“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. We never 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 trump card—“a pound a week,” she continued—“twenty whole shillings put in the palm of that pretty little hand of yours, paid regularly in advance; and you might have me in a big house like that without anybody knowing. I heard you speak of the gentleman, your father; he need never know. Is there not a room at The Priory which no one goes into, and could not I sleep there? And you’d have money, miss—twenty shillings; and I’d feed you up with chocolate, miss, and bread and butter, and—oh! lots of other things. I have not been on a ranch in Tasmania for nothing. You could hide me at The Priory, and you could keep me acquainted with all that happened to my little Eve, and I’d pay for it, miss, and not a soul on earth 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! Of course I cannot have you. To deceive him—to shock him—why——Oh, I dare not—I dare not! It would not be safe. There are times when he is scarcely—yes, scarcely himself; and I must not try him too far. Oh, what have I said?”
“Nothing, my dear—nothing. You are a bit overcome. And now, shall I tell you 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, and you are cold, and you are frightened—you who ought never to tremble; you who under ordinary circumstances ought to know no fear; you who are beautiful—yes, beautiful! But you tremble because that poor young body of yours needs food and warmth—poor child!—I know.”
“Go!” said Sylvia. They were her only words.