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Q3 "STongre Street, - aroronto- P.S. — Importers of Ladies' Silk Riding Hats and Velvet Hunting Caps. "sheba: A STUDY OF GIRLHOOD, Bv RITA, AUTHOR OP "dame DURDBN," " LIKE DIAN's KISS," "A SINLBSS SKOBBT," "faustine," etc., ETO. TORONTO: THE NATIONAL PUBLISHING COMPANY. mm^mmt ■H Entered according to the Act ef the Parliament of Canada in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture by the National Pububhino Compant, Toronto, in the year one thousand eight hundred and eighty-nine. " SIIEBA." A STUDY OF GIRLHOOD CHAPTER I. SWEETHEARTS. " Coo EE — coo-ee — coo-ee ! " The last syllable was so prolonged and ear-piercing, that a figure almost hidden from sight in a leafy wilderness of tangled shrub and grass, raised itself impatiently on one arm and looked round in the direction of the sound. The retreat she had discovered for herself was closed in by rough wooden palings, and it was towards an aperture in one of these that a pair of dark sombre eyes flashed their angry challenge. " Another of you boys ! Well, what do you want, Ted Sanderson ? " The expression of the face as seen through the palings, was somewhat sheepish and bashful. " Oh," said the boy, with affected indifference, " I — I only wanted to say I had brought you something." " You might have said it without making such a row," the girl rejoined crossly. " What have you brought ? " " Oh, only a few peaches." " Bobby Burton was here not a quarter-of-an-hour ago," said the girl, turning away with supreme indifference; "and he brought me a hatful of loquats. I like them much better than peaches. Why, we've peaches enough in the garden to supply all Sydney. What's the use of bringing more ? " " Well, don't be cross, Sheba. I'll bring you loquats to-morrow, and, I say, do come a little nearer, I've got someihing else to tell you." " Oh, do go away," cried the girl impatiently. " I'm sick to death of you all ! This comes of being the only girl in the place. The moment school is over you all come here and pester my life •• SHEBA. out with your nonsense ; I'm not coming any nearer — so there ! it's much too hot to move ; and you'll get a sunstroke if you don't go home." There was no answer for a moment or two, so concluding that her advice had been taken, the girl turned once more to her book, tossing back a mane of dark curling hair, and leaning her cheeks on either hand, supported by her elbows. The attitude was one of more comfort than grace, and perhaps for that reason com- mended itself to feminine fourteen, which represents Sheba Orma- troyd with regard to sex and age. For the rest, she was dark, thin, angular and even more precocious than the generality of Australian " Cornstalks," the designation of the white " natives " of the country. But peace was not to be yet. Something came flying over the palings, and, taking its way past shrub and gum tree and all the wild luxuriant tangle of weed and creeper and flower that made the charm of Sheba's " Wilderness," fell almost at her elbow. She drew herself up impatiently ; before her was a folded piece of paper, with a stone inclosed to weight its flight to her. She seized it, and tossing the stone aside, spread out the not ever clean scrap and read it. Not much to read, only five words in a scrawling irregular hand. " Will you be my sweetheart ? " She looked at the missive, and the frown on her brow deepened as she tossed the paper contemptuously aside, and once more turned her attention to her book. Five minutes passed quickly, then a long low whistle broke the sultry stillness, and a voice cried entreatingly : " Have you read it?" The girl sprang to her feet. " Yes, of course," she said crossly. " Such rubbish. What on earth do you want to be sweet- hearts for ? " " Because — well, because I'm awfully fond of you and — and, oh, because all the other boys said you'd never look at me ; and do say * Yes,' Sheba, and I'll bring you some scent to-morrow. Mother got some to day from Sydney, and I'll make her give me i. bottle of it for you. No one has given you ///«/," with a voice of triumph. " Scent ! " said Sheba thoughtfully. " Well, I don't mind ; only don't go and put water into it so as to fill the bottle as you did before ; it was so weak that it didn't make my handkerchief smell a bit, even when I washed it in it." " Yes, I remember," laughed the youthful swain, who numbered fifteen years, but was nearly six feet high. " But say * Yes ' to what I ask, Sheba. You haven't told me yet." * SWEETHEARTS. » " Yes," said the girl tranquilly. " Of course it's understood the arrangement is only to stand until 1 get tired of you, and you're only to kiss me once a day when you're quite sure no one's by ! " " Very well ; but I may write ? " " If you like, certainly ; but what's the use of writing when you can speak to me ? " " Well, you see, writing's just to say sweetheart things ; it comes easier when you write." " Does it ? " she said doubtfully, and looked upwards through the sheltering boughs to where the flawless burning blue of the sky spread its brilliant canopy. •' *' I write," she went on presently, " heaps and heaps of things, but not about sweethearts, only about the stars and the flowers, and why we think, and why God lets us live, and what it will all end in." "You are a funny girl," said the young swain admiringly. " However, that's settled ; I made up my mind I would ask you to-day and I've done it. What are you reading there ? " " Roman history," said Sheba, seating herself on the soft tangle of grass and creeper that formed her nest. " It's awfully dry, isn't it ? " said the boy. " What makes you read it ? " " Because I like it for one thing, and because I've nothing else for another. Mother has a lot of books locked up in the book- case, but she'll never let me read one of them. Oh," clasping her hands round her knees and raising the great sombre, passion- ate eyes to the wide blue heavens, " what I wouldn't give to have books — hundreds and thousands of books 1 Books to read from morning till night. All the great thoughts of great men and women ! I think sometimes it's like a fever in me, this craze for reading, and I suppose," she added mournfully, " it will never be satisfied — never-! At least, as long as 1 stop here." " Perhaps," said Ted soothingly, " you won't stop here always." " Oh," she cried passionately, " I hope not, I hope not. I do so want to see the world. I should like to go everywhere ; to do everything. But what's the use of talking, we're horribly poor, and always will be, I suppose ; and though I've rich relations in England they're never likely to trouble their heads about me. As for taking me travelling, phev/ — w." She gave a low, long, peculiar whistle, and a look of comical resignation came over her face. " I suppose you won't be rich, Ted ? " she added speculatively. " I don't know," said the boy. " I may. Lots of squatters are. But then it takes time." 1—2 SHEBA. "Yes," said Sheba, " so it does, and I sappose when I am old I won't feel ciuite so keen about things as I do now. I wouldn't mind marrying you if you were rich, Ted ; that's to say if you would let me have my owr* way in everything. I never get it at home, so when I make a change I should like it to be to my advantage." *' Wouldn't you marry me before 1 was rich ? " asked the boy eagerly. " I'd try to get on so much harder if I had you with me. I've always been so fond of you, you know, Sheba, only I was afraid to tell you, for vou do snap at the boys so, and you never seemed to care about any one except Hex." " It would be odd," said Sheba disdainfully, " if I didn't care for my own brother. Don't talk nonsense, Ted ; and really, you had better go home now, for it's nearly tea-time, and I must go in and make it. Mother has one of her bad headaches, and the new servant who came from Sydney last night is as ignorant as a pig-" " All right ; I'm going. When shall I see you again ? " *' Oh," said the girl indifferently, " I'm generally here in the afternoons." " But then there's the palings," he objected. She laughed ; the laugh was a charming one, clear and sweet as silver bells and with the ring of pure heart-whole youth in it. " What of that ? I can talk to you just as well through them, as within them." " Well, come nearer now ; you know we're sweethearts, so you might let me have a kiss." The girl walked straight up to the palings, her eyes dancing with mischief and laughter. Then she thrust one small brown hand through the aperture. "Kiss that," she said, "it will do for to-day." " No, thank you," said Ted huffily. " Any ond can kiss hands ; it's only a mark of respect." ''You should be ashamed," said Sheba, "to say you don't n'spect your sweetheart ! " She turned away and marched off in quite a dignified manner, leaving her young swain utterly disconcerted. Seeing that there was no likelihood of her return, Ted took his departure also, look- ing somewhat sulky and depressed. He was scarcely out of sight when the givl came running back. She had forgotten her Roman history. She stooped and picked up the book and was once more retreating when a soft low-breathed " Coo-ee," made her turn to the opening in the palings. .Another face, round, rosy, boyish, was staring at her. SWEETHEARTS. lOldl Duldn't if you it it at to my the boy ou with , only I ind you In't care ally, you list go in and the rant as a e in the I sweet as n it. igh them, ts, so you icing with own hand ill do for ss hands ; you don't d manner, that there also, look- lut of sight ler Roman once more her turn to )sy, boyish, "Sheba," came a voice of entreaty from the new-comer, "come here, do ; just a minute. I've something to tell you." "Bobby Burton, one," said the girl; "Ted Sanderson, two; Felix Short, three. Now pray what is your — something ? " "It's real news ! " said the boy eagerly. "You ?<'/// be astci • ished. Not a soul knows it yet, but me and Mr. Crawley ; he told me just as I was coming out of school." " Well, what is it ? " asked Sheba, coming nearer, but with no apparent interest in face or voice. She was used to the " boys " and their wonderful pieces of news, which somehow when imparted always fell short of actual novelty. " Will you give me a kiss if I tell you ? " " Certainly not," she said scornfully. " I hate kissing ! " " Well," he said, somewhat abashed, " here it is ; you know the Crow's Nest, that old dreary tumble-down looking place in the hollow, a mile down the road ? " " Yes, of course. What about it ? " " Some one is coming to live there. Only fancy ! a gentlem^in from England and a lot of girls. There, now. Miss Sheba, won't your nose be put out of joint ; you'll no longer be the only one." " You are a very v "j'gar boy," said Sheba with dignity ; " but if your news is true it's about the only thing worth hearing that I've ever heard you say. Girls — oh ! " and she clasped her hands in ecstasy, " how lovely. How many of them ? " ^ " About six, I believe," said her informant. " Xou don't mean to say you're really glad ? " " Do I ever say anything I don'^ mean ? " asked Sheba with scorn. " You know that's why I am always called disagreeable." " I never called you that," said the boy eagerly. " No, I don't think you did ; not that it would have mattered. Now I wonder if this is true. What's the name of the people ? " " Saxton, I believe. English people have rum names." The girl laughed. " Are not ours of English origin ? I'm sure mine's funny enough. What's that you're holding under your arm all this time ? " " It's — it's — something for you." " Oh," said Sheba indifferently, " the third ' something.' Well, what's yours ? " " A book," answered the boy. " A book ! " Her whole face glowed and changed. " Oh, you dear FeUx! you're the best of the lot. Let me see it. What's the name ? " " It's a lovely book," he said, " but I'll only give it you on one condition." "SHEBA." "Wliat'sthat?" " That you'll be my sweetheart." " Oh, dear," cried the girl in comic despair, " what has come over you all ? Why you're the third who's asked me this after noon. I can't be everybody's sweetheart. Why didn't you conic sooner? I've promised Ted Sanderson now, and he's going u> bring me some scent to-morrow. Won't it do if I promise to be your sweetheart next ? " " No, thank you," said Felix sturdily. " Ted's a big fellow, but I'm as good as he any day, and I'm much fonder of you." " How can you tell that ? " asked Sheba speculatively. " You caii't possibly know how fond he is." " He can't be as fond as I am," reiterated the third adm'rer. " It's not possible. Haven't I been after you for all this last year ? and I saved up my money to buy you this book because I heard you say you'd like to read it. It's the * Arabian Nights,* and full of pictures — there ! " The girl turned pale ; her breath came short and eager v/ith intense excitement. " Oh, Felix, is it really ? How good of you. There's nothing almost I wouldn't give you for that book, but I can't break my promise ; it wouldn't be right." " I suppose not," said Felix loftily, " so T won't trouble you any more. I wish you joy of your great lumbering Cornstalk. You've made a nice choice. Scent ! What's scent ? Just a sniff or two and then it's all gone ; but a book — and a book like this — why you could read it over and over again and never be tired." " I know," said Sheba despairingly, " but I can't help it. Good- bye, Felix, you had better give it to one of the new girls. There'll be svveethearts enough for you all now. I hope I shall have a little peace." She turned away ; her eyes were full of tears. The disappoint- ment of that moment was in its way as keen and hard to bear as any sorrow of laier life, by which it may look trivial. The boy stood and watched her, and his face softened. He glanced at the book in his hand and then at the slight girl's figure moving away with downbent liead, and slow and halting step. "Sheba," he called hesitatin-ly ; " I say, Sheba ! " She stopped and looked back. " Well ? " she said languidly. " Here, come back. You shall have the book. I got it for you and it s- 'nis a shame to disappoint you. There, cheer up, old girl ; I hatt. to see you cry. But you'll give me a kiss now, won't you ? " ♦♦ J'd ^ive you «t hundred," cried Sheba gratefully, " only I SWEETHEARTS. He figure ip. idly, it for er up, s now, )nly I mustn't kiss any one else so long as I'm sweethearts with Ted. You know that's the rule." " Oh, bother Ted," cried the boy angrily. " I'll fight him on Monday after school. Here, take your book." He flung the precious volume down at her feet and ran off, while the girl, flushed and radiant, flung herself full length down on the crushed grass, and tearing the paper wrappings from the coveted book, plunged straightway into the wondrous and not too moral introduction to the marvellous stories of the " Arabian Nights." She devoured page after page, history after history, oblivious of time. She might have remained in her hiding-place till dark, had not an interruption occurred at last which had the effect of bringing her down from her realms of enchantment with start- ling rapidity. A light form, graceful as a young fawn, came bounding through the tangled underwood, and a cold nose was rubbed against her cheek and startled her from her absorbed attitude. She sprang hastily up. " Billy," she cried, " good gracious, how have you found me ? " It was a beautiful young goat, milk-white save for the long silky brown ears, that was rubbing its head against her cotton gown, and uttering feeble little bleats of ecstasy. His presence sufficed to rouse Sheba to some sense of the passage of time, and fondling the pretty playful creature with one hand she picked up her books with the other, and ran off down a narrow foot-track, the goat by her side. The track wound its way through a perfect wilderness of unculti- vated ground, until at last it ended at seme broken palings which made a gap large enough for the girl to enter. She climbed through and the goat sprang after her. She was now in a wide cleared space, sheltered and surrounded by towering gum trees. Before htr was a low rambling house, built of stone, with a wide verandah running round it. A stone passage ran through from front to back ; the rooms opened off it on either side, and gave egress to the verandah by means of long windows which reached to the ground. The kitchen was not attached to the house, but stood a few yards off. A boy was standing in the back doorway and hailed Sheba as she came in sight. " Where have you been all this tim^ ; Do you know it's six o'clock?" *' Is it really ? " cried the girl in tropidation. " Is father home yet ? " 8 "SHEBA." " No, you may thank your lucky stars he isn't, and mother's asleep. Where were you ? " "Only in the wilderness; but Felix Short brought me a book. Oil, Hex, it's so lovely ; the 'Arabian Nights,' only fancy ! " " Phooh ! " rejoined Hex indifferently. " Books again. What on earth makes you so fond of them ? That's why you forgot about tea. Well, go and make it now. There's only cold meat for father, but if Sally hasn't cooked the potatoes properly you'll catch it. And, I say, put out some melon jam for me, there's a good girl ; I'm sick of peach. Here, Billy, Billy ; just look at him following you into the house ! He's like a dog. By-the-way, do you know Vic has got pups — four such beauties. I found them." " We'll go and see them after tea," said Sheba, disappearing down the passage to leave her precious books safe in her own room. She flung off her broad shady hat, seized a brush and made some sort of effort at tidying her rebellious locks, and then rushed into the one sitting room of the house to prepare the tea. In ten minutes it was ready, and Sheba and her brother went out into the verandah to watch for their father's return, I CHAPTER II. A NEW ARRIVAL. The wide verandah, with its slanting wooden roof, and pillars almost covered in the luxurious meshes of passion flower and Cape jessamine, constituted the chief " living room " of the family for most of the year. It led into a garden partially culti- vated, and separated from the road by the usual wooden palings. Beyond the road stretched a vast tract of uncultivated country, melting away into dark depths of forest, broken here and there by patches of " scrub " and dark gullies, while farther again, like a dim line against the bright horizon, ran an irregular chain of mountains, the subject of much speculation on the part of Sheba Ormatroyd, who had heard many weird and terrible tales of those mountains from friendly blacks, or wandering squatters. As she stood now, leaning on the low wooden rails of the ver- andah, her eyes wandered to that far-off" blue line. How near it looked, and yet how many hundreds of n iles it was away ! That was the worst or Australia, she thought. Everything was so vast, and so large, and so far off, it would take half a life-time to ex- plore it all. She sighed and turned to the goat, which was nibbling the green leaves by her side. She had had the creature A NEW ARRIVAL. from a tiny kid, and brought it up by dint of great care and trouble, and now it was her constant companion and followed her about like a dog, being, indeed, as docile and intelligent as any member of the canine race. She fondled its pretty ears now, and talked to it softly and caressingly, while a flock of pigeons came fluttering down from the eaves, and one snowy fantail perched itself on her shoulder and cooed sweetly in her ear. Sheba loved all dumb creatures with an almost passionat intensity. To live and breathe was to her a sufficient reason foi lavishing devotion, and bird and beast and even insects came in for a share of that large-hearted and protective tenderness which is inherent in some feminine natures. " Do you know, Hex," she said at last, as her feathered pets began to seek their roost with the decline of the sun, " do you know that the Crow's Nest has been taken at last ? " " Has it ? " said her brother eagerly. " Who told you ? " " Felix ; and he heard it from the schoolmaster. The people have come from England, he says. There is an old gentleman and a lot of girls." "Girls!" said He:: with contempt; "and from England! What on earth will they do in the bush ? " " You can't exactly call this the bush," said Sheba. " Every one says it will be quite a town, one day. With a church, and a school, and a store and a lot of houses, it's very different to most places. Look at Tanilba now." " Oh, of course, that's a few degrees worse," said Hex. " But I'm so sick of this wretched place. I'd like to live in Sydney, or Melbourne, or Bathurst." " I wouldn't," said Sheba, drawing a long breath and looking round. " I love air and space and freedom. They're better than towns any day." " Yet you're always longing to get away from here." " Yes, to travel aqd see the world and all the beautiful things in it, and what * civilization ' is like ; but I feel as if I could never live in a city, to be cramped up between walls and streets, not a sight of forest and sky, and rivers and mountains. Oh, it would be hateful 1 " " Well, so far as I can see," said her brother, " we're likely to live and die here, and nowhere else, so there's no use in wishing. But how late father is. It will soon be dark. I wish he'd make haste, I want my tea." The girl looked down the long hilly road, a rough and uneven one at its best, which led straight to the ferry some mile and a half off". No one was in sight yet. She turned to the long French to "SHEEA." window behind her ; it was open, but the inside blind was down. She cautiously lifted a corner and looked in. " Mother," she said softly, " may we have tea ? Hex is hungry, and it's half-past six now. There's no sign of father. I expect the steamer was late." " Yes, go and have your tea," said a querulous voice from within the room. " I will come directly. My head is better now." Sheba turned quickly ; as she did so there came a ** click " from the closing gate, and she saw two figures enter. " It is father!" she cried delightedly, and rushed down the verandah towards the garden. But then she stopped abruptly. A stranger was with her father, a tall man with a bronzed face and snow-white hair, yet not an old man by any means, despite those white locks. He smiled at the dark and puzzled girl-face, turned so wonder ingly in his direction. "One of your youngsters, eh, Ormatroyd?" he asked in pleasant cheery tones. A troop of dogs came flying out at this moment to welcome their master, and their loud barks and bays rendered speech almost impossible. However, when Mr. Ormatroyd's voice had secured silence, Sheba learnt that the stranger was no other than the new tenant of the Crow's Nest, and had come over from Sydney that evening with her father, and discovered during the journey that they were old college friends. Mr. Ormatroyd had insisted upon bringing him in to be introduced to his wife, and soon they were all seated at the table partaking of what she termed " bush fare," an anomalous meal, consisting of tea, corned beef, hot potatoes and home-made cakes and bread. Mrs. Ormatroyd presided over the tea-tray, and cut bread and jam for the children. Certainly Sheba did not resemble her mother in appearance, a fact which was being constantly brought before her in the light of a reproach. Mrs. Ormatroyd was a fair tall woman, with a beautiful figure, but her face, despite its regular