Part 22 (2/2)
”There will be a very small breakfast to-morrow,” he said in a mournful tone; ”but you, Sylvia, after your enormous supper, will scarcely require a large one.”
Sylvia made no answer. She took her father's hand and walked back with him through the pa.s.sage. 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 was lined with fur, a relic of bygone and happier days. Sylvia turned the big 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 very strange! 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 am obliged to lead. I know that I am doing the right thing. I am no longer lavishly wasting that which has been entrusted to me, but am, on the contrary, saving for the day of need. My dear girl, you and I have planned our life of retrenchment. How much does our food cost us for a week?”
”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 of kindness, grew sharp and became slightly narrowed; a watchful expression came into his face.
”Beware, Sylvia, how you agitate me; you know the consequences.”
”Since mother died,” answered the girl, ”I have never agitated you; I have always tried to do exactly as you wished.”
”On the whole you have been a good girl; your one and only fault has been your greediness. Last night, it is true, you displeased me very deeply, but on your promise never to transgress so again I have forgiven you.”
”Father,” said Sylvia in a tremulous tone, ”I must speak, and now. You must not be angry, father; but you say that we spend too much on housekeeping. We do not; we spend too little.”
”Sylvia!”
”Yes; I am not going to be afraid,” continued the girl. ”You were displeased with me to-night-yes, I know you were-because I nearly finished 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 poor the 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. I cannot bear the cold of this house. I want warmth, and I want food, and I want clothes that will keep the chill away. That is all-just physical things. I do not ask for fun, nor for companions of my own age, nor for anything of that sort, but I do ask you, father, not to oblige me to lead this miserable, starved life in the future.”
Sylvia paused; her courage, after all, was short-lived. The look on her father's face arrested her words. He wore a stony look. His face, which had been fairly animated, had lost almost all expression. The pupils of his eyes were narrowed to a pin's point. Those eyes fixed themselves on the girl's face as though they were gimlets, as though they meant to pierce right into her very soul. Alarm now took the place of beseeching.
”Never mind,” she said-”never mind; it was just your wild little rebellious Sylvia. Don't look at me like that. Don't-don't! Oh, I will bear 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 some one had beaten her.
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