.
“What is the matter with you, Miss Sylvia? Had you not a happy day?”
“I had—very, very happy until just before dinner.”
“And what happened then?”
“I will tell you in the morning, Jasper—not to-night. Something happened then. I am sorry and sad, but I will tell you in the morning. I must slip up to bed now without father knowing it.”
“Your father thinks that you are in bed, for I went up, just imitating your step to perfection, an hour before he did, and I went into your room and shut the door; and when he went up he knocked at the door, and I answered in your voice that I had a bit of a headache and had gone to bed. He asked me if I had had any supper, and I said no; and he said the best thing for a headache was to rest the stomach. Bless you! he is keen on that, whatever else he is not keen on. He went off to his bed thinking you were snug13 in yours. When I made sure that he was well in his bed, which I could tell by the creaking of the bedstead, I let myself out. I had oiled the lock previously14. I shut the door without making a sound loud enough to wake a mouse, and crept down-stairs; and here I am. You must not go up to-night or you will give me away, and there will be a fine to-do. You must sleep in my cozy15 room to-night.”
“Well, I do not mind that,” replied Sylvia. “How clever you are, Jasper! You really did manage most 256 wonderfully; only again I must say it seems a shame to deceive my dear old father.”
“It is a question of dying in the cause of your dear old father or deceiving him,” replied Jasper in blunt tones. “Now then, come to bed, my love, for if you are not dead with sleep I am.”
The next morning Mr. Leeson was in admirable spirits. He met Sylvia at breakfast, and congratulated her on the long day she had spent in the open air.
“And you look all the better for it,” he said. “I was too busy to think about you at tea-time; indeed, I did not have any tea, having consumed a most admirable luncheon16 some time before one o’clock. I was so very busy attending to my accounts all the afternoon that I quite forgot my dear little girl. Well, I have made arrangements, dearest, to buy shares in the Kilcolman Gold-mines. The thing may or may not turn up trumps17, but in any case I have made an effort to spare a little money to buy some of the shares. That means that we must be extra prudent18 and careful for the next year or so. You will aid me in that, will you not, Sylvia? You will solemnly promise me, my dear and only child, that you will not give way to recklessness; when you see a penny you will look at it two or three times before you spend it. You have not the least idea how careful it makes you to keep what I call close and accurate accounts, every farthing made to produce its utmost value, and, if possible—if possible, my dear Sylvia—saved. It is surprising how little 257 man really wants here below; the luxuries of the present day are disgusting, enervating19, unnecessary. I speak to you very seriously, for now and then, I grieve to say, I have seen traces in you of what rendered my married life unhappy.”
“Father, you must not speak against mother,” said Sylvia. Her face was pale and her voice trembled. “There was no one like mother,” she continued, “and for her sake I——”
“Yes, Sylvia, what do you do for her sake?”
“I put up with this death in life. Oh father, father, do you think I really—really like it?”
Mr. Leeson looked with some alarm at his child. Sylvia’s eyes were full of tears; she laid her hands on the table, bent20 forward, and looked full across at her father.
“For mother’s sake I bear it; you cannot think that I like it!” she repeated.
Mr. Leeson’s first amazement21 now gave place to cold displeasure.
“We will not pursue this topic,” he said. “I have something more to tell you. I made a pleasant discovery yesterday. During your absence a strange thing occurred. A gipsy woman entered the avenue and walked up to the front door, unmolested by Pilot. She seemed to have a strange power over Pilot, for the dog did not bar her entrance in the least. I naturally went to see what she wanted, and she told me that she had come, thinking I might have some fowls for sale. Now, you know, my dear, those old birds in the hen-house have long been 258 eating their heads off, and I rather hailed an opportunity of getting rid of them; they only lay eggs—and that but a few—in the warm weather, and during the winter we are at a loss by our efforts to keep them alive.”
“I know plenty about fowls,” said Sylvia then. “They need hot suppers and all sorts of good things to make them lay eggs in cold weather.”
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