features, was spoilt by an habitual expression of discontent and ill-temper. The expression, in fact, conveyed Mrs. Ormatroyd's normal state of mind. She was ill-tempered. Nothing satisfied her ; nothing pleased her. The trials and troubles she had met with in life were always worse than other people's troubles and trials. She received everything that crossed her own will or desires, with a spirit of resentment that only added to their burden. According to her own version of affairs, she had been specially singled out by Fate as an object for ill-luck, suffering, and hard- ships, and they were things to which she did not take kindly. Trouble embitters some natures ; it humbles into patience others. Mrs. Ormatroyd did not belong to the latter class. A NEW ARRIVAL. II I Sheba was one of her " trials," and had grown accustomed to hear herself quoted as such. She had run wild ever since she could remember. Her education had been chi-^fly what she taught herself from books, varied occasionally by a Latin lesson from her father, or a little musical instruction from her mother. The girl had a peculiarly vivid imagination far in excess of her years, and it was the principal source of all her domestic failures, for at times it completely ran away with her, and led her into perfect quagmires of fanciful troubles, and weird adventures. A chance word let fall would be sufficient to set her off, and her brain would develop the most fearful tragedies, with a rapidity that almost terrified herself. If Hex absented himself unaccountably, or her father was late, she would evolve a series of pictures from these trivial incidents, each more startling and harrowing than the last, till she woke from her trance of grief shedding bitter tears over the corpse or the grave, that her vivid fancy had made actual realities for the time being. To-night she was perfectly absorbed in the novelty of this stranger's visit and conversation — far too much absorbed to pay any attention to her meal. Eating was at all times si vexation to her. She hated formal meals, and detested the sight of flesh or fowl tortured into messes for the gratification of human appetites. She would have preferred living on fruit, and bread and water, to anything else, but in this, as in most other matters, her will came into conflict with her mother's,. and the result was disastrous for Sheba. Again and again to-night did sharp rebuke recall her attention to the untasted food by her side, and al last only the threat of being sent from the tabic- induced her to eat a few mouthfuls of bread, and drink her cold tea. Everything that Mr. Saxton said seemed to her so marvellous. The bare idea of meeting and associating with girls — real English girls who had seen London and the Queen — sent her into ecsta- sies, and thrilled her whole excitable and intense nature with a rai)ture of expectation. She was sick of boys, and there were so many boys here. Ted Sanderson alone had six brothers ; Bobby Burton two ; Felix Holt one. The schoolmaster, Mr. Crawley, was a widower with one son. The clergyman was childless, and the doctor, who had only lately settled in the place, and owned a curious rambling old wooden house, called WooUaby, was a grim old bachelor. These made up all the society of West Shore within a reason-, able distance, so Sheba had had things all her own way, and asso- 1 la •• SIIEBA." ciated only with boys from the time that she could spin a top, or climb a tree, or wield a bat at cricket. Her ambition of late had been to have a girl friend, as Provi- dence had denied her a sister. She had spent three years in pray- ing for one, but at last concluded reluctantly that its advent was not desirable to the Higher Powers, and gave up her petitions. But a friend, a girl like herself, with hopes, desires, aspirations and sympathies, surely that was not ah altogether impossible con- tingency. Poor Sheba ! who had yet to discover how very very different she was to most girls, and how unlikely it was that she ever would find one with kindred tastes and feelings. But at this present time she hung enraptured on Mr. Saxton's account of his girls. She heard their names, and thought them lovely. Bessie, the eldest, she decided was to be her friend — the special chosen of her heart. The others would take lower place, and do very well as ordinary playmates, but Bessie, who was beautiful and clever, and two years older than herself, she would be first and chief. Then came Floy, Beatrice and Nora. They were all to arrive on Monday, and this was Saturday, so she would have to com- mand her soul in patience until then. She gave a sigh of resigna- tion, and gulped down her tea. Her mother was telling her to leave the table, and Hex, having torn himself reluctantly from the charms of melon jam, was just putting away his chair. Sheba rose, then stood breathless, her eyes shining like stars, her hands clasped eagerly. Mr. Saxton was suggesting that his friend should walk over with him to his new domicile to see if the vans had arrived, and the man in charge had made any of the rooms habitable. " Oh," almost sobbed the girl, in her breathless eagerness, " may I come too, father ; do — do let me ? Oh please do ? " Mr. Saxton looked with amusement at the eager face. " Come by all means, my dear," he said. " It is a bright moonlight night, but can you walk as far ? " " Oh yes," cried Sheba, " twice as far." She.was trembling all over. Her father had not yet given permission, and Sheba had been brought up on the wholesome principle of being denied most things for which she pleaded or craved. Perhaps this siftiple request would be found to have some deleterious object or motive, and an inexorable " No " would crush her wild longings, and send her in sick agony of disappointment to weep Y heart out in solitude. However, the Fates were propitious for o.ice. Her father gave permission ; her mother, after objecting that she would be out far beyond her usual bed-time, at last gave a reluctant *' Yes." and ■M A NEW ARRIVAL. «3 in a top, as Provi- 5 in pray- vent was )etitions. pirations ible qon- ery very that she Saxton's jht them ind — the er place, ivho was le would to arrive to com- resigna- g her to from the :e stars, that his ee if the y of the gerness, o?' "Come It night, )Iing all sba had denied ssiftiple motive, id send olitude. er gave out far ;s." and Sheba flew off like a bird for her hat, the only outdoor dress she ever donned for one half the year, and in five minutes more was off, and dancing along with eager feet by side of her new acquaintance. It was night now, but night clear as day. The full moon shone with dazzling splendour, lighting every turn of the rough road, every leaf and wild flower, with marvellous distinctness. The sky was of the deepest loveliest blue, and gemmed from end to end with brilliant stars. The sultry heat of the day was over, and every waft of air seemed charged with subtle magnetism. From the bush on either side came strange noises and rustlings, the stir of life from creatures unseen ; the flutter of a bird's wing, the hoarse croak of a frog, the whirr of night moths, a deep low hum from a cloud of mosquitoes. Mr. Saxton glanced at Sheba, Jancing along by his side. " What a wild strange place it is," he said. " And you — I sup- pose you are a regular little bush girl, eh ? " " I don't know," said Sheba wistfully. " I really often wonder what I am like. You see I've never had any one to compare my- self with." " Indeed," he said, somewhat amused. " Well, we shall soon remedy that. I'm glad you will have my little girls for neighbours. I think they will cheer you up. You're an old-fashioned little mortal, I think." " Am I ?" said Sheba humbly. "I didn't know. I'm very sorry. Is it wrong to be old-fashioned ? Are no English girls like me ? " " I fancy not," said her companion laughing, and glancing at her somewhat peculiar attire, which consisted of an old faded cotton frock, not over clean, and far too short for her long and slender limbs, and a great flapping straw hat, brown in colour, a'nd absolutely without recommendation in point of shape, or trimming. " Who takes care of your little girls ? " asked Sheba presently. " Oh, they have an aunt, a sister of mine. She acts generally as governess and housekeeper," said Mr. Saxton. " You will like her. She has a way of getting on with girls." Sheba gave a deep sigh. " Oh," she cried, " if only it was Monday ! What time may I come, Mr. Saxton ? " He laughed. " Are you so impatient ? Well, not in the day, I should say ; it would be too hot. About this time, and I will bring you home. It is a mile, isn't it ? " " Yes," she said. " But I can come home by myself. I don't want any one to take care of me." " Aren't you afraid ? " " Afraid ? " she echoed. " Of what ? There's nothing that can hurt one here ! " 14 "SHEBA." I' ' ii "Not kangaroos," he asked, "or dingoes, or any of those wild animals I have heard of?" She laughed aloud, and turned back a little to her father, who was some paces behind, struggling with a refractory pipe. " Father," she cried, " Mr. Saxton thinks kangaroos and dingoes dangerous ; fancy that 1 " " He will learn better before he's lived a month at the Crow's Nest," said Mr. Ormatroyd, joining them. '* My dear fellow, there's nothing dangerous in the bush except snakes." Then he bade Sheba run on in front while he s^nd his friend talked business, and the girl obeyed, nothing loth, and begai: to hold commune with herself in her own peculiar fashion. " It is really as if I were waking up at last," she said, gazing rapturously at the blue sky, where, set low, and brilliant as jewels, gler.med the Southern Cross. " Let me see ; first, three sweethearts — not that they count for much — then my book, my lovely, delicious, longed-for book ! Then the news, then Mr. Saxton's arrival, and now my going to the Crow's Nest by moonlight. The one, one thing I have longtd to do for years ! Really to-night I think I am quite, quite happy. Oh, I hope — I hope — it will only lastl ** CHAPTER III. . AT THE CROW S NEST. The Crow's Nest was a strange, weird, dreary-looking place. The house itself, built of stone, and with wooden loof and verandah, was a rambling one-storied building, set in a perfect wilderness of shiuljs, trees and vegetation of all sorts. The garden had once been carefully cultivated, and still bore signs of past care in the masses of roses, fuchsia, hydrangea and oleanders that shed per- fume and brilliance everywhere, desi)ite years of neglect. Fruit trees grew in abundance ; pears, peaches, oranges, apricots, nec- t'lrines, plums, and the small and delicious-flavoured loquat covered acres of ground, and made a magnificent though wild and neglected orchard. The verandah was smothered in passion flower and vine, now in a stage of fruit bearing. There were the usual amount of French windows opening on to it, but at present long years of tenantless desolation imparted to the building a gloomy and neglected appearance. The usual wooden palings inclosed the grounds, A large gate hung loosely pn broken hinges, and two % J '^ AT TMK CROWS NKST. «5 « I unwieldy-looking vans were drawn up on what should liavc been the lawn, and some men were bearing in furniture and household goods through the open door wh'ch led into a large dark hall, from whence ojjcned rooms of various shapes and sizes. A Chinaman was standing in the verandah superintending the men's efforts and exchanging a fire of " chaff " with them. As the visitors approached he turned and greeted them with a low bow. " Good evening, masters and missee," he said. " John do very muchee, muchee. Come from Sydney this morning. Wash all floors. Makee all clean. Memble all big piecee orders." " Is this your servant ? " asked Sheba, delighted at the man's quaint appearance, and expression. " Yes, my cook and general factotum. My sister will bring a woman with' her from Sydney, but this chap was highly recom- mended, and I think he will suit. He is a first-rate cook and a splendid gardener. That's just what I want here. It's so difficult to get servants." "Yes," interpolated John, "me berry good cookce; makce muc^ nice dish out of nothing ; makee berry good garden. Chinaman makee better gardener than Englishee man. Englishee man no good— no good ! " " Well," said Mr. Saxton, laughing good-humouredly, " we'll see what you can do, John, by-and-by. Now let's go into the house and have a look at the rooms. I bought the place in Sydney and haven't the least idea what it's like." Sheba flitted in, disregarded. The house had a dreary forlorn look. The rooms were badly whitewashed, the mantelpieces of rough wood, and the windows were dirty and ill-fitting. There were no grates, only hearths ; but Sheba was used to that, and it did not seem to her to warrant Mr. Saxton's exclamations of horror. She amused herself by disposing of the rooms to the different occupant-;. This was to be Mr. Saxton's ; this, of course, his sister's ; and this small one, with its long windows wreathed by thambergia, would of course be Bessie's. There would be matting on the floor, and snowy curtains, and a little white bed. She could see it all, and the face of its girl occupant. She stood there so long wrapped in a maze of fancies and speculations — " Sheba'. 'reams," her mother always called them — that she lost all count of time, and was startled at last at the sound of her father's voice calling her. He and Mr. Saxton were in the verandah. "Come, child, we must be going," said her father. "It is nearly nine o'clock." i6 " SHEBA.* Sheba stood there a fnoment and looked round. The moon lit up all the wealth of fruit and leafage, the wild luxuriance of creepers and blossoms that scented the air with fragrance. Beyond lay vast depths of shadow, and through the still clear air came the rippling sound of a water-course. " Isn't it beautiful ! " cried the girl suddenly. " It is worth living, only to see such a night." The two men looked at her ; their faces were grave and anxious. They had been discussing matters of graver import than bush scenery. " That child seems half a poet," said Mr. Saxton to his friend, looking at the young rapt face and deep and solemn eyes. " She is very odd," said her father. " I can't think where she gets her fancies, and her passion for books. Her mother and I are prosaic folk enough." Sheba was silent. But all the way home, and in her dreams that eventful night, she seemed to hear the echo of those words — " Half a poet." Was it true ? Could it be true ? Had she solved at last the riddle of her strange nature — the secret of that inward craving, that terrible unrest, that made her thrill and tremble, and desire and doubt, where others simply lived and accepted ; that made her long to drink deep full draughts of knowledge with lips of unquenchable thirst — that seemed to set aside such trivial things as feminine beauty and adornment, and almost deify the majesty and richness of mental gifts. She lay there with the veil of the transparent curtains drawn around her bed, and gazed with solemn wondering eyes through the open window. How still, how sacred was the night ! Its rich scents swept uj) to her from the moonlit garden. Its mysteries spoke to her froin the starry heavens. Her heart seemed to glow and exult. The young blood in her veins, thrilled by nature's magnetic force, stirred in passionate tumult and fired her brain with thoughts that were too wild, too weird, too vivid, for utterance of common place words. She sat up in her bed, and the rich masses of dark hair — her one beauty — veiled her in dusky glory ; her eyes glowed like lamps of fire, and her heart beat so fast it almost frightened her. Then from her lips burst one imploring prayer — the outspring of this intense emotion, the very cry of her being to the divinity of its Creator : " Oh, Spirit of Life, omnipotent and great ! Give me neither wealth nor Lt au'y, nor any earthly gift, but a heart to feel and AT TIIK CROW S NKST. I? The moon uriance of fragrance. 11 clear air is worth d anxious, than bush his friend, es. where she ler and I sr dreams e words — at last the d craving, ind desire hat made ith lips of v'ial things le majesty ins drawn s through 5 swept uj) ) her iTOiu ult. The ;tic force, thoughts common hair — her owed like med her. outspring e divinity e neither I feel and i i a mind to know, and the power to ^\ eakto .thers of all that Thou dost spJUk to me. (iive me but this, and take all else of mine — heart, soul and spirit — to Vhy service, and I will bless and love Thee, now and evermore." Strange prayer fpr childish lips ; for in years Sheba was but a child. Strange prayer indeed of a poet-heart that future years might only crown with the thorns that are too sadly often the tribute of a woman's genius ! Strange, but yet not so strange, or so terrible^ as the answer which the Future was to bring. Contrasts are the salt of life ; but the contrasts in Sheba's life did not possess much savour for her, and certainly the difference between her rapt dreams and passionate prayers of Saturday night, and the calm flat prose of the ensuing Sunday morning, was great. First, after her cold bath came the ordeal of clean, starched, uncomfortable clothes. Then, every Sunday morning her mother made it a rule to brush, oil and plait that dusky cloud of hair which on week days streamed about her shoulders at its own sweet will. Even at her best Sheba was a plain child, but with her hair shining and smooth, and tightly drawn from her colourless irregular face, she looked positively ugly. However, Mrs. Or- matroyd had strong ideas on the subject of " method " and " rule," and the girl, however inwardly rebellious at this torture, could but submit to it. A dark frown knitted her low brow, and anger and impatience flashed in her sombre eyes, but as their only result was a :-lap with the hair brush and the learning of a few extra verses of the regulation Sunday chapter, they did not seem of any great use, save indeed as a vent to her own ill-temper. For Sheba yas ill-tempered — every one said so, even her sweet- hearts, who came and went like the seasons of the year — and she was usually more ill-tempered on Sunday than on any day of the week. She disliked going to church and sitting still and bolt upright in an uncomfortable pew, listening to a service every word of which she knew by heart, and a prosy, incomprehensible sermon, badly written and worse delivered, which it was one of her own and her brother's Sunday tasks to write out from memory, and read to their parents in the evening. What advantage was derived from this peculiar infliction, Sheba had never yet dis- covered. Her parents evideiitly supposed it was a, capital plan for enforcing attention to the sermon, but Sheba found out that so long as she remembered the text and the concluding sentence ! I8 •' RHEBA/ of the worthy old clergyman's discourse, her imagination and fertility of thought might supply all other matter without fear of detection. Working upon this ingenious method, the girl wrote her own ideas of the seimon instead of transcribing die disccurse itself, and often made it a great deal more interesting and certainly more original, than that delivered by Mr. Payne. On this special Sunday morning the heat was intense, and the very thought of sitting for two long hours in the little iron church was, to Sheba, hateful. But nothing except illness evei excused the smallest abatement of discipline or duty in the Ormatroyd household, and the infliction of her Sunday hat, a hideous wide, unbecoming structure of white straw and pink ribbons, was added as the very crown of her day's martyrdom. Poor Sheba ! fler tightly- plaited hair, her sliflf muslin frock, her hideous and uncomfortable hat, and hateful gloves, all donned to do honour to the day and the service, by some mistaken and wrong- headed idea of the " fitness " of things. Probably in her loose com- fortable cotton, with her hair in its customary state of freedom, her mind and temper both would have been more in unison with the thoughts and services of the Sabbath. As it was, she was in a state of rebellion that threatened to break forth in some awful breach of discipline before ever the day was over. She marched on between her father and Hex, each of them unfurling their white-covered u.nbrellas against the glaring sun. Mrs. Ormatroyd was not going to church that morning, being obliged to initiate the new domestic into the mysteries of cooking a sirloin of beef and a Yorkshire pudding — delightful viands for a sultry summer's day. The sky was like a furnace ; there was not a breath of air ; Sheba panted as she lifted her colourless face to that glaring fer- vid blue. " How hot ii will be in church," she said, glancing appealingly at her father. " Not hotter than last Sunday," he said stolidly. Sheba sighed resignedly and said no more. She resolved to think of her new friends all church time, to make up for the martyrdom of attending it. The little tinkling bell had just ceased as they reached the door. A very sparse and scant congregation were simmering on the wooden benches. All the windows were open, but there was ab- solutely not a breath of air, and the heat from the zinc roof (yclept iron) was almost intolerable. The service began. To Sheba's surprise a strange clergyman stood by old Mr. Payne's side, and she commenced speculating as to whether he would preach, and hoping, for the sake of change, he would. She took off her hat SHEBA'S IDEAS ON THEOLOGY. 19 ion and I fear of irl wrote lisccurse ::ertainly and the n church excused matroyd lus wide, as added rock, her led to do d wrong- ose com- dom, her with the was in a ne awful marched |ng their matroyd initiate of beef ummer's I of air; ring fer- lancing m unobserved by her father, a thing she would never have dared to do had her mother been present. How endless seemed the routine of the service ; the standing and kneeling and sitting ; how interminable the Litany, with its ever-recurring formula, "We beseech Thee to hear us." How abnormally long the many hymns, accompanied by a wheezy old organ and a choir composed of three men and one woman, and in which the congregation languidly joined at intervals, when they felt up to the exertion. But at last sermon time came, and Sheba's eager eyes noted that it was the stranger who ascended the pulpit steps, and, marvellous to relate, stood up without the cus tomary bundle of manuscript. Simply opening a small Testament, he gave out his text. Sheba clasped her hands round her knees, an attitude peculiar to herself when interested, and gazed with wide absorbed eyes at the face above her. A strangely delicate face — very pale, very grave, very earnest, but full of interest and promise; deep-set grey eyes, luminous with thought and power; and a voice, deep, rich, pathetic — a voice to give the simplest words effect, and to enchain the most heedless listener. She had never heard a sermon like it ; plain, simple, but earnest as deep thought and consciousness of truth ^could make it. A sermon that she drank in with t ager ears, yet which opened out a vein of thought that the speaker little imagined. She glanced round once. Hex and her father were sound asleep. A faint smile stole to the corners of her mourh, but she ^touched her brother's arm warningly. "You won't be able to |write the sermon," she whispered. "Come, wake up." The boy rubbed his eyes. " Gli, don't bother," he said; "I itxn copy yours." *'I think you generally do," said Sheba austerely. "Hushl lit's over now. I'm almost — sorry." )lved to for the le door. on the was ab- (yclept Sheba's ie, and :h, and her hat CHAPTER IV. SHEHA S IDEAS ON THEOLOGY. OTTER and hotter grew the day. Sheba thought longingly of ler " wilderness," but she knew it would be vain to ask permission ;o retreat there on Sunday. From her early childhood Sunday had always been a day of the morning tasks, the eleven o'clock service, txtreme reguluuun , 90 •• SHEBA." the afternoon sermon, the evening readings and singing of hymns, and then — well, then, to Sheba, the one only delightful hour of the day, bedtime — when she could draw the mosquito-net round her and breathe with freedom and relief, and think of six days of more congenial occupation that would follow. All this shows that she was by no means an exemplary specimen of a most exemplary method of "bringing up." There must have been a good deal of the " Old Adam," or rather " Eve," about Sheba. Certainly she never took kindly to discipline, or religion, or domestic instruction, though all had been admiiilst^red to her with the very best intentions and on the most improved system. There was certainly no " sparing the rod," neither any " spoiling the child;" yet the result was not satisfactory. The fault, no doubt, lay with the girl herself, whose mind and nature were as- suredly not of the " regulation " pattern, and therefore did not lend themselves kindly to received traditions of training. She was somewhat of a riddle even to herself ; she knew she wanted something out of life, but what that something was she could not explain. She sat now in the coolest corner of the veran- dah, her paper on a little wooden table, her pen idly tracing lines of all shapes and sizes on the blank sheet before her. The sermon had advanced no further than the text, although her brain was teeming with thoughts. Hex, who sat opposite, had already filled two pages, which it is only fair to say his sister had dictated, yet her own paper was blank. Her hand supported her cheek and kept back the thick hot mass of hair ; her eyes, somewhat languid and heavy, turned ever and anon to the dazzling blue sky. " I can't write in this heat," she exclaimed at last. " It is suf- focating ; oh, if only a storm would come ! " " And then you couldn't write in a storm," remarked Hex, "the lightning always frightens you." " Not the lightning — the thunder. It is as if the v/hole sky crashed together. One almost wonders it doesn't fall to pieces with the shock. Did you ever think, Hex, that if it sounds so loud here, it must sound ever so much louder up there, in the sky itself. I wonder if the angels like it ! " This idea, presenting as it did the heavenly life in a totally new aspect, seemed to strike Hex as worthy of consideration. He laid down his pen, leant back in his chair and surveyed his sister critically. " You are a rum girl," he said emphatically. * Whatever makes you think of the things you do ? " She shook her head. " How can I tell ? They come, I don't want to think of them. They give me a great deal of trouble il SHEBA'S IDEAS ON THEOLOGY. 21 of hymns, 1 hour of net round ix days of ' specimen must have re," about )r religion, red to her :d system. " spoiling z fault, no e we're as- id not lend knew she ig was she ■ the veran- ^ acing lines ?he sermon brain was eady filled ctated, yet cheek and lat languid iky. " It is suf- Hex, "the v/hole sky to pieces sounds so , in the sky totally new ition. He d his sister ever makes le, I don't of trouble sometimes, and at night I often can't sleep, there seem so many thoughts coming and going in my head." " I think," said Hex with stolid gravity, " that it's a great mis- j take to be always wanting to know everything, and the meaning i|of everything, as you do. Look at Eve no\y, see what she's done I for us." " I'm not at all sure," said Sheba audaciously, "that God didn't intend her to disobey Him ft-om the ver first. Else what was ^the use of making such a big world when there'd have been no Mone to live in it, and even if she hadn't eaten the apple, no doubt |one of her children would have done it some day, and it would ■ihave come to the same thing in the end. Do you know, Hex," she went on gravely, " there are some things in the Bible I really :an't believe ? It's no use saying we ffiust, I'm sure I never can. fow just read that part about King Pharaoh and the Israelites. rod distinctly tells Moses that He will harden Pharaoh's heart so that he shall not let the children of Israel go out of Egypt. ^ell, if God was so powerful and so clever, what chance had poor |Pharaoh against Him ? His heart was made hard by God, and ihen God punishes him with all sorts of cruel plagues. I call it |nost unjust." '^ " Perhaps," said Hex, " that part is not translated right. It ifiay be something different in Hebrew." "Then," said Sheba eagerly, "the very first time I see Mr. vpayne I'll ask him what the exact meaning is — in Hebrew.'' " I should," said Hex with a grin of delight, " for I don't believe le knows a word of it." "Clergymen," said his sister rebukingly, "know everything )out the Bible. What are they for, except to study it and explain [t to any one who wishes to know ? " " I'm sure," said Hex with a yawn, " I'd never want to know lore than I was obliged. It's awful dry stuff, especially the Old 'estament, and it makes out that God was as fond of fighting as [ulius Caesar, or — or Napoleon." '* I often wonder," said Sheba thoughtfully, " how there came |o be evil in the world. Could God have made that 1 They say [e made everything ; and there was the serpent, you know? I jhould say to create wickedness you must know what it is yourself, \e\. God is supposed to be all goodness, isn't He ? " " Oh," said Hex, who hated his sister's theological speculations, what's the good of bothering ? Tlicre's God, and there's the levil ; we don't need to know more." ' I think we do," said Sheba ; " at least I do. The Bible loesn't explain half about the real beginning of the world. If • 1 22 SHEBA.' God knew everything, He must have known Eve wouM sin, and what was the use of making her only to destroy her, and the human race after her ? " " Perhaps," suggested Hex with a sudden burst of wisdom, ** He only set everything going just to see what would happen, and then— left it." "There's Cain and Abel again," went on his sister specula- tively. " What harm did Cain do that his sacrifice should be rejected ? To my thinking it was better to offer the fruits of the earth than to kill poor little harmless lambs and their mothers. Yet God accepts the slaughtered Ufe, and rejects the simi)le offering. It was not just, and I shall never think so, and it was the injustice that produced tl.e crime." *' Oh, my dear girl, do give up diving into subjects and specu- lating about them," exclaimed Hex. " Depend on it, no one is meatit to understand the Bible. I never could, and I don't mean to try. It's all very well for clergymen, and even they don't seem quite up to it. At least Mr. Payne isn't, that's certain. That's the best of Roman Catholics, now. They've no bother ; . their religion is all done for them. The priests prefer that they shouldn't read the Bible, but just believe as much as they tell them, and if they do any wrong they need only confess and get absolution. Well, I've done my sermon. See how much quicker I am than you." " 1 suppose it is full of * And he said's,'" remarked his sister; *' varied by an occasional ' Then he observed.' " Hex laughed. " Oh," he said, " they do to fill up. What are you looking for in the Bible ? " " An idea has just occurred to me," said the girl eagerly. " Of course we know that Genesis wasn't written at the time the events it describes really happened ; not for hundreds of years after, perhaps. In that case I see some reason tor that story of Cain's sacrifice."' " Oh, haven't you done with Cain yet ? Well, let's hear it." "The scribes were the priests after Moses' time," continued Sheba, ** and they seem to ha/e had a perfect craze for sacrifices and burnt offerings. Have you noticed that ? " " Yes," said Hex, slowly kicking his feet to and fro. " I thought probably they found those meat offerings useful for dinner.'' " That's it, exactly," said Sheba triumphantly. " Perhaps in writing up the records they thought it would impress the peop e more if they found that blood sacrifices were more accept- able to God, and therefore twisted the story round to fit that idea. There was no one to contradict them. It seems impossible that all that early history can be accurate, when you remember it SHEBA'S IDEAS ON THEOLOGY. 23 d sin, and the human dom, " He ppen, and iY specula- should be ruits of the J mothers. the simi)le and it was and specu- t, no one is don't mean they don't at's certain. s no bother ; , er that they as f/iey tell ifess and gel iiuch quicker id his sister ; What are gerly. "Of the events it ter, perhaps, s sacrifice."' s hear it." continued for sacrifices nd fro. " 1 il for dinner.'' " Perhaps in is the peop e -nore accept- d to fit that lis impossible remember it had to be handed down by word of mouth. I asked Mr. Payne about it the last time he was here, and he said that doubtless the records were more true in the spirit than in the letter. But he doesn't seem to like to talk to me about the Bible." •' I daresay not," grinned Hex. " You give him some posers to answer now and then." He rose and streti hed himself. " Are you going to begin at last ? " he asked. Sheba pushed back the thick hair from her brow, and drew the paper towards her. Then she began to write, her brother lazily watching her as she rapidly covered the sheets. " How can you remember all that ? " he said at last. Sheba looked up. " Remember ? " she said dreamily ; " I don't know. I just put down the text, then all the rest comes ; one idea rushes after another, until it seems quite hard to stop." " Are you going to do more than that ? " asked Hex. ■ " Oh yes ; lots. I feel just in the humour now." "Well, I am going to find Billy, and have a walk in the jarden," said her brother, pushing back his chair. " You'll find [me there when you've done." S Sheba nodded and went on with her work, dashing off sentences mnd paragraphs at railway speed. Her cheeks were flushed, her Ipyes sparkled. She looked a different being to the sallow languid Jirl who, but a shoijL time before, had been tracing idle lines on ]ihe now covered paper. f Once her task was finished she did not read it over, but simply "placed the sheets together, and then with a dee])-drawn breath of relief snatched her shabby old garden hat from its peg, and ran >ff to join her brother. "Oh, if only it were not Sunday I might read my 'Arabian fights,' " she sighed regretfully as she joined Hex and the goat md the tribe of dogs, who all seemed more or less oppressed by (he heat, and were lying under the shade of the huge pear tree, rhich was the giant of the garden. " I'm so sick of ' Hannah [ore,' and * The Pilgrim's Progress,' our only two Sunday books. wish father would get some new ones from Sydney." " Perhaps these new girls will have some," suggested Hex. You d better ask them." "Of course I shall," said Sheba. "But it seems such an [wfully long time till Monday, and Mr. Saxton said I must not there till the evening. I wonder," she went on dreamily as she igged her knees in her own peculiar ungraceful fashion, " oh, [ex, I do so wonder, what they will be like, especially Beiisie. Ve made up my mind she is to be p;.y very own special friend. ' 24 " SHEBA. " Have you ? " said Hex. " Don't you think it would have been better to have waited, and seen if she liked you first ? " " Liked me ! " Sheba's face flushed, her eyCs dilated. " Why shouldn't she like me ? " she demanded fiercely. " I know I'm ugly, but that doesn't matter to a girl, and not very good-tempered, but I would try and be gentle and forbearing always with her." Then her voice broke, and a passion of tears quenched the blaze of wrath in her eyes. " Oh ! " she cried tempestuously, " no one seems to care for me, no one understands me, not even you, Hex, though you are my brother. It seems to me as if some one, out of spite, had just picked me up and dropped me into a wrong place; I don't fit, and I'm always being scolded and punished, and I long, long, long to be loved ; and momer seems to have quite a horror of me, and you don't care, and father seems half afraid to show any affection, and there I am. It would have been a great deal better if I'd never been born, I'm sure it would, or else if God had put me into some other family." " What on earth are you talking about, Sheba ? " demanded a voice behind her. The girl started to her feet, the tears were still in her eyes, her cheeks burned with that crimson flush. As she looked back at her mother's face, however, her own changsd and grew colourless and subdued, and almost timid. " Nice conversation for a Sunday afternoon," continued that severe rebuking voice. " I have heard what you said to your brother. Go into your room and remain there till tea-time as a punishment for your indelicate and almost blasphemous remarks. You shall not go and see those new girls at he Crow's Nest, to- morrow. You are not fit to be the companion of ladylike well- brought-up English children. I shall tell their father so." Sheba's face grew white as deaf She was accustomed to punishments and deprivations that .vere inordinately severe in comparison with her misdemeanours, and as a rule she took them with stoical indifference, but the injustice of this present sentence cut her to the heart. Without a word she turned away, but the very soul within her seemed to burn with black and bitter rage, and indignant passion. " Oh," she cried, when solitude allowed some safe vent for her outraged feelings, "oh, that I were grown up and ab^-^ to do what I liked. Wouldn't I be revenged ! " Then she threw herself face downwards on the floor and cried herself sick and exhausted ; and finally obeyed the summons to tea, a poor forlorn wreck of what should have been childhood; tjusl SHEBA'S IDEAS ON THEOLOGY. 2$ uld have it?" "Why :now I'm empered, nth her." the blaze , " no one sven you, s if some me into a )lded and licr seems ind father I am. It born, I'm Dme. other imanded a I her eyes, r, her own imid. tinned that id to your i-time as a IS remarks. s Nest, to- dylike well- 0." ustomed to severe in took them nt sentence ay, but the bitter rage, ent for her to do what white, red-eyed and ugV, perfectly unable to touch food, which was put down to " bad ten^per," and to remedy which the learning of two extra verses of the Sunday evening hymu was prescribed. " It is no use to kick against the pricks," said Sheba, in the depths of her rebellious heart. " But oh, how I loaiAe Sunday ! Thank goodness, it's nearly over." There still remained the ordeal of reading out her sermon, and as the time drew near for family prayers, Sheba began to feel dis- tinctly uncomfortable. Memory gave her faint recurring stings ; she had a distinct remembrance of some wild flight of fancy to which she had weakly yielded, and though she knew nothing about " orthodoxy " she felt convinced her account of the new clergy- man's sermon was not strictly correct. She tried to take heart of grace, to re-assure her courage by telling herself that her father had slept throughout the sermon, and her mother had been absent. They would be none the wiser, and she had done the same thing over and over again. Yet to-night, despite these assurances, she could not feel quite safe or quite comfortable as the dreaded hour approached. It had been one of her bad " Sundays," and every- I thing had turned out wrongly ; perhaps the sermon might be only I another species of Nemesis, and behind it a whole category of I punishments might be lying in wait. Prayers were over. The ordeal must be faced. The two .^children rose from their knees, and, according to custom, went iiout to fetch their sermons. Sheba walked /Cry, very slowly along J the wide verandah to the little table where lay her MS., badly t written, blotted and untidy as usual. How could she attend to I the details of penmanship, when the Pegasus of imagination wais l| carrying her off on one of those strange flights of fancy to which " as yet she could give no name ? As she turned back with the papers in her hand, she heard the click of the great wooden gate falling to on its latch. She started and looked back. She saw two figures advancing — the bright oonlight showed their faces clear and distinct. Poor Sheba airly gasped with horror. One of the gentlemen advancing towards the verandah was Mr. ^ ayne, the other was the strange clergyman whose sermon she was Ijust about to read out, as a feat of her accurate memory and an findisputable proof of her attention in church. and cried ummons to childhood; SHEBA." CHAPTER V. I ' CAUSE AND EFFECT. Without waiting to greet the visitors, Sheba rushed into the parlour, where Hex was already standing, sermon in hand. " Oh, mamma," she cried excitedly, " here is Mr. Payne coming and the strange clergyman with him. We needn't read our ser- mons out before them, need we ? " "I do wish, Sheba, you wouldn't burst in on people in that impetuous way," exclaimed her mother crossly. " Sit down there by the piano, and you too. Hex." The children obeyed. Hex laid his sermon down on the table, but Sheba grasped hers instinctively, and held it on her lap, while the blood came and went in her face, and her heart throbbed wildly with shame and apprehension. She would be caught this time — there was no help for it. She thought of the " faith that could remove mountains," and wondered if by setting her whole soul and will on the averting of this catastrophe a miracle might result ! As the steps approached, however, and the two gentlemen advanced into the full glow of the lamplight, her courage began to ooze away and with it the necessary amount of faith. She gave a little gasp of resignation and then remained quite still in her corner, an image of stony despair, only trusting her presence might be overlooked by some happy chance. A few moments passed, then Mr. Payne, who was a genial kind-hearteti old man, glanced round and saw the two children, whom he knew very well. He immediately went up to them. " Why, here is my clever little friend," he said encouragingly. " How do you do, Miss Sheba ? Have you been writing my sermons as nicely as ever ? " Sheba stammered out something, she could not tell what, and the old clergyman, wondering at her unusual confusion — for Sheba was, as a rule, most self-possessed — took her hand and insisted on leading her up to his nephew, and introduced him to her as Mr. Noel Hill. " This is a very clever little girl, Noel," he said, " and a very good little girl too. She is one of the most regular of my con- gregation, and she attends so well to all she hears in church that she writes the sermons from memory." "Yes." interpolated Mrs. Ormatroyd, " that was my idea. I found it an excellent plan for insuring attention, and also im- pressing the valuable truths they hear upon my children's memories." CAUSE ANl) EFFECT. 27 I into the ^ "*^' W ne coming • d our ser- \ )le in that iown there 1 the table, r lap, while t throbbed caught this "faith that g her whole racle might ) gentlemen ,ge began to She gave still in her sence might nts passed, an, glanced well. He :ouragingly. I writing my II what, and I— for Sheba insisted on her as Mr. and a very of my con- Ichurch that ly idea. I id also im- children's The new clergyman looked somewhat compassionate as his kind grave eyes rested on Sheba's downcast face. " And have you written the sermon to-day ? " ne asked gently. The poor child grew white to her very lips. Her eyes glanced up at him almost in terror. " Oh, please don't ask me," she gasped. " It's nothing like — I mean it's not anything so good as what you said — and — and- i( Sheba," said her mother sternly, " be silent ! " Then turning to Mr. Payne, she added : "The children were just about to read their sermons out when you came, but, for this evening, I will excuse them." * Sheba clasped her hands in sudden rapture, the papers fell at her feet. Quick as thought the young clergyman picked them up, and just as she was uttering aii ejaculatory thanksgiving for her safety, his low deep tones broke the silence. " If you will pardon' me," he said, " I must express a great (curiosity to hear these sermons ; I have never heard of such a [plan before and I am sure the results must be excellent. As the i sermons are here, do not let our presence interfere with the usual course of Sunday duties." The colour flushed to Sheba's face, her eyes blazed with wrath ind indignation. " Couldn't you let well alone ? " she muttered, so low that he mly just caught the words, and regarded her with even more :uriosity than before. At the request Mrs. Ormatroyd looked >leased. Her system of religious education was of course perfect ; |Btill, it gratified her to have an independent opinion expressed of 'Its efficacy. " If you and Mr. Payne would really like to hear the childrc.i," ihe said, " they shall of course read out their sermons. Hex, you •egin." Hex grew extremely red in the face, but making a virtue of lecessity, plunged into the text, and rattled on with scant regard [or punctuation, till he pulled himself up short at the end of the ist page. " Very good, my boy, very good indeed," said Mr. Payne Fably, " you must have paid great attention." Hex glanced at Sheba, a lurking grin about his wide mouth, but le was too perturbed to notice him. She had to face her own rdeal now, and as she stood there in the light of the lamp, her irk brows drawn, a burning spot on either cheek, her lips pressed lose in sullen wrath, Noel Hill thought she made a strange pic- are of repressed rebellion, and watched her with keen interest. I She held the paper in both hands and stood for a moment --jg» 38 •♦SUEliA.' iC^ looking down at it. Then summoning all her courage, and with a ring of defiance in her clear young voice, she began. For the first page all was well ; at the second the young clergyman sud- denly lifted his head and looked at her in wonder ; at the third he smiled, at the fourth he grew grave. Had he indeed said such words as that clear childish voice gave forth so unfalteringly ? " For it is not always well," she read now, " to search into the realms of knowledge, to seek the real truth of Heaven's glories, or strive to pierce its veil of mysteries. Many of them may be fables, most are handed down as traditions, and may be accepted as such. To a thinking, searching, thirsting soul it brings little comfort to picture a future spent in adoring incomprehensibility. Yet such is the vague and usually accepted idea of the Christian's Heaven. Quite as erroneous to reason, one would imagine, as that reverse side of the picture which paints hell all flames, and peopled by hungry devils ! An all-s6eing and all-wise mind might well be supposed capable of inventing a more rational system of reward or punishment. But half the world is content to accept without question, and the other half to scoff without proof. Between the two, if an eager inquiring soul puts out feelers of curiosity, it touches nought that is sure, and little that is true. Yet every human soul needs a God. Something tc appeal to, cry to, worship, reverence and trust. But God is far, far off, and the vast misery of the earth does not seem to trouble Him. One wonders how He can bear to gaze on so much, woe the results of a creation that ought to have been perfect, the out come of what was planned and formed in His own image. Smal wonder then if the philosopher, and the thinker, and the poet looking out from some higher standpoint of thought than ii reached by common humanity, should cry aloud with torn anc anguished heart, * Take back, O Great One, Thy gift of life, sine life is only suffering, with death for recompense. Better th; darkness and the void that first wrapped this strange globe i: gloom, than the teeming burden of misery that never ends, c sins that are never pardoned, of hearts that are never at peace What is there in the present ? only pain. What in the beyond only dreams ; dreams that take the shape of men's thoughts an desires, yet even with their halo of divinity fail to satisfy th souls that ask for — certainty." The tones of her voice grew lower and more pathetic. The ' she ceased. There was a moment's pause of blank astonis! ment. Mr. and Mrs. Ormatroyd looked at one another as ( u stioning the wisdom of discussing these extraordinary stat; meats. ^ub 1st CAUSE AND EFFFXT. 39 ;, and with .. For the ryman sud- it the third 1 said such eringly ? ch into the sn's glories, em may be be accepted brings little ehensibility. e Christian's imagine, as flames, and l-wise mind ore rational Id is content icoff without 3ul puts out Ld little that ;omething tc It God is far, m to trouble much.wo& act, the out nage. Smal id the poet ught than ii ith torn anc of life, sine. Better th luge globe i: ever ends, c er at peace the beyond thoughts an ,0 satisfy tli hetic. The lank astonis: another as ordinary stati Mr. Payne murmured, " Dear me ! very clever, very clever. Ilow well you read, my little girl." i But Noel Hill looked grave and almost pained. "Thank you, my dear," he said gently, as he laid his hand on Sheba's head. ** I see you do go to church for some purpose." Sheba flushed lind trembled at his touch. Would he betray her ? She glanced Up, and the passionate appeal in those great wonderful eyes touched him deeply. " Do not fear," he said very low, and fien he moved away, and Sheba snatching up her MSS. hurried om the room without staying to wish any one good-night, f " What rum stuff" you did read out," said Hex, as he lighted his ^ndle by his sister's a few moments afterwards. " Did Mr. Hill ially say all that ? Why it didn't sound Christian^ some bits of ** I don't know what be said," answered Sheba, half-laughing, ilf-crying, as she went into her room. " But he's a real good fan, and he's saved me an awful punishment." Sheba would have been still more surprised had she known lat he had saved her from the task of future sermon-writing, for the end of a long and grave conversation with Mrs. Ormatroyd, told her that the girl had too excitable a brain for her years, id that religious subjects had evidently taken too deep a hold her nature. '" She must think very seriously, far too seriously, to be able to Kte sufh ideas as those I h^^ard to-night," he said. !" But," exclaimed Mrs. Ormatroyd, " they were your own, sre they not ? She had merely committed them to memory." Noel Hill felt as if he had put his foot in it. " To tell you the ith, my dear madam," he said, while his lips twitched despite ^ir seeming gravity, " my sermon was extempore and I have )t a very accurate idea of what I did say ; your daughter seems me to have done better than myself, and dealt even more ^ringly with my subject than I ventured to do. She must be ry clever." [** Oh," said Mrs. Ormatroyd disparagingly, ** she is well enough. Jit she is an extremely difficult child to manage. Her temper something unbearable." ["These gifted children," said Noel Hill, "are often very mblesome and don't lend themselves kindly to discipline ; you jst let me have a talk to her now and then." ["With the greatest pleasure," exclaimed Mrs. Ormatroyd. should be only too delighted. I am so anxious to bring my lldren up on a really good sound Christian basis." " Wc .," said the young man good humouredly, " we will see '% 30 Sh^iU. what can be done with this talented young lady ; only my fir^t prescription will be, ' Knock off all sermon- writing.' " th CHAPTER VI. gf< A NEW FRIEND. Ctli t " Do you know, Miss Sheba," said Ncjcl Hill, as he sat by the girl's side the next afternoon, in the wide cool verandah — " do you know that you are a very extraordinary little girl ? " " Am I ? " said she, looking straight at him with her great sombre eyes. " Have you known many other little girls ? " " Not so many," said the young man thoughtfully ; " and none of them — Australian. I have only just come out. My health ^^ was not good, and so, as soon as I was ordained, I left England ^ to join my uncle here. I am to help him and the climate is to benefit me. You see the mutual advantage ? " ** I hope it 7m'il benefit you," said Sheba gravely. " Now that I come to look at you, you don't appear very strong. What is the matter ? Consumption?" He flushed slightly. " Not quite so bad as that yet, but my lungs are not very strong. What made you ask ? " " Because I have heard my mother say so many constrtnptive people are sent here. It doesn't seem to do them much good, ^'^ though — they mostly die." _ « " That," he said with a faint smile, " is encouraging for me." j "Oh," said the girl seriously, "I never thought you would be afraid to die. You are a clergyman — and of course you are very, very good and would naturally be prepared. I think sometimes that clergymen are *ust the very people to be consumptive." p, "Indeed?" said her companion, more and more amused. " And why do you think so ? " ^^ " In the first place," said Sheba gravely, " it is an interesting^, death, and then they have plenty of time to prepare for it. I should think that was a comfort." " No doubt," he said, " it is, and a great one. But perhaps^', you make a mistake. Clergymen are not always very, very good and death may be no easier to them than to any one else. Bui, what a gloomy subject for a little girl to discuss," he added?' brightly. " What makes you think of death at all?" "What makes one think of anything?" cried Sheba, with 5| ring of repressed passion in her low, soft voice, " and of sac har tbir log it oftn #1 8t A NEW FRIEND. 3« y my fiiht 1 don't want to think of them, hut I can't sat by the ndah— " do ti her great -iris ? " " and none My health eft England climate is to " Now that ig things most of all. lelp it. I wish I could. It makes me very unhapi)y." "^ " Unhappy ?" echoed Noel Hill, looking wonderingly at her. " Oh ! dreadfully unhappy," she said, the tears brimming in her Ireat upraised eyes. " I can't express what it is I feel and want -—if I try to, every one says I'm old-fashioned, or wicked, or ridi- culous." "Perhaps," said the young clergyman gently, "you could tell and I might help you." " I am ashamed to tell you — after — after yesterday," she tcred. " What must you have thought of me ? But, indeed, I lilrdly know what I write — it is just like being ' possessed.' I tftnk I am driven on to do it. I can't help it, and 1 was think- ing of what you said, only — only it got all different." ' " I can only hope," he said, half smiling at her distressed face, **ipiat it did, or else my first sermon was singularly uncfrthodox." '♦' Your first ? " cried Sheba eagerly. "Was that really your fillt sermon ? " «** Yes, I have taken part of a service, but never preached b#ore. Perhaps that will explain why I was so anxious to judge What IS ^jU^y first eflfort." %'he girl's face grew very white. " I am so sorry," she said yet, but my bAenly. " Indeed, indeed, I am so sorry." r Oh ! I am not going to scold you," he said gently. " I only consiftnptive tnJight I would like to ask you if you think it is quite — quite st — to yourself as well as to other's, to misrepresent their ds. For I scarcely suppose this was your first attempt at roving clerical composition. No doubt my uncle has also red at your hands." Yes," she said flushing hotly, as she met that kind, smiling " But that was at least excusable. No effort of memory d represent his sermons." Well," said Noel Hill, " let us change the subject of sermons at of yourself. Do you know that you are to become a of mine ? " fWhat," cried Sheba, starting out of her chair, and facing him such wonder and excitement expressed in eyes and face that ughed aloud. " You are going to teach me ? Oh ! it seems ;ood to believe ! And may I learn the things that men learn tin and Greek and Mathematics and History and Political lomy ? " hat ? All that ? " asked the young clergyman, as she paused t breathless. " I shall have no easy task, I see ; but I am at your service. You shall learn each and all of these things, much good, y ig for me." j ^ou would be g, I you are very. ^ ik sometimes ^mptive." c lore amused t in interestingp. ire for it. But perhap4^ [ry, very good, [ne else. B"J. Is," he adde^5, Sheba, with i], " and of sac^j 32 "SIIEBA,** if you desire it, but not all at once. Knowledge, like other good things, should be taken gradually and moderately. A surfeit of learning means an attack of mental indigestion. Now I propose to begin to-morrow with nothing but an hour's reading, and find- ing out ',vhat you really have learnt : a miscellaneous collection of useful and useless subjects, I make no doubt. That little brain of yours is somewhat unevenly balanced at present. I almost think it would be the better of a little less knowledge, and a good deal more happiness." " I thought," she said gravely, " that knowledge always brought —that." " Not always," said Noel Hill gravely. " Many a man and woman have lived to regret that craving, * to know.' It is sweet enough for awhile ; but there is a subtle danger in its very sweet ness.* The mind is led on and on, seeing the broad, full ligh; beyond, ye* groping in darkness towards it, and the light is never reached, for between it and the seeker lies the mystery of Death. Sheba looked at him awed and silent. She was apt to rush a; d d tt is m tic oi: m ideas with a passionate impulse, and the idea of learning from ; If^ man, and a clever man, such things as men themselves learn, hai ^^ flooded her enthusiastic brain with ecstasy. But this gravity o: W Noel Hill's face awed and sobered her. "I thought," she sai( tfffi seriously, " that it was impossible to know too much. I canno; ^^\ understand it making one unhappy." And indeed she could not, for her whole heart and soul at thi time were full of the craving for knowledge. Books were lik: human friends to her, and the difficulty of obtaining them madi them all the more precious. Those thirteen years of her life ha not been at all like most children's years. She had memories c poverty, struggles, hardships, though of late she had been used t hear her father boast he had " weathered the storm," and th harbour he had gained now was a pleasant enough one to h ideas. Her unusual precocity, the result, partly of her life, part: of a deep-rhinking nature teeming with romance and imaginatio: made her also enjoy and suffer far more keenly than any o: who knew her coulc^ have believed. The craving for love and sympathy that was so deeply rootc in her heait, had met with an unfortunate check early in lit owing lo c(jmplete want of comprehension on her mother's pari Sheba, to her own recollection, seemed always to have bet held liciok, chilled, misunderstood. She could not remember a: time in her young life when she had felt she could creep into 1: mother's arms, to weej) out some childish sorrow, or lean agair her mother's knee, to speak out some childish confidence; and and A NEW FRIEND. 33 ; Other good A surfeit of w I i^ropose ig, and find- collection of little brain of almost think a good deal [ways brought r a man and ' It is swee: ts very sweet oad, full ligh; light is nevei 2ry of Death, apt to rush a: earning from ; Ives learn, hac this gravity o: Lght," she sau ich. I canno ind soul at thi: Doks were lik^ ing them madt of her life ha id memories c ad been used t ;orm," and th jgh one to ht f her life, part nd imaginatioi f than any ot D deeply root^ ;k early in hi mother's part s to have bet ,t remember a: d creep into l" or lean agair. fidcnce ; and ^e child who has never felt such an impulse there must remain ft void and bitterness of heart, for which nothing in after life can ilone. Dreams cannot supply the place of human love, and Sheba's descents to real life were invariably attended by a sense of desolation and defeat. The many tendrils of affection she from time to time put forth were beaten down by a hail of ridicule and iaipatience. So the girl gradually began to live more and m6re liathin herself. Books and dreams were at present the chosen Companions of her days. That the former dominated her affec- tions, it is almost needless to say. They fed and fostered each Other and threw a halo of enchantment over the sameness of life. .. The advent of Noel Hill — the first. startling announcement that Im^ was to undertake the arranging of that strange medley of * owledge, ignorance and inutility which formed her only ideas " education," was a very startling one indeed, more startling n than that he should have called this afternoon, expressly to t/fj^ her and make her acquaintance. ^She liked him instinctively. She had liked him from the iipment he mounted the pulpit in the little iron church and turned M pale face and deep-set eyes upon his sparse and drowsy con- gation. There was nothing at all remarkable ab ut him ; he not handsome, or tall, or strong, but to Sheba's ideas he was ething ten thousand times better than any of these. He was er. He had a mind cultivated and trained, and full of rich varied stores of knowledge, and she sat there by his side, nt and absorbed, wrapped only in the d'eamy enjoyment of cipation. At last she could cut the cords that bound her to h and soar into a region far beyond Mangnall's Questions, Pinnock's History, and the first book of the Latin Grammar €h she had studied with and under Hex's valuable assistance. eacher of her own — an instructor, wise, clever and forbearing ; surely Noel Hill was all these things and more — being a gyman ! Providence had indeed taken pity on her at last, sent her the very gift she had prayed for so often. The few ks she had devoured over and over again had never seemed have enough in them to satisfy her. They wanted strength, our, depth. Her own fancy had always to eke them out ; her rich stores of imagination to embellish them. But now all Id be changed ; no Httle paltry tasks, no set boundary of " thus nd no further." She would make her new teacher let her loam he wished. She would know the thoughts of great and wise , whose names were as pillars of flame in a)i the world. She Id steep herself in such knowledge as had made them glad to fi ■I >]■•' I 34 "SHERA." live. She would forget that no one loved her — that she was u;'! and ill-tempered. She would cultivate every mental gift wit which nature had dowered her, and then some day, perhaps, sh would be a wise and clever woman and Here her thoughts broke off abruptly. Noel Hill had risen i his feet and was speaking. His voice seemed to reach her fioi some far-off region. It required quite an effort to bring hersi down to the affairs of the present moment. " Come, child," he was saying, " you have been thinking lor, enough. I want you to take me into the garden and show n your pats. I heard all about them last night from my unc especially the goat. He says you found it dying when it % quite a tiny kid and saved its life, and now it follows you ever ^fj^^ where like a dog. It's almost a case of * Mary had a little lam' niaet isn't it?" ,K; Sheba looked somewhat indignant. " I wonder, Mr. Hill," s[ cdttt's said, " that you quote those foolish nursery rhymes, only fit i. of in babies." najr ''Oh!" said Noel Hill laughingly. "I like frivolous arsli|»p « «( piCM anoi agre tt atiit your you; ej childish things, I assure you. They keep one you^i^, and is God's best gift." yoiing " Is it ? " said Sheba doubtfully. " I should have thougihim ] wisdom was ! " pUflld " Ah ! " said Noel Hill, glancing at her with amused and criticmatj^ eyes, " it is not for nothing that you were called ' Sheba.' Perha: \^|t some day we shall have you traversing the earth to gaze upyo^i pa some epitome of human wisdom, and worship at his shrine, thlifei wonder who will play King Solomon to you ! " CHAPTER VII. SHEBA S GARDEN. The garden was large and shady and as different as it well coi . **i||^n be from an English garden. To reach it, Sheba and her compamwetthc had to cross a large yard and pass a wash-house where wood kei)t, and where the fowls had a perverse fancy both for roostk and laying eggs. From this wash-house came a faint bleat, aei :U Shcha's call, out trotted Billy from his lair of loose hay. li' rubbed his head against the girl's dress and then j)roceeded to Un playfully at Noel Hill's legs, a proceeding which rather disaef | certed that gentleman. rt SIIEBA'S GARDEN. 35 she was lu^l tal gift WW. I « Oh ! he always does that to strangers," said Sheba composedly, perhaps, slv «*jfie doesn't know you yet." *]" I hope," said Noel Hill, drawing back a little as the animal had risen 1 ploceeded to stand bolt upright on his hind legs, preparatory to jach her fioi aiiother onslaught, " that he soon will. His overtures are not as bring herst aj^eeable as they might be." 2** Come, Billy, no nonsense," said the girl as she took the pretty thinking lor. affciture by its brown silky ear and forced it into a less pugnacious and show 11 attitude. " You mustn't butt this gentleman. Would you mind im my unc gijlng me your hand ? " she added to Noel. " If he sees me hold ; when it w; y«|||r hand he will know you are a friend. I am ooliged to do that iws you ever ^pi^^ my sweethearts, or he would knock then down like so many , a little laral ninepins." Koel gave her his hand with alacrity. He had plenty of Mr. Hill," si cditfage, but he certainly did not feel comfortable in the presence es, only fit 1 of $n animal who had a perverse objection to stand in the way nal^re intended all four-footed creatures to stand, and whose small frivolous arshKfp horns were decidedly more ornamental to look at, than ^.iti, and you ag^eable to feel. However, Sheba was right. When Billy saw his yoting mistress take the stranger's hand and walk along beside I have thouc;:him he appeared inclined to reserve hostilities, and trotted pUUa|dly along in front of them, or else kept close to Sheba, but ised and critkma^ no more attacks on the young clergyman, eba.' Perha \^t is a very pretty creature," he said. " But what was that to gaze upyoilJsaid about * sweethearts ? ' Where have you found any in his shrine. tM^ regions ? " **frhere is a school here — a boys' school," said Sheba, "and H499I goes to it. Now it may appear strange, but he is the only ho has a big sister. There are one or two babies, I believe. equently all the boys want me for a sweetheart. It's their and I don't mind. I get books from them. If you only how difficult it is to get books you wouldn't wonder at my vei| putting up with a sweetheart, though they bother me dread- m I to conclude that it is an Australian fashion to take to hearts at your tender years ? " asked Noel Hill, laughing. suppose it is," said Sheba doubtfully. " At least it is the fashion. They have done it ever since we came to live that was just three years ago. Before then we were really bush — at Tanilba — ever so many miles away. It was ully lonely and mother was always ill, and we never could rather dis^ sf^y servants — only an old black woman, and she used to steal ully, and was so dirty. Father and I had to cook, and he idilo kill the sheep too. It was nearly always mutton. Oh, as it well cot her compan.i ?here wood v Dth for roostDo; faint bleat, a e; (loose hay. 'i loceeded tol'ri 36 "SHEBA.'' I ■ i how I hated it. The very smell turns me sick even now. If I had my way, 1 would cat nothing bi t fruit and vegetables. When I am grown u|) and can do wliat I 1 t-'j, I shall never touch meat." " What a large garden this is," said Noel Hill, glancing round admiringly. "And an arbour, too. Is that a retreat of yours?" " Oh, no ! '* said Sheba. " I like the trees best. I always climb up them and sit as high as I can v/hen I want to be quiet and read. That's my favourite tree. Isn't v. a beauty ? About half-way up it's like a little room. Such a nice seat and all shut round with boughs and leaves, and a roof open to the sky. No one can see me when I'm there. I prefer it even to the wilder ness, for the boys have never found it out." " And where," asked Noel Hill, " is the wilderness ? " " It is some way from here," she said. " You see thost palings. Well, through them and beyond is a great place, a! scrub and gum trees. I don't think it belongs to this house, bi;; Hex and I go there just as if it did. I don't quite like it thi hot weather ; there are so many lizards about, and once I saw: snake. There are heaps of birds, too, and grasshoppers an locusts and all sorts of funny insects." *' Including mosquitoes, I suppose ? " " Oh yes, but they only come at sunset. What are you lookln at ? The well ? It's awfully deep, and lots of lovely little gree frogs live down here. Hex and 1 fish for them sometimes in tli bucket." "Isn't that a somewhat dangerous amusement?" asked No; Hill. " You might fall in." They were close beside it, and as he bent over to look I almost shuddered at the depth. It was utterly unprotected sav for a wooden lid which lay some distance off, and the water v: drawn up in a bucket worked by a windlass and rope. "Oh!" said Sheba, "I am used to it. I often draw t; water." " Do you mean to say," said Noel Hill in surprise, " that : the water you require for household purposes has to be cam from here to the house ? " " Of course," she said. " Why not ? Haven't they wells England ? " " No — o, at least not where I lived. The water is carried the houses in pipes, and you simply turn a tap and get it witln any trouble." " Oh !" said Sheba thoughtfully, "that must be ve'ry conifo able ; but I supj)ose the houses are quite different to ours. ) verandahs or outside shutters ? " SHEBA'S GARDEN. 37 now. If 1 )les. When ouch meat." ,ncing round t of yours ? " t. I always to be quiet ity ? About and all shut he sky. No o the wilder >s?" )u see thost eat place, al tiis house, bu; te like it thi: once I saw; ishoppers am .re you lookin ely little gree metimes in tk >" asked No rer to look I protected sav the water v: )pe. )ften draw t l^rise, " that to be earn they wells jr is carried d get it witlu J ve'ry comff t to ours. ■ i. " No. You see, they don't require them in England. There T: is very little hot weather there." i " Any thunderstorms ?" in(iuired Sheba. r " Oh, yes, but not often and not so severe as these troijical i storms. I shall never forget the first storm I saw here. It wu;^ terrible." , " I like them," said the girl, " although they fri'ghten me a little. Sometimes I stand in the verandah and watch. I re member," she went on dreamily, "when I was a little child that jtl always used to think a thunderstorm meant that God was angry with people, and was speakir;g to them from out of heaven." " You have odd fancies for your age," said Noel Hill, regarding Hher earnestly. " I wish you would tell me what gave you such ""Istrange ideas of heaven and religion as that sermon of yours )etrayed." Oh, that sermon," she said, the colour rising like a flame in ihe dark pallor of her cheeks. " I wish you would not speak of It. I told you before |I don't know what made me write it. It 'as just one of those Ihings that pop into my head. Sometimes, 'hen I lie in the wood there all alone, or sit up in my tree and jee only the sky and the green leaves, and forget that I have to flpome down and live and eat and work, I think of things about T^od and the world and the sin that is in it, and what a pity it all f||eems, and how nuch better it would be not to be born at all." 'ii She broke off for a moment, then turned to him again in a ^uick, impulsive fashion. " I dare say you will think me very '*oolish," she said, "but if you knew how often I have cried my- self ill thinking of all the sorrows and strangeness of life and how )eople suffer and how little good it all is You were talking )f thunderstorms just now. Well, once when we lived at Tanilba there was a terrible one. The thunder crashed as if all the sky ras bursting, and the lightning — it nearly blinded me to look at Every one was frightened. Hex had his head buried under Ihe bedclothes, and mother was in her room, but I couldn't rest ■|ind I went into the verandah. There was a little wooden hut in ^f he yard where the * gin ' (our black servant) used to be, and I %as looking at it and wondering if she was frightened, when there ^ mie a crash so awful that I thought the Judgment Day had tome. I shut my eyes, and when I opened them I saw a huge |[um tree had been struck, just beyond the clearing ; then a fninute after I heard a scream and the 'gin' rushed out crying mnd wringing her hands. She had been sitting by the lire with ^ler baby, and just put it down for a moment in its wooden cradle "^o go and shut the door of the hut. The lightning came down 38 "SIIEBA." the chimney and struck the child, played round the hut, and then broke a pane of glass and got out. When she rushed over to the child, it was dead. I shall never forget her grief and the awful look of the poor little baby. I had never seen any dead person before. I thought it seemed so hard. Her husband was a had and cruel man and had left her. The child was all she had, Why should it have been taken away ? If the husband had beer. killed, it would only have been just. But the poor little innocen; child, her only comfort." Tears rushed to her eyes, her voice faltered. She turned away as if ashamed of her emotion. Noel Hill laid his hand gently on her arm. " My dear little girl," he said, " these are mysterie:, that have perplexed older and wiser minds than yours. Yop. tnust remember God's way is no; as man's way. His purposes seem often dark and inscrutable but in the end we see their wisdom. It is no use to rebel o: question. We cannot avert and we cannot alter one decree. \\\ can but hope that a day will come when with clearer eyes anc understanding hearts we shall see how wise and good was the enc for which we suffered — how tender a mercy guided the hand tha: dealt each stroke of pain." Sheba was silent. They had come to a standstill beside th. well, and her eyes rested on its dark mysterious depths. Was i: an emblem of human life, the life that lay before her, into whic: she longed, yet feared, to gaze ? Involuntarily she turned to he: companion. " I am glad," she said simply, " that I have me; you. I thii '. you will do me good." CHAPTER VIII. SOME TRAITS IN SHEBA'S CHARACTER. NoEi. TTiLi, had taken his departure, tea was over, and Sheba, tc compensate for her disappointment respecting the Crow's Nest had seized her " Arabian Nights," and made off to the garder unobserved. In a moment more she had swung herself up tf her leafy bovver, and, safely hidden from sight, plunged into th; delieious, if not strictly moral adventures of Nourddin and th; Beautiful Persian. She had fulfilled her usual duties of feedin. the fowls with Indian corn, finding the eggs, and giving Billy an the dogs their supi)er. Now she was free to annise herself ti' bed-time as she had no lessons to prepare for Noel Hill. Mrs. Oimatroyd had delivered to her a long lecture on the imi)ortance of attending to her new teacher and benefiting b) SOME TRAITS IN SHEBA'S CHARACTER. 39 hut, and then id over to the nd the awfu! dead person id was a bad all she had. and had beer. little innocent B turned away Ay dear little xed older and .*s way is no; d inscrutable, se to rebel o: ; decree. Wc arer eyes anc id was the enc the hand tha: till beside tb^ pths. Was i: er, into whic'r turned to he: t I have me: and Sheba, tc Crow's Nest to the garde: herself up tf nged into tlit rddin and th ies of feedin. ving Billy an: ise herself ti. Hill, ecture on the benefiting b; ^uch a very superior and unusual instructor, ihere a year," she said in conclusion, ** so I ** He will only be J|iere a year," she said in conclusion, *' so 1 trust you will make jjthe most of such an opportunity. Very few girls are so fortunate l^§s to get any education at all in this detestable place." Mrs. Ormatroyd nated Australia, and rarely spoke of it without Jlhe prefix of an uncomplimentary adjective. Sheba had listened JLo the harangue very quietly; she had been unusually excited ill day, but excitement with her only took the form of intense luietness. She felt too deeply for outward display, a charac- jristic which had been so far misconstrued as to win for her |uch appellations as " sulky," " cold," " morose," from the various lembers of her family, and . for sake of which she had shed lany bitter tears in secret. Sut then children who are cold and stiff and awkward in public, id weep bitterly over their shortcomings in private, are not a is's that are comprehensible, or that parents ought to encourage. *here is a general rule and system laid down for the bringing up \i children ; it has broad and saf^ lines, and is not too difficult )r the capacity of ordinary fathers and mothers. It certainly las one drawback : it mak(3s no allowance for difference of in- ;llect, or temperament. But that is a mere detail, and deals ily with a very small class, who are decidedly uncomfortable, id indeed ought to be suppressed, if the thing could be managed Uhout the slight inconvenience of " consequences," such as )roners' inquests. Sheba belonged to this uncomfortable order, ^hat answered with Hex did not answer with her. What had ;en the traditional "bringing up" in her mother's family, who [ere mostly girls, and in her father's, who were mostly boys, mied strangely inadequate in Sheba's case. Having no other lores of experience to draw upon, both Mr. and Mrs. Ormatroyd jemed it best to give her over to the care of this self-offered istructor, though neither of them felt very hopeful as to results. Sheba was, as her mother often said, a trial. She was always irgetting to do the things she ought to do, and had a perfectly farvellous aptitude for doing those she ought not to do. Her )pearance was — to say the least of it — unprepossessing ; that is say in tie eyes ofany woman who had been handsome herself, id would have liked to have a somewhat more accurate copy of 5r features and complexion than Sheba represented. Then, as ifore stated, she was unamiable and obstinate, and perpetually disgrace about one thing or another. She was, in fact, the iry last sort of girl to find favour in the eyes of her family, for ley were sensible, even- balanced, prosaic peojile, who did not ':ognize cleverness, discredited genius, and rated the every da} 40 ••SHEBA. gifts and uses of life far more highly than its eccentricities Sheba — to them — was an eccentricity, and the perpetual en deavour to pare off her rough edges, subdue her waywardness and turn her into that regulation specimen of milk and watei womanhood, " a young lady," had only proved a total failure. Such studies as she liked she would throw herself into hear; and soul, but in like manner she displayed a mulish obstinacy ir not acquiring those she disliked, or considered useless. Frencl she hated, but Latin she adored. Arithmetic was her bite noin yet for mathematics as a science she held an unlimited reverence Music as an Art she would have loved passionately, but to wadt to its beauties through the medium of five-finger exercises anc scales, and be told that singing was simply the mastering of i certain number of ^^ solfeggi " seemed to her" nothing short o sacrilege, and was sufficient lo prevent any further effort on he; own part to perfect the musical education which Mrs. Ormatroyr had struggled with since she was eight years of age. Her memor was quick and accurate, but only for things she liked ; all eh; were stea'dily and perseveringly forgotten as soon as taught. I may be judged therefore that she was somewhat of a trial to pi up with, and as she was not one of thosfe children who ar called "taking," there was nothing external to compensate fc her troublesomeness and her deficiencies. Hex, aow, was bright, fair and handsome and loving, and ha always been the object of his mother's adoring worship, but Sheb — poor Sheba ! Well, as her historian I must confess to feelin distinctly sorry for her. She might have been so different, an: apparently from sheer perversity, she was not. The human species seem to me to represent a gigantic puzz! that has been all shaken up, and then thrown down to get assorte haphazard ; the result is that the pieces are all scattered abou: and always trying to join themselves, or joining themselves, as th case may be, at wrong ends. Rarely, very rarely, two or three c the right pieces form a harmonious combination, but the generalit are odds and ends, and the result is — well, what Sheba was t the Ormatroyds. When, the previous evening, Mr. Ormatroyd had sought il privacy of his mosquito curtains after a smoke in the veranda with his two guests, he had fairly astonished his wife by inforn ing her that he had arranged with Mr. Hill to take charge ( Sheba's education, and Ihat that gentleman had been much striu by what he termed the girl's unusual abilities. When Mrs. Ormatroyd had mastered her first feeling of su prise, not to say indignation, she took comfort to herself t SOME TRAITS IN SIIEBA'S CHARACTER. 4t eccentricities perpetual en waywardness ilk and watei tal failure, elf into hear: I obstinacy ir iless. Frencl her bHe noin ted reverence , but to wadt exercises anc mastering of i thing short o effort on ht: rs. Ormatroyf Her memor liked; all ek as taught. 1 " a trial to pi dren who ar ompensate fc >ving, and ha ;hip, but Sheb fess to feelin. different, an gigantic puzz! to get assorte cattered abou: mselves, as th two or three c the generalit Sheba was t lad sought tl the veranda nit by inforn take charge en much striK feeling of su to herself t effecting audibly that it was to herself Sheba wa.^ indebted for these abilities, their culture, and their present state of promise. Tt therefore became an easier matter to yield to her husband's persuasions, and resign the unwelcome charge of education into Dther, though be sure she would not acknowledge the possibility of their being more capable, hands. " It will be a v'.ight off my mind," she answered after a long discussion for a.id against. ?' But I don't know how he will manage her. She is so extremely ifficult to get on with, and generally ends her lessons with a ood of tears, or a fit of sulks. She has a most wonderful aptitude or tears. I never can get her to read King Charles I.'s execu- ;!tion, or Joseph and his Brethren, without a burst. Such babyish Inonsense, crying over people who are dead and buried ages ago ! i quite despair of making her a sensible woman. And she is so plain ; I'm sure she will always be a trial to nje ! " j " Oh I " said Mr. Ormatroyd cheerfully, " perhaps she will get rettier. She does not lock so ugly when she has a colour, and hose dark sallow children often alter very much. However, eing ugly is one reason why she ought to be well educated. )lever women often take better than merely pretty ones. It is "Ihot always," he added, by way of a judicious compliment, " that III woman is fortunate enough to combine both qualities." % "No," said Mrs. Ormatroyd, with a satisfied recollection of IJier own fair skin and regular features and well-balanced mind; I no, my dear Horace, it is not." Then there was silence, broken only by the bu z of the osquitoes and the soft splash of rain dripping from the erandah eaves, but thus it came to pass that the Rev. Noel Hill resented himself to Sheba next day in the light of a teacher, and hat — to use her own words — she " felt he would do her good." he had been singularly unmolested that day, and as a matter of curse she felt unusually amiable as she sat in her leafy chamber nd revelled in the *•* Beautiful Persian's " adventures. Hex had ;one off with some of his schoolfellows to play cricket, a game ^n which Sheba also was a proficient, but which she had not ared to indulge in on this special evening. ^ How still and cool it was in that green nest of hers. The shy ^irds came fluttering on the boughs, and perched themselves Jclose to the silent figure. A faint wind that had sprung up at uiunset rustled the thick green leaves ; the scent of roses, growing -wild and luxurious in the garden beds below, stole softly upwards like a message of delight. i The girl's eyes lifted themselves from the page before her; |khey were soft, rapt, humid with the birth of new thoughts and M 4* "SHEBA." sweeter fancies than ever her heart had known. What was this love of which she had read — the love of one human being for another ; the all-absorbing devo;.ional passion which drew its 1'^" but for and with that other life it worsliipped ? Was there reauy in the world anything so glorious and beautiful, and might it one day bless her own heart ; that heart which so ached and longed for the unknown and unattainable ; that heart which even to her- self was such a mystery ? Into its depths she had almost feared to gaze ; those depths where strange fancies and desires slumbered like dreams that are yet undreamt. A sense of awe came over her, tears rushed hot and swift to her eyes ; it was as if she had received a shock, a revelation that terrified, even while it gladdened her, and like a mighty wind it rushed through those closed chambers, sweeping them clear of all they had previously held — all her childish whims and fancies, and the small petty cares that reached no further than the " to- day " that called them forth. The great measureless depths of the sky lay stretched above her head ; the clear radiance of the full moon, lit it from end to end, and all the still beauty of the summer night was heavy with sweet odours. She clasped her hands tight, her breath came swift and panting through her parted lips ; she leant against the boughs and closed her eyes in a sudden ecstasy. What did it mean ? What had come to her ? Might life be happy after all, and were her dreams possible ? Would this wide hopeless yearn- ing that had made her so unhappy be swept away on the stronger current of something greater, better, more soul-filling ? Might there be some one, even now — waiting^hoping — looking for her as the fulfilment of his life, even as he would be the completing of her own ? The blood flushed hot and swift to her cheek, her heart beat stormily. The sense of her own nature, the imperious faculty of dawning womanhood stirred and woke within her breast, and seemed to point out duties, reponsibilities — ay, and reward. Life was not a thing of dreams, though dreams might be its resting moments, it meant action, duty, sacrifice ; it was not a thing of self — to be spent and exhausted in one narrow groove — but meant for individual help and comfort, widespread sympathy and patient endeavour that would reach to sublime heights even over a martyr's path of thorns. It suddenly seemed to her that she had been very wicked and very selfish. She had wept in secret over her faults and short- comings, but had she ever really tried to amend them ? Had she not rather resented punishment as an injustice, than accepted it as her due ? Had she not been wilful, passionate, disobedient COMPARING NOTES. 43 t was this being foi ew its 1'^" here reau^ ght it one nd longed ,ren to her- lost feared slumbered d swift to :lation that ity wind it [n clear of id fancies, 1 the "to- :hed above om end to heavy with reath came against the /hat did it )y after all, eless yearn- he stronger g ? Might dng for her :ompleting cheek, her imperious within her s — ay, and ims might ce; it was )ne narrow widespread to sublime iricked and and short- Im? Had n accepted lisobedient all the years she could remember ? How was it possible then that she could have won love or consideration ? Then suddenly she thought of Noel Hill ; how kind he had been, how different to any one she had ever met, how generously he had behaved about that awful sermon of hers, of which she never thought now without a tingle of shame from head to foot. " I'm sure," she said opening her eyes at last, as she reached this point of her feflections, " the devil must have found my soul ' swept and gar- l^ished ' that Sunday afternoon, and so just came in and had a good lime of it there. Oh, I shall never forget it as long as I live ! ISfeverl" ■::i CHAPTER IX. COMPARING NOTES. HEBA had just reached this point in her reflections, when she was jroused by the sound of voices in the verandah. The air was so still and resonant that she could hear them i^stinctly, though the garden was some distance from the house |nd separated from it by another smaller flower garden, which i|as at present a glowing confusion of scarlet roses, variegated tdrangea, tall fuchsias and various other brilliant tropical plants. le two gardens were .separated by a small fence of the usual goings. « Wondering who the visitors were, Sheba put her books carefully tween a forked bough, and then proceeded to climb a little igher m order to catch sight of the verandah. She succeeded in discerning the flutter of a dress, and listening ore intently, she heard the voice of Mr. Saxton. Down she rambled from her tree like a young squirrel, and in another stant was speeding over the beds, and had dashed through the tie wooden gate that separated the inner from the outer garden. Flushed and panting, her hair like a lion's mane about her loulders, and her cotton dress embellished by a huge rent, made its catching in a rose bush as she had dashed by — so Sheba esented herself at the steps of the verandah. J Mr. Saxton was there, and beside him stood a tall fair girl, who, Sheba's astonished eyes, seemed a very vision of beautiful d fashionable young ladyhood. In the horrified pause that foUowed the girl's advent, a sense her own shortcomings was — for the first time in her wild life •Irbrought forcibly home to her mind by contrast. 44 " SHEBA." Then she heard Mr. Saxton's cheery voice, and woke to a due knowledge of her surroundings. " Why, here is my little friend," he said heartily. " Bessie, my dear, this is Miss Sheba Ormatroyd, who, as I told you, was so anxious to make your acquaintance. I hope you will be very good friends." Now, it is an odd thing, but girls at an introduction are quite as stiff as boys, and quite as likely to look and feel antagonistic if their elders suggest the possibility of friendship. The very mention of the word seems aggressive, and they mentally measure swords with each other, even as they shake hands with the unexpressive formality that is enforced by all precedents of civilization. Bessie Saxton, tall and graceful, and neat and pretty, put a small silk-gloved hand into Sheba's brown and, I am sorry to say, not over-clean one. The dark eyes flashed interrogation at the blue, then the hands dropped, and Miss Saxton and Miss Orma- troyd, aged respectively fifteen and thirteen were prepared for hostilities. " What a wild-looking little horror," ran the reflec- tions of fifteen, English, insular and proper. " How different to what I expected," thought thirteen, wild natural and impulsive. Then Mrs. Ormatroyd, who was a woman as r riy devoid of tact as might be found in a day's journey, car the rescue, volubly and aggressively. " Gracious, Sheba ! What a sight you look I I am ashamed of you. Go to your room and wash yourself, and tidy your hair, and then come and talk to Miss Saxton, and — Oh, just look at your dress. Why you've torn it from the gathers to the hem." " Phooh ! Never mind," said Mr. Saxton good-humouredly. "We don't expect drawing-room young ladies in the bush. I told Bessie she was much too fine. She ought to wear cottons and plain straw hats, not feathers and furbelows." " We don't consider this the bush," said Mi"s. Ormatroyd, with the dignity befitting a clean starched muslin of many flounces and vivid colouring. " You should have seen Tanilba." " Tanilba was a thousand times better than this," interposed Sheba aggressively. " It never mattered there how you were dressed, or indeed if you weren't dressed at all. The * gins ' never were." " Sheba 1 " cried her mother in a shocked voice and with a frown of much promise. " Go to your room, and do what I told you at once I " The girl's lips opened, her eyes glowed defiantly, then suddenly she turned away without a word, her face very pale and her mouth COMPARING NOTES. 4S ke to a due Itle friend," Ormatroyd, :quaintance. on are quite itagonistic if e, and they they shake irced by all retty, put a sorry to say, Ration at the Miss Orma- )repared for 1 the reflec- lirteen, wild ly devoid of the rescue, am ashamed iy your hair, just look at the hem." humouredly. he bush. I vear cottons latroyd, with any flounces ba." " interposed )w you were The ' gins ' with a frown it I told you hen suddenly id her mouth sternly set. " My temper again," she said in her heart, " and I was going to be so good. But, oh, why — why does mother always aggravate me so ? " In accordance with those new resolves of humility and obedi- ence that she had made in her tree of refuge, Sheba took herself to her room, plunged her face into cold water, brushed her *• lion's mane" into something like neatness, and pinned up the rent in her frock. Then she looked at herself in the glass, and made a grimace. " Oh ! " she said, " there's no doubt about it. I'm absolutely and undeniably hideous ! What must I look like beside her ? A friend ! Fancy thinking she would ever be a friend. Why, she looks afraid of me." Then she laughed somewhat bitterly, though a sudden hot smart in the great sad eyes seemed to say that mirth was further away than tears, and flinging the towel over the off"ending looking- glass, she went slowly back to the verandah. Mrs. Ormatroyd looked somewhat surprised as she advanced. It would have been far more in accordance with Sheba's usual behaviour to have gone off altogether, or have appeared just as the visitors were leaving, but her subdued and altered demeanour quite astonished her mother, and led her to hope that Noel Hill had been instilling the first principles of obedience into that obstinate nature during th*^ long afternoon talk that had repre- sented his first lesson. " Now, my dear," she said to her young visitor, " would you not like to go round the garden with my little girl ? she will show you her pets. Now be sure, Sheba, you don't allow Billy to butt at Miss Saxton, and don't take her into wild places, where she will get her dress torn. It's all very well for you, but she is net accustomed to bush ways and habits." " Will you come ? " asked Siieba with unwonted gentleness. " Oh, certainly. I shall be very pleased," answered the visitor rising, and in another moment the two girls were crossing the yard together. " What on earth made you come here dressed out like that ? " asked Sheba with almost brutal candour. " It's much too good. White muslin, isn't it ? I thought people only wore it at parties." " Dear me, no," answered the English girl. " This is quite an ordinary dress. My others are nearly all silk, or grenidine, or fancy stuff's." "They won't be much use here, then," said Sheba. "And how are you going to get them uj) ? Can you do them yourself ? " " Ge^ them up ? I — I don't understand," said Bessie Saxton, somewhat bewildered. 46 "SHEBA." " I mean wash and iron and goffer all those frills and flounces. You won't find a servant to do it, I'm sure. Even our plain II I cottons mother has to starch and iron. The girl only washes them." " Oh, dear ! " exclaimed her companion, " what a dreadful place. What ever made papa come here ? " " Oh ! " said Sheba cheerfully, " the place isn't so bad. There are hundreds worse. And you can get to Sydney and back in a day. Think of that. Now at Tanilba " " Oh, your mothe/ did nothing but talk about Tanilba," said the girl petulantly. " I don't want to hear any more of it. That's the place where you said the women — — " "Wore no clothes. Yes; they did look funny I can tell you ; jolly cool it must have been, and then when you went for a walk and came to a creek, you could just step in and have a batli without the trouble of undressing. I often 'vish I could do it." " Do you mean," ejaculated Bessie, " that you bathe in creeks — in the open air !" " Of course. Why not ? So will yoii if you're sensible. All the water has to be brought from a well, here, and at the Crow's Nest. A servant won't cany enough buckets of it for baths. I and Hex always go to the creek. There's a jolly one about two miles off. We get up at five o'clock to have our di}), and then come home to breakfast. When it's very hot here you can't go but in the middle of the day at all, you know." " And you have lived in Australia all your life ? " said Bessie curiously. " Yes, and you in England ? Ah, do tell me something about England. I long to know. Australians always call it * home,' you know, and every one of them in their hearts, Jjopes to see it some day." "Do they? Well, it certainly is very different to this. I can hardly blame them for wishing to know what civilization really is." " What do English people do when they first know each other ? " asked Sheba eagerly^ forgetting all about her new friend's airs and graces and toilette in the excitement of a new interest. " What do they dc ! " echoed Bessie Sa?.ton. " Well, they exchange calls, and then — well — then I think one asks the othur to dinner." " Oh, that will do ! " interrupted Sheba. " It is just exactly as I thought. I remember reading somewhere that no English- men consider a friendship ratified until they have had a ' feed ' together, which means stuffing themselves with a dozen courses, COMPARING NOTES. 47 id flounces. 1 our plain mly washes , a dreadful ad. There id back in a nilba," said fit. That's an tell yoi' ; ,t for a walk lave a batli •uld do it." he in creeks insible. All t the Crow's , or baths. I le about two ip, and then you can't go said Bessie ething about 1 it * home,' pes to see it to this. I civilization know each • new friend's ew interest. "Well, they sks the other just exactly no English- had a ' feed ' ozen courses, and drinking champagne. I think the idea is odious. I am quite sure we shan't ask you to dinner. We haven't near ^ enough plates, rtnd — and other things. And our servant can't cook anything at all. Mother has to do it, or I, and it would be a great deal too nuch trouble to ask people to dinner under the circumstances." Bessie Saxton stopped in the middle of the walk, and surveyed her outspoken companion with undisguised surprise. "What a funny child you are," she said. " And do you mean to say you can cook ? " " Rather ! " said Sheba emj^jhatically. " I could cook a dinner when I was ten years old, and I can make ' dampers ' as well as any digger. But I suppose you don't know what a 'damper' is." " Oh, yes, I do. Papa told me. I can't think what made him come here," she added mournfully, " Such a place, too, as we have to live in. Aunt Allison is in an awful way about it. And then a Chinaman for a cook ! " " Chinamen are the best cooks in the world," said Sheba. "They have them at Government House." " I'm sure T don't care what they have at Government House," said Miss 3axton tossing her fair head contemptuously. " It doesn't concern me. But I must say I never expected to see Esuch a wilderness of desolation as the Crow's Nest ; and then to 'Ibe told one must live there. It's perfectly dreadful !" I "Why did Mr. Saxton come out to Australia at ail?" asked Sheba. " Oh, he has to see aiter some railways, I believe, ever so far off, and he thought he would leave us all here, to be out of harm's way, I suppose." " There are a great many of you, are there not ? " asked Sheba ; " your father told me so, and all girls. Are you very fond of each other ? " " Not particularly. They are so wild and troublesome, and so [much younger than myself." " You — I should fancy you were never wild or troublesome," I said Sheba with quite unconscious sarcasm. " I hope not," said Miss Saxton with dignity. *^' I have been jVery carefully brought up." " And weren't the others ? " demanded Sheba. " V'ou ask a great many (piestions," said her companion, look- ifig at her with those clear blue eyes that were as cold as the ikioe of her own land. "Isn't that the only way of procuring information?" re- [turned Sheba, unabashed by the look or the implied rebuke. 48 "SHKBA." I I i 1 ( '' turning " I have been wondering," said the English girl, " how old you are. You look about ten." " I am thirteen," said Sheba indignantly. " Almost fourteen," she added w'h that injudicious hurrying on of years that is natural to extreme youth. " I am small, I know, but I have grown very much this last year. My frocks are only just over my knees, and last year they were quite long for me." " And I suppose you go to school ? " " Oh, no," said Sheba laughing. " Why, there isn't a school in the place, except for boys. I have always learnt at home. However," she added proudly, " I am going to have a master now. He is coming to-morrow, and he is to teach me Latin and Greek and mathematics anti " " Goodness ! " ejaculated her companion. " What odd things for a girl to learn. Why doesn't he teach you something sensible ? " " What do you call sensible ? " demanded Sheba and facing her under the great pear tree. "French, and music, and drawing, and — well, English litera- ture. Those are things girls learn in England." " And does it make them like — you ? " asked Sheba, her lip curling contemptuously. * I — well I suppose so," said Miss Saxton complacently. " They might easily be worse." *' Or better," said Sheba quickly. "You are very rude." " And you are very conceited." " I think," said Miss Saxton with dignity, " we had better return to the house ; it is not very interesting to stand here quarrelling,' Quick compulsion swept over Sheba's heart. Here she was at her old fault, losing her temper and actually being rude to a guest, behaving more like an aborigine than a well brought-up youn:; lady. " I beg your pardon," she said impulsively. " I'm afraid I wai rude. You see I'm not used to girls, and the boys — well, it's just give and take with them, you know. I really didn't mean to offend you. I shoujd like to be friends. I — oh, I have so longed for a girl friend, and when I heard that you were coming, and your father told me your name, I made (juite a picture of you in my mind, and I even thanked (lod in my prayers that He had put it into your father's h-.'ad to come here. I did indeed, and though you're (juite dilTereMt to what I thought, and 1 felt a little dis;i|i pointed when I saw you first, still we might be friends after all, mightn't we ... . if — if you wouldnt mind ? " COMPARING NOTES. f49 how old you St fourteen," >rcars that is l)ut I havf ly just over sn't a school rnt at home, ave a master ne Latin and It odd things u something leba turning English litera- .1 heba, her lip f ;ntly. "They I better return e quarrelling.' ere she wa.s at jde to a guest, ight-up youiiL; m afraid I wai —well, it's just nean to offend 50 longed for a ling, and your of you in my He had put ii d, and though t a little dis;ip lends after all, Bessie Saxton laughed ; she could not help it. " You really," she said, " are the very oddest girl I ever came across. I wonder if all Australians are like you. Why, to hear you talk one would think you were twenty, and to look at you " " Ten. You said that before," said Sheba humbly. " Don't repeat it, please. I do so want to be old and grown up, and the years are so slow." " Grown-up people say they will soon mend of that," said Bessie Saxton. " I can't fancy it. But are you going in ? Have you seen enough of the garden ? There is a lot more, and the well, and the green frogs, and my goat " " Thanks," said Miss Saxton hastily. " I think what I've seen will do, and it'll be getting dark, and we've a long way to walk." " Dark ! " and Sheba laughed aloud. " Why, it will be as light as this all night long. I can see to read the smallest print up to dawn, for I've tried it on hot nights when I couldn't sleep. However," she added with an attempt at politeness, " I daresay the garden doesn't interest you, so we will go back if you wish. Would you — would you mind telling me if you have brought many books with you from England ? " " Lots," said her companion quickly. " Why do you ask ? " " Oh ! " cried Sheba rapturously, " perhaps you will lend me some now and then. I do so love books. I'd walk barefooted to Sydney only to get one. What are yours like ? " " Novels, I think, chiefly, and travels, and some dry ones of papa's. I never looked at anything but the covers of those." "And what," asked Shelu curiously, "are novels? I've never read one." " Never read a novel ! Dear me ! " exclaimed Miss Saxton with a new sense of importance besides that of possessing white muslins, and hats with feathers. " Why, ladies in England hardly ever read anything else. They are works of — of fiction, you know, and all about love and marriage and — and sometimes a murder. There was one that had just come out when I was leaving England, and I got papa to buy it. It's * Lady — * oh, I never can remember titles — 'Lady — Somebody's Secret.' I know she pushes her husband down a well and kills him, or nearly kills him, and marries some one else, and then it's all found out at last, and I believe she takes poison. There's another where the girl runs off with her groom. That also has a murder." "Oh, how dreadful," said Sheba. "Are all novels like that? They must be horrid." " Oh, no. Some arc very namby-pamby, but these are of the U so •' SIIEBA.* I i I i i I M new school, the sensational. It is the rage now. Each new writer tries to do something more startling than the others have done. I don't know where they'll end. Aunt Allison said I was not to read this one I've told you about ; that it wasn't fit for young girls, but I didn't pay any attention, and I got it on the sly and read it every word, and she knows nothing about it." " But surel)," said Sheba gravely, "that wasn't aright thing to do. It was deceitful." " Do you mean to say," asked Miss Saxton opening her blue eyes very wide, " that you never have done anytiiing you were told not to do ? My ! you must be a little Puritan ! " " I wouldn't do anything mean or dishonourable," said Sheba gravely, " and I'd sooner die than tell a falsehood. If mother . forbade me to read a book she wouldn't have to hide it. I shouldn't think of opening it without her leave." " Dear me," sneered Miss Saxton, " I suppose those are aboriginal virtues. I'm afraid you wouldn't find girls like yourself in England. Why, at school my greatest delight wa3 to break rules, and I was hardly ever found out, I did it so cleverly." " Oh ! " said Sheba doubtfully. " Well, somehow it doesn't . seem to me rig/i^. It's not the finding out that I should care for, it's the feeling of having done wrong. I can't see where the delight would be." " You primitive little thing ! I declare you're quite as funny as your name. By the way who gave you your name ? " " Do you mean me to answer like the catechism ? " laughed Sheba. " I believe my father fixed on it. It belonged to some ancestress of his, for whose life and sayings he had a great rever- ence in his boyhood. I suppose it does seem an odd name at first." *' Very odd," said the English girl. " Quite heathenish, I thought." " It can't be that," said Sheba indignantly, " for it's in the Bible." " Well, the Queen of Sheba was a heathen, or came from some heathen place, I know," answered the other. " But, after all, it's not of much consequence. My name's Bessie, you know; it's about as common as yours is peculiar ; but you can call me it if you like. Oh, by the way," she added as they neared the verandah, " what is this master of yours like — young or old ? " " Young," said Sheba. " He is a clergyman, and the nephew of Mr. Payne, our old clergyman here." Sheba had never heard of " vicar" or " rector." To her mind a clergyman was a clergyman,, whatever his position in the world clerical. COMPARING NOTES. SI lach new lers have aid I was I't fit for it on the It it." t thing to her blue were told lid Sheba [f mother de it. I those are :e yourself ; to break erly." it doesn't „ d care for, where the is funny as " laughed id to some reat rever- d name at ithenish, I the Bible." from some fter all, it's know; it's ill me it if ; verandah, he nephew D her mind the world "A clergyman," said Miss Saxton contemptuously. "Oh, another goody-goody. How slow it will be. Is he handsome? " "I'm sure I don't know," said Sheba doubtfully, "you had better come here to-morrow and see him yourself. I never thought about his looks." " You little innocent. Really, you might have lived in Arcadia to judge by your ideas. Well, I think I will come over and see him. Even a curate is better than nothing in a God-forsaken place like this." Then she ascended the verandah steps, and made herself so pleasant and entertaining to Mrs. Ormatroyd, that that lady, who prided herself on her faculty of reading character, spent all the rest of the evening in praising her young visitor's charms of manner, mind and appearance, and wishing that Providence had seen fit to bless her with such a daughter, ending up her rap ures by beseeching Sheba to copy her new friend in everything if she wished to grow up amiable and intelligent. " You will never be so charming a girl," she added in conclusion, " but at least you may become pleasing." "And deceitful," Sheba added to herself, remembeHng the novel that had been secured so cleverly, and the broken rules, and general want of straightforwardness in Bessie Saxton's account of her school life. However, she made no remark as her mother rhapsodied on ; it was but a cross the more to bear, and had she not determined that very morning that she would keep guard over tongue and temper, and strive to be more dutiful than was her wont? Her own will was not to be the centre of her desires any longer, and the strange impulse that had swept over soul and sense seemed to her like a direct message by which she was to guide her life for the future. She could no^ oegin too soon, and therefore, though she knew Bessie Saxton's character was as far removed from what her mother declared it to be, as light from darkness, she listened humbly and silently, and tried not to feel hurt that [lanother should have won so easily the good opinion that her own j young perplexed life had been one vain struggle to attain. Every [one was hard on her; she was used to it, and really sometimes [minded it very little. S'.ill to-night it was a somewhat sore and [troubled heart that she took with her to rest, and she could K)t help acknowledging that the advent of the ardently desired l|' friend " had not proved altogether so satisfactory as yesterday |it promised to be. In her i)rayers that night Sheba did not allude to Bessie Saxton, leither did she invoke any special blessing on her head. She 4—2 ^ ! 1 S2 "SHE HA. made up her mind that she would see a little more of her before troubling Providence on her behalf, or asking for any improve- ment in her nature. 1 1 I 1 I' I CHAPTER X. LESSONS. Noel Hill was of a somewhat enthusiastic disposition. He had distinct views of his own, and they had always been of a kind to improve and elevate the tone of general life. He had been quite famous at college, and great things had been prophesied of hmi. The serious bent of his mind had inclined him towards the Church, and it had been a great trial whe:> his health broke down, and the fiat of science had gone forth, wnich decreed a voyage to Australia instead of the work he had desired to accomplish. It was just when the question of that sea voyage was on the tapis^ that Noel Hill's father remembered he had a half-brother settled in some remote region of Australia from whom he heard at intervals of time extending over five or more years. It occurred to Mr. Hill, senior, that this gentleman might receive his son, and that being a clergyman also, the plan would suit both parties equally well. Noel therefore departed armed with a letter of introduction to his uncle, and having found out that gentleman's place of abode and explained his own position, he was received with open arms. Mr. Payne was not at all sorry to have an assistant who would require no salary and whose abilities seemed unquestionable, and when Noel Hill informed him that he would much like to have a pupil or two with whom to read classics, he promised to do his best to procure them. He thought first of the Ormatroyds. Hex was old enough to dip into Horace and Virgil, and have a grind at mathematics. Then there were the Sandersons : the father was — well, not to put too fine a point on it, there were rumours ot convict ancestry — but the boys were fine, frank, intelligent fellows, and surely they would hel}) to form a class independent of their school studies. He was quite sure it could be managed, and became quite enthusiastic on the subject^ as he broached it to the Ormatroyds. He met with no objection there ; Mr. Ormatroyd had all an Englishman's belief in the virtue of Latin and Greek and conic sections, and was only too pleased that his son should have the chance of such valuable instruction as could be procured from a " 'Varsity man." It was Noel Hill's own suggestion that Shel)a LESSONS. 53 f her before ny improve - )n. He had of a kind to d been quite isied of him. towards the broke down, i a voyage to mplish. on the /<7//V, •other settled he heard at It occurred e his son, and both parties itroduction to lace of abode h open arms, nt who would stionable, and like to have a sed to do his iatroyds. Hex have a grind the father was ;re rumours ot Uigent fellows, ident of their managed, and iched it to the Ir. Ormatroyd and Greek and >n should have procured from ion that Shelia should share her brother's studies, and as the school hours clashed iomewhat, he arranged to take her in the morning for a couple of hours, and Hex and any of his schoolfellows who could manage it were to meet at the Parsonage in the evening twice a week. Sheba's first lesson was as much a source of wonder to her teacher as to herself. They sat in the verandah — it being cooler Ihan the house — and he commenced to take her miscellaneous tore of information to pieces, bit by bit, like the mechanism of a ^lock. Some of it surprised him very much, but on the other hand ter ignorance of most ordinary subjects was quite as singular. 5 I have only learnt what I liked," Sheba affirmed. " Mother and ^ have had terrible battles, but she always had to give in." ^ Then Noel Hill gently, but firmly, gave h^r to undersiaud that |f he was to be teacher and she pupil, he must exact strict obedience |o his directions, and proceeded to explain that, dry and unin- teresting as rules of grammar were, it was impossible to speak or frite correctly and fluently without mastering their intricacies. ,,, "You say you love writing themes," he went on gravely. "But §ou cannot acquire style or elegance, or form of expression, without ftudying the art of composing sentences in different ways. For Instance, some of those you have shown me are full of tautology, ipnd you construct your sentences with unvarying sameness. You 'j|ave a very vivid imagination. That is a natural gift, but you inust learn to utilize it and expend its forces more equally if you Ifeally wish to derive any good from it." " " What good could I dr- ive ? " asked Sheba humbly. ,, "A great deal," he said. " You nr ay become a writer, or a poet, am sure you have written poetry, have you not ? " " Yes," she said, blushing crimsoz and dropping her eyes with idden shyness. " Oh," said Noel Hill smihng, " I am not going to ask you to lliow it me. I know how jealously we prize those first fledglings k imagination, and how we dread any critical eye beholding them, am merely stating what I think you are capable of doing, and jUing you the best way of doing it." "I should love to write," said Sheba, her great liquid eyes lashing up to her {eacher's face. " Have women ever written woks — really clever books that people care to read ? " " I should think.so," laughed the young man. " Mrs. Browning id Mrs. Hemans are great poets, especir / the former. Eliza *ook is another. There are more woman authors in England than can name : Jcne Austen, Charlotte Bronte, George El'ot, Miss [uloch, besides the new school of sensational literature, which riginates from a feminine source and will have hosts of imitators. !i0i^ 54 « SHEBA. - 1 i I I '; You see there is a chance for you, Miss Sheba. But to be a grent writer you not only want a brilliant imagination and sound judi^ ment, but a perfect literary style. Combine those forces and you may assure yourself of success and fame ; .separate them, rely merely on the brilliance and ease, not the care and finish, and you will obtain, perhaps, a succes d'estivie, bat nothing lasting or satis factory ; the summer season of the moth and the butterfly, no more." Sheba drew a deep breath. " I will take your advice," she said, " and do exactly what you wish." " Ah," he said, " now we shall get on. Just let us classify our studies, fix the days for each, and then we will see what progress you make. I am a grc.t stickler for order and method. One thing at a time and that thoroughly. You have waded through your Latin grammar, I see ; but what about Greek ? Do you really wish to learn Greek ? " " If you please," Sheba said timidly. " Is it a thing girls usually learn ? " " I believe not," he said. " But then you are not a ' usual ' little girl. Well, if you are so anxious we will give three mornings a week to Greek ; the other three to Latin and English. What do you say ? " " It will be lovely," she ani. d, her eyes sparkling with delight. " Now, then, as that is seUicu, give me the Latin grammar." The time sped almost too quickly for Sheba. What a delightful teacher this was, and how in a few words he cleared away dii'fi- culties that had haunted her young brain for years. The lesson was nearly over when the " click " of the gate iatch made her look up. To her great surprise she saw Bessie Srixtou in all the glories of a pale pink cotton, and hat of a shape and style utterly unknown to Sheba's Arcadian eyes, advancing towards the verandah. The young lady came forward looking, so Sheba thought, far prettier even than on the previous evening. Noel Hill rose and bowed ; it never entered Sheba's head that she ought to introduce him to her visitor. "Well," asked Bessie, "have you finished your lessons ? Aunt sent me round to ask you to come back with me, and spend the evening. Will you ? " " I should like to," said Sheba, " but," and she looked doubt- fully at Noel Hill, " my lessons* have to be prepared. I mustn't neglect them." " Perhaps," he suggested, " you could do them before you gc with your — friend." He looked inquiringly at Bessie. LESSONS. 55 I be a grent 3und indic- es and you them, rely sh, and you ing or satis lutterfly, no e," she said, classify our lat progress thod. One led through . ? Do you girls usually - usual ' little ; mornings a 1. What do with dcl'ght. o grammar ,t a delightful id away difli- ie gate iatch essie SciXton a shape and cing towards thought, far ^ill rose and to introduce ;sons? Aunt nd spend the )oked doubt- [. I mustn't )efore you gc e. She blushed and smiled, and tossed her pretty fair head. " My iname," she said, " is Saxton. We have come to live at the Crc w's ^:Nest. I hope you will call to see us. It is terribly lonely, and lifter England " " You have just come from England then," he said, " so have The life here is a great contrast." He drew a chair forward. Won't you sit down ? " he said. Sheba looked on wonderingly, and with a reluctant admiration [or the quite " grown up " manners of Miss Saxton. She leant nguidly back in her chair, and fanned herself with her broad- rimmed hat. She looked up at Noel Hill's face, and dropped er eyes, and smiled and blushed, in a way altogether puzzling to heba's uninitiated mind, innocent as yet of the faintest meaning f the word " flirtation." " I think," she interposed somewhat rusquely, " I will go and ask mamma what to do about going ck with you." " Yes, do," said Bessie languidly. "And I hope you can give e some lunch, for I'm half dead after this long walk." " There's only cold beef," said Sheba, " and stewed fruit and ice. You must put up with that instead of the * dozen courses ' u- would get in England." " What an odd child that is," said Miss Saxton, as the girl isai)peared through the open hall door. " I don't envy you ur task of instructing her, Mr. Hill." ** Don't you ? " he said smiling. " She is very clever and ry quick. I am rather inclined to be proud of my pupil." " I expect," she said critically, " it is superficial cleverness, hose quick children are almost always shallow." " Well," said Noel Hill gravely, " time will show. I have my n opinion at present." He could not help marvelling in his own mind at what period feminine existence the faculty for disparaging each other's ental, or physical advantages, developed itself. Young as the iw arrival was, she undoubtedly possessed it, and he regarded r with some interest after that remark. Miss Saxton on her side was ui'sy forming her own opinion of ie young man. He was decidedly better-looking than she had agined, though not quite tall enough or manly enough to isfy her taste, which leaned to the muscular and " Guy Living- ne " type of manhood. Still, he would do to pass the time keep her hand in, for Miss Saxton had determined tjiat her 'e in life was to be un peu coquette ; not too much, not anything he sort that was provocative of deadly rivalry and bloodshed, but it un peu — the little delicate nuances of coquetry that are so I ■ ) I ; I 56 ••SHEBA." captivating and ensnaring ; the exact antipodes of Sheba. who was brusque and rough and blundering, and as ugly and wild as a little Shetland pony in its nativ? haunts. So she leant gracefully back in the wicker chair and glanced ever and anon at Noel Hill from under her long fair lashes, and hoped he would take her for seventeen, and pay her a compliment on her appearance. But nothing was further from Noel Hill's thoughts. He stood there turning over the leaves of the Latin grammar somewhat absently, and only waiting for Sheba's return to say good-bye. He had a vague idea that this English girl was tall and lazy, and over-dressed, and inclined to look down upon his little bush girl, as he called Sheba in his own mind. Further than that he did not concern himself about her presence, being a man to whom feminine society was of very little importance, and who, at present, regarded the sex analytically rather than admiringly. So the two maintained almost total silence, until presently Sheba burst in upon them with the announcement that her mother would be delighted if Miss Saxton would stay to lunch ; "though we always call it dinner," Sheba added with her usual frankness, " and I may go back with you in the afternoon, but not till it gets cooler, so 1 can do my lessons before I go." " Well, now I must say good morning," Noel Hill interposed. " I am glad," he added as he held Sheba's small brown hand for a moment, " that you are to have a little pleasure. * All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,' you know." " Oh," said Sheba, " no amount of work would make me dull. I love it too much." " Still," said her preceptor gravely, "all excesses are bad; so I am going to look after you in more ways than one." Then he shook hands with Miss Saxton and went away. The two girls stood there and watched him, one critically, the other reverently. " And what do you think of him ? " asked Sheba eagerly, so soon as he was out of earshot. *' Oh," said Miss Saxton superciliously, " he is not bad. But I've not much opinion of curates. However, he'll do to keep my hand in." "To keep your — hand — in," faltered Sheba extremely be wildered. " What do you mean ? " , " Oh, .you will learn soon enough, my dear," answered Bessie with an airy little laugh. " I don't want to disturb your innocence just yet. Ah, here comes your mother, and I hope it's to saj lunch is ready, for I'm starving." "m A VISIT TO THE CROW 8 NEST. 57 )a. who was wild as a nd glanced lashes, and compliment He stood r somewhat pod-bye. ill and lazy, is little bush :han that he nan to whom ind who, at miringly. itil presently jnt that her tay to lunch ; ith her usual •noon, but not o. ill interposed. own hand for ■AH work make me dull. are bad ; so I » it away. i critically, the eba eagerly, so not bad. But do to keep my extremely be nswered Bessie your innocenct hope it's to sa) CHAPTER XL A VISIT TO THE CROW's NEST. jIt was nearly five o'clock when the two girls set out for the 'row's Nest. The road, though rough and uneven, was sheltered by huge jum trees which shut it in on either side, and the dense, thick rrowth of scrub and bush and flowering plants and broom-grass looked almost impenetrable, though Sheba had often plunged Into their dense depths, and wandered for miles through their trackless maze. She was telling her new friend some of her experiences and scapes as they walked along, how she had been lost once for a rhole day and yet found her own way home again, with nothing guide her save her memory of the trees and ravines she had issed. " Weren't you frightened ? " asked Bessie Saxton. " No ; I knew I should be sure to find my way in time. I lave often wished I could find the place where I lost myseif : I lever saw anything so lovely. There was a waterfall quite two [tmdred feet, and beyond it a valley opened out, all green grass id wild flowers, and shut in by low, rocky hills. It was so ^vely and so silent — only just the birds singing and the hum of le insects — I don't think any one had ever been there before." We might try and find it and have a picnic there," suggested Jessie. " Some one told me on the voyage that picnics were the [nly form of festivity you Australians know." Miss Saxton said "you Australians" as though she meant 'you aborigines." " A picnic ! " Sheba laughed scornfully. " It is quite fifteen liles away," she said. " And there's no road. I suppose you'd ircely care to tramp through the bush all that way and drag revision baskets with you?" "No," said Bessie dubiously, "that would hardly do. But I vImpI ose there are other places more accessible. I mean to get ip a picnic if I can. Are there any men about, besides Noel lill ? " " Is it English manners to call men by their Christian names jost as soon as you know them ? " asked Sheba. " Oh, I always do it ; I got into the way at school. We were ^her a go-ahead lot there, and it's so stupid to say * Mr.' Be- les, he's quite young. What docs it matter ? This is the last 58 ••SHEBA.' place in the world where I should expect to find forms and ceremonies. But you haven't answered my question." " There are no other ;//^«," said Sheba. " There are plenty of boys, and you have sisters younger than yourself, so they'd get on very well." " What age are the boys ? " asked Bessie. " Let me see — Ted Sanderson, he's fifteen ; Felix Short, four teen; Bobby Burton, tw^ue; Hex, my brother, eleven — they're the best of the boys hereibout. The others are a vulgar lot. Ted's the best of them all. I have just promised to be his sweetheart." " What ! " Bessie Saxton stopped in the road, and stared in astonishment at her companion. " Did you never hear of ' sweethearts ? ' Oh, it's a great institu tion here. I've had a great many. By-the-by, that justs reminds me he will be expecting me in the wilderness this afternoon. Ht was to bring me some scent. They always bring me presents. I suppose that's what sweethearts are for ! " ^ "You really," exclaimed Bessie, moving on again, "are ///( oddest child I The idea of your having a sweetheart. Does he think you're pretty ? " "Oh, no," laughed Sheba, shaking back her mane of hair, " No one with eyes in their head would think that. It's just ac idea of his, that's all. You sf^e there were no other girls aboui old enough to be sweethearts, so he chose me." "And what," asked Bessie curiously, "do you, do?" " Well, we meet, and sometimes we go for walks together- and — well, then he ■' ings me presents, as I told you. I thinl that's aU." " No spooning ? " inquired Bessie, regarding her small frienc with renewed interest. " What's that ? I never heard of such a thing," answerec Sheba in astonishment. "Didn't you? Then Australian sweethearts must be ven different to those in other countries. Doesn't he want to kis; you ? " " Oh, yes, he always wants to do that," said Sheba frankly, think it's the worst part of the business myself, but boys are s funny ! I daresay," she added, looking at her companion, " thi Ted will want to be your sweetheart as soon as he knows you." Miss Saxton tossed her fair head with contempt. "As if," sk said superciliously, " I should look at a boy of fifteen ! " " But you are only fifteen yourself," said Sheba. " Oh, yes, but then girls are grown up much sooner than boyi (i< A VISIT TO THE CKOWS NKST. 59 id forms and n." I are plenty oi they'd get on iix Short, four leven— they're i a vulgar lot sed to be his and stared Id , a great institu It justs reminds afternoon. Ht ne presents. 1 again, "are tin leart. Does he mane of hair at. It's just ar. )ther girls aboui do?" ^alks together- you. I thinl her small frienc j [hing," an^werec must be veri he want to kis; leba frankly. "' but boys are s )mpanion, " thi le knows you." k. *' As if," sk Ifteen ! " sooner than bof. »y, I might marry at sixteen, but fancy a husband of sixteen ! 'he law wouldn't permit it." " Marry," faltered Sheba. " Oh, but that has nothing to do tith sweethearts." " You little innocent. It generally begins with having a sweet- ;art. I really must lend you a novel or two just to enlighten you." " Not the one about the woman who pushed her husband down fe well, please," said Sheba. **I shouldn't like to fancy a )man doing such a wicked thing ; and when I read of people [always seem to know them, and I get quite fond of them Wetimes." " Do you think, then, that women never do wicked things ? " ted her Mentor. ** I don't know," said Sheba; "I am rather ignorant about ;m. But I should like to fancy they were good and kind, and and loving, and that the world was the better for having :m. ["Well, the longer you live the more you will find out your stake," said the young cynic of fifteen. " There are some very leer women in the world, I can tell you. We had a French [1 at our school, and she used to tell us some nice stories about tm, even about her own mother, who thought she was as |ocent as a baby, and didn't know what — oh, but I mustn't en- ^ten you too much ; your time will come. But women are not jls, though of course they try to make men believe so, that is ly until they've hooked a husband. Aprh " »he made a little airy gestur,^ suitable to the rdle of " un coquette : " a little intangible shrug and wave of the hand lied from " the life," as artists say — the Ufe being represented [Mdlle. H^l^ne de Latour, her former schoolfellow, >heba looked at her with dissatisfaction, her brows drawn in a lew hat stern line, her great eyes puzzled and full of doubt. So," she said at last, " that is what girls learn at school. I'm I never went to one." It will be all the same as if you had, a few years hence," said iie disdainfully. "You needn't pretend to be so prudish. moment a girl is grown up and goes into the world, she learns much more evil there is in it than good. And, after all, jhty people are much more amusing than good ones. There [a woman on the steamer coming out — well, she wasn't parti- Tly pretty, and she had been divorced twice, and yet all the were round her like bees after honey, and the quiet ones ^r had an admirer at all. It is really much better to be chic proper. I mean to be I " "? 6o "SHEBA." I I For tuna,' ely these sayings weie Greek to Sheba, whose onlj knowledge of such a word as " divorce " came from the Bible and to whom marriage seemed a far-off and sacred mystery abou: which she had not yet begun to speculate. But she felt coi} siderably astonished at Bessie Saxton's worldly knowledge anc wisdom, and for the rest of the walk listened in bewilderec silence to her stream of information and wondered if the othe girls would be like her. They reached the Crow's Nest at last and were greeted b; hilarious shouts from the remaining Misses Saxton, who wer watching for their arrival very impatiently. Bessie treated them with the serene dignity of an elder sistei but Sheba was delighted with the merry girl-faces, the untid frocks and torn hats, which seemed at once to draw her toward them in a bond of sympathy. They were very friendly, these three younger Saxtons. Fl» was a wild hoyden just a year older than Sheba ; Bee was twelv; and Nora a perfect picture of lovely childish, dimpled, ten. After greetings had been exchanged, they marched Sheba c to be introduced to " Aunt Allison," a tall, slender, dove-eye woman with the sweetest face Sheba had ever seen, and t! kindest manner. She put the shy awkward girl at her ease once, and then they all had tea out in the verandah — a tea whk to Sheba's eyes was a fairy-like meal, so daintily was it set o with flowers and fruits, and silver and china, and delicious cal and wonderful hot scones, the work of John Chinaman, v. Miss Saxton declared was a marvel in the way of cooks. Sheba noticed that Bessie was very silent and subdued in li aunt's presence. She neither indulged in her French minauda nor her English cynicism. But she did not show herself in altogether amiable light, and none of her sisters seemed very fo of her. Directly tea was over she carried Sheba off to see t, dresses, greatly to the disgust of the younger ones, who wanti her to come into the garden. Unhappily the dresses did :, interest Sheba; in fact, their fine mrc:;rial and elaborate st only represented to her the inconvenience of wearing them a-j behaving in a manner suitable to their importance. ». " Fd never wear anything but cottons and brown hoUand could help it," she said, as Bessie expatiated on the beauties ( delicate pink silk, not yet made up, but which she was reserv:'' for some festivity in Sydney. " No wonder, then, you look such a guy," exclaimed Be; petulantly. Her temper was ruffled by Sheba's exasperating r^,ii appreciativeness. After taking out all these treasures of millinc 1 A VISIT TO THE CROW'S NEST. 6i ba, whose onl) from the Bible i mystery abou P^ at she felt con knowledge am I in bewilderec j^ :red if the otk were greeted b ixton, who wer ,f an elder sistei faces, the untid draw her toward er Saxtons. Fll ; Bee was twelv; impled, ten. larched Sheba c lender, dove-eyt ver seen, and tt irl at her ease ndah— ateawhK tily was it set o nd delicious ca^ n Chinaman, v of cooks, nd subdued in li French minaud(r. show herself in k seemed very fo: [eba off to see I ones, who wantj le dresses did ij tnd elaborate st wearing them ij ;ance. ai brown holland ^j jn the beauties (, [h she was rescrv I," exclaimed Be; Vs exasperating r.^j feasuresofmilli"' dazzling her visitor's eyes with delicate fabrics and exquisite des of colour, to be told that cotton and brown holland were _ferable ! Sheba would never be chic. ^' Do I look a guy ? " asked Sheba with perfect equanimity, he tnitil did not hurt her at all. She had heard that she was ever since she could remember. It was no news to her. he turned to the glass on the toilet table and surveyed her- critically. hat a contrast indeed to Bessie, with her fair wavy hair and rose-leaf complexion, and her tall graceful figure that had e of the angularity and sharpness of girlhood, but was so nded, and had such exquisite lines and curves. " Yes," she said a sigh, " I am hideous ; there's no denying it. But wishing 't make me any better, and as I told mother once if God had ted me to be pretty, He would have made me so. I certainly t help it." Did you really tell her that ? " asked Bessie, laughing sud- y. " What fun ! Whatever did she say ? " I don't think she said anything," ansvered Sheba. " But she off worrying for a time. I suppose," she went on doubtfully, Ihe looked from her own reflection to that of her friend, " I ose I couldn't improve myself, could I ? My hair, now — is quite different. Those loose waves on your forehead are etty." h, I could soon do yours like that, but I don't know if it 1 suit you," said Bessie doubtfully. ut doesn't yours grow like it ? " demanded Sheba in surprise. less your heart, no ! It's done with crimping pins. It's all 'ashion in England. Just sit down a minute and I'll show the way." eba obeyed in some wonderment. Her friend took up a from the toilet table and separated a small portion of the hair from the remainder ; then brushed the great curling, mass back, plaited it loosely in a tail and tied it with a of ribbon. ow," she explained, " this bit of hair I am going to cut and wave, it will then just fall a little over your forehead, ften the outline of your face. It will do away with that ed, tight look of your hair. It doesn't suit you at all, taken ur face." hat's what I always tell mother," said Sheba; " but she will ^her way." oil, yon ask her if this isn't an improvement," said Bessie liBpbimtly, as snip, snip went the scissors, and the heavy locks W- ^^^W^''W'^m ' ' 62 ♦•SIIEM.- fell into Sheba's lap. The next moment she gave a cry of pain. "Oh, you mustn't mind being hurt for a little while," said Bessie laughing. " I have to keep my pins in all night, but your hair has a natural curl at the end, and I think it will fall prettily almost by itself. There," she added triumphantly, as she gave the pin a final twist, "new you can put on ycurhat, and we'll go into the garden. In about half-an-hour I'll take the pins out cind you'll see how different you look ! And you must really get your mother to buy you a new hat. There are some very prettv shapes in just now. That one of yours would make Venus herscli look hideous." " I don't know how it is," said Sheba ruefully, " but mother always does get me such ugly things. I quite dread a new hat or a new dress. Last winter I had one all red and yellow checks it was dreadful. I loathed the sight of it ! and I have to wear them. If she'd only let me choose my own colours — but sht. won't." " Well, perhaps we'll mend her of that," said Bessie. " If yoL only begin to take an interest in your dress, and find out wha; suits you, it's wonderful how you can improve yourself. I've known girls quite as ugly as you look almost nice, just because the colours and styles of their clothes suited them. Now let; go out in the garden. I think papa has come home, and those young ones are making such a row." I i a £1 I gi 'i a hi CHAPTER XII. ANTICIPATIONS. How Sheba enjoyed that evening, and how merry they all were i: ]< the great wild garden. If the girl had been at a disadvantage in Bessie's dainty chair ber with those stores of finery compelling; her unwilling attentioa she certainly made up for it now. So fleet of foot, so quick 0: U action, so joyous of laugh and jest, so forbearing to the elde girl's vaunted superiority, so gentle and sympathetic with littlt Nora who was used to being snubbed and never considered i:ii anv way. all Then to see her swinu; herself up a tree and flit from branch i fa branch as rapidly and easily as a squirrel, it was a marvel to the En.i lish girls, used only to prim walks in London parks, and the alterna: confinement of nursery and schoolroom. When they found oi ANTICIPATIONS. 63 , cry of pain. ' said Bessie ut your hair fall prettily as she gave , and we'll go pins out anc ially get your 3 very pretty Venus herseli "but mother I a new hat or ellow checks : have to wear ours — but sht ssie. " If y^^ , find out wha yourself. I've e, just because -m. Now leii 3me, and those |e could play cricket they all wanted to learn, except of course dignified Bessie, and as Nora had a ball, Sheba soon extem- mzed a bat for them out of a broken paling, and gave them iir first lesson, winding up with "rounders," which to judge Hbm the screams and shouts of laughter that resounded on aii i||les, was received with immense favour. |Mr. Saxton and his sister, attracted by the noise, came out at to watch them. It is a treat to see a girl run like that," exclaimed Bessie's ler, as he stood beside his eldest daughter. " Why don't you them ? " he added, as he glanced at that dignified young lady ler spotless gown and irreproachable hat. f* Oh," she exclaimed contemptuously, " I don't like tom-boy les." Sheba h ♦^ot a tom-boy," said Mr. Saxton ; " she is a perfectly ^ural specm. en of girlhood. And she is very clever too. I wish re were more girls like her. They are too artificial and too much ipered by conventionality in the old country. Sheba is as srent from the typical English girl, as light from darkness." ' Well, I wouldn't exchange places with her," said Bessie supcr- )usly. " She is not a bad little thing, but so dreadfully old- lioned, and then i.er looks " [r. Saxton laughed, " Read the story of the ugly duckling," id, " and never decide hastily about the lociks of any one of 's type." ou are right," said Aunt Allison gently. " With such eyes hair a girl would never be ugly. Look at her now that she colour." this moment Sheba came up to them ; her hat was off, she long ago discarded the crimping pins, and the short loose hair a soft curling 1 iss about her brows. Her cheeks had the liest carmine flush, ..ad her great dark eyes were lustrous and lid with excitement, r one moment as Bessie Saxton looked at her, the sharpness lousy stabbed her heart. She saw in the girl possibilities she ever dreamed of, and before which her fair rei,^u ar features, refully-arranged hair, looked commonplace and insignificant. Sheba was a glow as of hidden ire. passion, expression, feel- _ nius. All held their abiding place m that girlish heart and ight lend their aiheba did not move ; she simply stood there gazing at the le and wondering at that divine freshness and beauty, set like I's seal upon primeval lands, which seem to hallow all spots lesecrated by foot of man. ^here are links between nature and humanity which civilization done its best to destroy ; but what breath of purity or inspira- lives in towns worthy uo compare with the boundless space, freedom, air and grandeur of nature's widespread territories ^re the savage holds his heritage, and the forest creatures roam irmed ? low long Sheba might have stood there in that rapt and won- ig dream, it is hard to say ; but something disturbed her at land made her start almost in terror, so strange and unexpected md it was. 70 ••SHEBA." i I t i I ! I From the bushes a little to her right there issued a low fain moan, like some plaint of pain, and the girl, startled, yet faintly curious, moved hurriedly towards the spot. Not a dozen yards from where she stood, and lying face down wards on the grass, was stretched the figure of a man. At firs: Sheba thought he must be asleep, but a second moan startle that fancy into something of fear, and she bent over the prostrate form and tried to see the hidden face. Then suddenly her lip; paled and she turned cold and sick. There was blood upon the bright hair, so close to her down-bent face, and involuntarily she tried to raise the man's head and turn him on his side. At lu: touch, and as if recognizing her weak endeavour, he made ar effort also, but he groaned involuntarily, and she saw the death like whiteness of his face turn ashy grey. She laid him gent!, down and flew to the water and brought some back in her hai with which she sprinl ed his face and bathed the wound on hi . temple. " It was not very deep, but it bled profusely, and Shcha having no knowledge of wounds, grew terribly alarmed at si-Ii: of that flowing streair It suddenly occurrc.i to her that in books, wounds were alway bandaged, so she took out her handkerchief and tried to bind round the head of the unconscious man. It was far too small ; go round it. In despair she tucked up her frock, and seizing hi linen petticoat, tore a long strip off it, and first dipping the hanc kerchief in water laid it on the wound and proceeded to bindi tightly with the strip of soft linen. Just as she had accomplishc this, the wounded man opened his eyes. They were full o: wonder and almost, she thought, of alarm. " Are you bctttr ? " she asked. His face grew very white ; he made an effort to rise, suppor: ing himself on one tlbow. '*Yes,"he said; "I am better. Did you — did you find me here? " Yes," said Sheba, looking at him with mingled admiration an compassion. " Your head was bleeding dreadfully. Did you fa. down the precipice?" "I — I suppose so," he said; but she noticed that the coloi flushed his bronzed face. and that his eyes flashed wrathfull " I am better now," he added, as he staggered to his feet ar leant against the tall gum tree beside which Sheba had discovt: him. He looked at her critically for the first time. " How i earth did you find your way here ? " he asked. " I'm here for a picnic," said Sheba. " The rest of us are ovt there," and she nodded in the direction of the gully through whic she had come. A PRO MIS R. 7» cil a low faiiv ed, yet faintly ing face down man. At firv moan starik :r the prostrai idenly her lij alood upon th. ivoluntarily sh: s side. At lie: ir, he made ar saw the death laid him gent.i >ack ia her hai e wound on li; iely, and Shcbi ilarmed at si-1;. mds were alway tried to bind far too small : , and seizing h ipping the banc ceded to bind ; ad accomplishc ey were full o: to rise, suppor; )u find me here? d admiration an lly. Did you fi that the coloi ished wrath full; to his feet ar, )a had discover; time. " How > rest of us are ov illy through whK A 1 >''k of alarm crossed lu , face. He glanced scarrhingly at heba. " Will they come here ? " he askf d. " I— you will think strange — but 1 don't wish to be seen by anybody— any rangers " " Oh ! " said Sheba composedly, " I don't think they will find |is place very easily. I had great difficulty myself." '" Hut won't thoy come to look for you?" he asked. " I expect not. They are to * coo-ee * when dinner is ready, ley know I am sure to find my way back." I" You are a brave little girl," he said ; "and I owe you a debt gratitude for coming to my rescue. I wonder you weren't rhtened to touch me." ^*You did look very bad," said Sheba, "and I hate the sight of )d, but I couldn't see you bleeding to death without ( oing »ething to help you." f* I wonder," he said bitterly, " if I should have bled — to death ? )bably not. The desired never happens. Well, now I should to know if you can be trusted to keep a secret ? Your sex you • age are against you. What do you say ? " ^'I know I could," said Sheba, flushing hotly, but looking light at him with her great sombre eyes. May I trust you, then ? " he said gently. " Tell none of your ty about me, or this accident. I have reasons — strong reasons wishing no one to know of it. Will you promise me ? " Yes," said the girl simply. the made neither comment nor remonstrance, and the fact )rised him. He had expected a fire of questions and expres- is of curiosity. He looked searchingly at her with his deep eyes, and she met the gaze unflinchingly. I believe you will keep you word," he said, 'he colour had faded from his face again, he looked faint and Can I do anything more for you?" asked Sheba. "You so weak. Ha\ e you no friend — no one to take care of you ? " strangely bitter ^mile crossed his lips. !No," he said; "and I want none. I don't believe in — Ids." [is eyes glanced round and suddenly darkened with an ominous They had caught sight of something which had escaped )a's notice. At the same moment a loud prolonged " coo-ee " to their ears, and Sheba started involuntarily. #They are calling me," she said. " I must go. I — I do hope yl^are better. How do you mean to get out of here ? " ►h, I am all right," he said, almost eagerly. " I know a friendly 72 SHEBA. black fellow who has a hut not far off. I can easily walk there Now you had better be off to your friends or they will be anxiom Stay — what is your name ? We are not likely ever to meet agaii still I should like to know." " My name," she said slowly, "is Sheba." He iookctl at her a moment. " An uncommon name," he said "but 1 fancy you are an uncommon child. Sheba — I will noi forget. Well, good-bye. I hope I don't seem ungracious, but I don't wish your party to catch sight of me." He held out his hand, and Sheba gave him hers. The bluf eyes and the brown eyes met in a long serious gaze. Then lii bent and touched her hand with his lips, while the blood flushec in a hot tide to her face at the grave and courteous salute. " Remember your promise," he said softly. She only bent her head. She could not speak — so strange i flood of emotion swept through her heart, and set its pulses leaf ing to the gravity and importance of a granted trust. Like ont in a dream she turned and moved slowly away, and the tall tree shut her out from sight. The man watched until the slight your. figure was no longer visible, then his eyes turned again to tha dark spot in the grass which had previously attracted his notice and feebly and with effort he moved towards it. Then he stooped and picked up from the tangled grasses a smi shining tube. He looked at the glittering barrel — the discharge chambers, and a dark frown gathered on his brow. " So it was — her — work," he muttered. " Well, it only neede this to end everything completely and for ever. I have been fool, and my folly has almost cost me my life. But, thank Goc it has cured me. As Heaven hears me, I swear never to loveo trust woman from this hour ! " He looked up at the blue sky, canopying with serene indifTe ence this one small space of earth that had witnessed a traged of crime. The look in his face was terrible in its white menact and hatred of what he had forsworn. He placed the revolver i his belt, and staggered with feeble and uncertain steps towarc the water's edge. " Good God ! " he groaned. " How shall I ever find strengt to get to the hut ? " He bent over the clear rushing stream, and drank eagerly, an laved his face in its cool depths. The draught seemed to revive him. He lifted his head an shook the bright drops from his hair. Then walking giddily an with effort he disappeared into the dark belt of scrub beyond tl: valley. "OH -WONDER OF THE SEA I' 73 sily walk there will be anxious ;r to meet again name," he said eba — I will no; ngracious, but 1 hers. The blut gaze. Then k le blood flushec us salute. ak — so strange i ;t its pulses leap trust. Like ont md the tall tree I the slight youn: ed again to tha •acted his notice ed grasses a smi —the discharge( w. £ll, it only neede( . I have been But, thank Goc r never to love o th serene indiffe tnessed a traged its white menact ;d the revolver i ain steps towarc ever find strengt irank eagerly, an fted his head ar. alking giddily ai scrub beyond tt CHAPTER XIV. •* OH — WONDER OF THE SEA I " tE picnic party were all seated on the grass, on which thf^^cloth been spread and the various good things laid out, when 3heba [last came in sight. ihe was panting and breathless — her clean neat frock was wet ^h the water that had dripped from her hat while she was carry- it to the wounded man, and in her rapid passage through the sh she had stained it against the rough bark of the trees, and tangled masses of flowers and ferns amidst which she had len more than once. Her hat was still wet, and she held it in hand ; her hair, which had come unplaited, streamed about in wild confusion. •* Good gracious, child ! " exclaimed Mrs. Ormatroyd, " where re you been to get into such a state ? Why, you're all wet I ive you fallen into a creek ? " 'No," said Sheba, "it's only my hat." le tossed it down as she spoke, and smoothed her hair back her flushed face. Bessie Saxton laughed outright. 'You do look a sight," she exclaimed. " I thought your tidy wouldn't last long. Did you find your waterfall ? " Iheba grew white and red by turns. All eyes were fixed on and she naturally exaggerated the disorder of her appearance, self-possession left her. She could not speak; her heart m to beat violently, and tears, which in all cases of strong >tion were dangerously near her eyes, began to threaten an rent. 'hen suddenly, with the calming effect of a strong, yet gentle tizanship, a voice reached her, and a hand drew her down to jat on the soft grass. Come, Miss Sheba, don't look so miserable. There's no It harm done after all; your dress will be dry before we've shed dinner, and as for the hair — why, if I were a painter I'd for nothing better than to make a picture of you — ^jubt as you was Noel Hill who spoke ; it was Noel Hill who drew her )iis side, and covered her confusion so kindly. Sheba felt her swell with gratitude. She could not speak, but the look in [eyes held an eloquence that needed no verbal interpretation, the young man as he met her glance thought to himself, [ow that passionate, enthusiastic soul will suffer some day ! " ' , ' i 'I 74 "SHEBA.* I ', " You are quite spoiling her, Mr. Hill," said Mrs. Onnatroyd with maternal sternness ; " she is really old enough to give up those tiresome ways. She ought to have remained with Bessie and her sisters, not gone rambling off by herself and making her- self into such a figure, too ! " 3ut Noel Hill only laughed, and carved the fowls, and gave Shtba some, and filled her glass with lemonade, quite regardless of Mrs. Ormatroyd's grumbling, or Bessie Saxton's somewhat indignant glances. That young lady had discovered that to be un peu coquetk with Noel Hill was a waste of time. She had played off innu- merable airs and graces, but with no effect. It annoyed her ex- cessively to see him championing Sheba and neglecting herself. True, she might find consolation in the devotion of Ted San- derson, who seemed to have entirely forsworn his allegiance to his late sweetheart ; but then Ted Sanderson was only a boy, and Noel Hill was a man of at least six-and-twenty ; a man with a mind and ideas, and one worthy of captivating, and yet he could fuss about an ugly tiresome little chit like Shebu Ormatroyd. No wonder the young lady's serenity was disturbed. The meal went on gaily enough. People balanced their plates on their knees, and got the cramp by so doing, and spilt the salt and upset the glasses, and made raids across the extemporized table for bread ; and caterpillars crawled over the cloth, and strange insects dropped into the gravy of the pies ; and altogether it was as enjoyable and exhilarating as picnics invariably are. Even Mrs. Ormatroyd grew sociable and almost benevolent under the combined influence of pigeon pie, Bass's ale, and Aunt Allison's proximity. Mr. Saxton was genial and good-humoured as ever ; Mr, Ormatroyd did his best to follow suit ; the younger Saxtons and the "boys," to use a comprehensive phrase, were as wild as young colts, and Sheba might, have been equally hilarious had it been possible for her to forget her adventure and the promise she had given. But it was not. That pale bronzed face, with its brii,dit hair stained with blood, those grave, deep eyes that had rested so searchingly on hers, haunted her incessantly. She wondered who the stranger could have been ; she fe angry with herself that she had not asked his name. And now he had gone away into those wild bush regions and she might never see him again. Absorbed and silent so she sat there, with the untasted food before her, living over again and yet ai^aiii those few moments, brief yet momei.tous, which had linked this unknown life to heis with a nicnioiy time could never weaken. » wi tM •♦OH- WONDER OF THE SEA!" 75 . Ciinatroyd I to give up with Bessie making her- Is, and gave te regardless 's somewhat peu coquetti yed off innu- oyed her ex- cting herself. of Ted San- allegiance to nly a boy, and \ man with a [ yet he could natroyd. No 2d their plates I spilt the salt extemporized the cloth, and and altogether iably are. )st benevolent ale, and Aunt IS ever ; Mr, r Saxtons and 3 wild as young s had it been omise she had (v-ith its briL^lit had rested so been; she fd' ne. And now ind she might sat there, witb and yet ai^ain ad linked this :ver weaken. iNoel Hill watched her wonderingly. To him Sheba was ays an interesting study, and he felt convinced something had )pened during her absence, which she was keeping to herself, he watched her, he saw her put her plate down mechanically _ her hand stray to her pocket. It was such a simple and Unary action that probably he would not have remarked it but the sudden flush that rose to the girl's face, and the look of lurbance in her eyes as they met his own. Mr. Hill," she said hesitatingly, " have you a — a spare hand- fchief you could lend me ? " [e immediately searched in his pocket. " I don't often have ' he said, " but to-day — yes — here is an extra one. I brought case of any accident. Have you lost yours ? " Iheba hesitated. " I — I left it in the bush," she said, growing pale, foel Hill noted the hesitation and the pallor. ** I was right," lid. " She has met with some adventure. I wonder if she tell me about itJ' tut Sheba only j^t the handkerchief in her pocket, took up l)late, and finished her meal in total silence, ifter dinner Mr. Saxton suggested they should walk to the sea, :h John Chinaman confidently asserted could be reached in •an-hour, and accordingly they all set off. They skirted the by means of a rough foot track which led them by a tjome- steep ascent to the first ridge of hills. Ill around them was the dense luxuriance of bush foliage in shades of crimson and green ; the glow of berries, the flut- ig wings of gorgeous butterflies, the whirr of the locusts as flitted through the brushwood — things new and strange to Noel and the English girls, but familiar as her daily life to Sheba. Gradually the soil grew rocky and uneven, the tall gum trees place to yellow wattle, and short spiky herbage. The air keen and fresh, and as they reached the hill summit, before lay a lovely land-locked bay, with the sea blue as turquoise, Bng in the sunlight, and rolling in grand, majestic billows that yt along the coast in sheets of foam. universal exclamation of delight escaped all lips, so lovely wfithe surprise after the rough walk and somewhat monotonous scillery of the bush. "jpie buzz and hum of v/oodland life had ceased. Nothing broke :illness save that lullinL,r murinur of the waves as they rose fell on the white firm 'jands, which seemed to stretch tor miles annoniles around. >el H'll danced at Shohn's fa'^c ; she was standing by his side, iiiiJBHi 7« "SIIEBA. her eyes questioning — startled — as the eyes of one who looks on i some new glory. The beauty, and the wonder, and the delight of what she saw held her speechless — for what is new to soul and sense does not lend itself easily to commonplace words ; and as she gazed on that boundless, rolling space melting into the biueness of the dim horizon line, she felt an awe of its beauty that seemed to hold he like a spell, and bow her inmost soul in wondering worship. Th" boys broke into noisy shouts, and they and the younger Saxtops rushed at headlong speed down the steep hilbcks covered with short and prickly furze, that lay between them and the shor: itseli. Their elders followed more sedately, but Sheba still stood there and Noel Hill lingered beside her. He did not like to disturb her ; he knew instinctively wha feelings were at work in the childish soul ; how the great anc thrilling voice of nature was speaking to her in this hour ; and h( felt it would be almost sacrilege to disturb that rapt and wonder ing gaze, to call her down from heights his own fancy might nc reach, and bid her fashion the dumb and passionate ecstasy c her startled senses into some adjective of praise, such as the othe: had used. She lost all count of time, and place, and association. She had thought the harbour beautiful when she had crossc it once by the ferry steamer ; but its fairy islands, and slopir. wooded banks, and lines of wharves and stores, seemed commoi place now beside this vast, free, rolling width of waters, kissed : sun and sky — fanned by free, sweet winds — where the sea-birc rocked themselves on the dancing waves, and chance sails of pas ing ships melted, vision-like, into the golden air. | When at last her trance of wonder was over, she slowly raise both hands, and pressed them to her eyes for a moment. Tk dropping them, she turned to Noel Hill as if in no way surprist that he should be by her side. " I was wondering," she said dreamily, " how God must ha' felt when He first looked on t/iaf — and knew it was His work \,,, ( I CI m CHAPTER XV. THE ENDING OF THE DAY. CI Wf El Throughout the rest of that day Sheba remained in the sai pj^ dreamy, absorbed state. Nothing roused her — nothing rei ^m THE ENDING OF THE DAY. 77 who looks on what she saw iense does not she gazed on icss of the dim led to hold hei worship. id the youngei lill jcks covered a and the short itill stood there stinctively wk i the great anc is hour ; and hi apt and wondei fancy might nc onate ecstasy c uchastheothe; ciation. she had crosst inds, and slopu seemed comma waters, kissed I lere the sea-birc ince sails of pas she slowly raise moment. Tbt no way surprise V God must ba' IS His work!..' ained in the sai ■er— nothing re^ foJ^e her —but she was intensely happy all the same, happier than had ever been in her life, though she could not possibly have plained why. When they were all having tea, Bessie Saxton, who was seated r her, asked her, somewhat ill-naturedly, why she had elected linger behind them with Noel Hill for so long a time. It was t the question, so much as the way it was put, that startled leba. She turned her large frank gaze full on her friend. •* Was it long ? " she said. " I did not know. I was looking the sea. I have never seen it before like that — so large, so e, so wonderful ! " f * Phooh ! " scoffed Bessie, " looking at the sea for half-an-hour likely story ! It's a good thing you're not a little older.' * Why?" asked Sheba. " There was no harm in that, was there ?" Really," exclaimed her friend impatiently, "I don't know ther you are only stupid or — innocent. Harm in it ? No ! said there was ? You are quite right to make use of your rtunities. But you needn't suppose Noel Hill thinks of you nything but a child, though he does talk to you so much." he said this in a low, suppressed whisper, for the young clergy- was not very far off. Sheba felt somewhat bewildered. ," I really don't know what you mean ! " she said. " You seem d^s with me, but I don't remember doing anything to offend you." ;P Offend me! you little . Well, for goodness' sake don't iiU^e a fuss. You are always so dreadfully in earnest about ything. I was only chaffing." Chaffing?" echoed Sheba, "ah, that is English. I don't w anything about it." essie's pretty mouth curled with contempt. ^(Mr. Hill," she said, making room for him beside herself, "I you would put a little common sense into my friend's head, ides Latin and Greek. She is always up in the clouds, it seems le." [Oh ! she has a fair share of sense for her age," said Noel Hill ing. " You see, Miss Bessie, she has never had your advan- you are the pattern English young lady ; Sheba is simply He wild bush flower." ihe wouldn't go down in England at all," said Bessie super- isly. " The girls there are all so ' formed,' so c/in: Sheba never be chic." 0, I hope not," answered the young clergyman. " If ishwomen condescend to copy their French ntiji^hbours, it is a that they only make a study of their bad qualities." lad ! " echoed Bessie. " Do you call it bad to be cAic ? Why, m if -J '! i 78 "SHE HA." • 11 1 I 1 it is just f/te one tiling that redeems even an ugly woman. I've heard the men on board ship say so over and over again, They used to say they'd tire of pretty faces very soon, but if a woman had spirit — life — dash — c^tc, in fact, she might hold a man as long as she pleased." " Oh, indeed," said Noel Hill, " and am I to suppose that somi half-dozen men on board ship, represent to your mind the opinions of the English nation at large ? The men who come out here are not, as a rule, very creditable specimens. Choice has often less to do with a trip to the colonies than — expediency." " They were gentlemen," said Bessie, colouring a little at thf sarcasm she detected in his voice. " No doubt," he said smiling. " If you had added * once ' yo would probably be more correct. I have known even Englis * gentlemen ' deteriorate under the ifluence of bad associates an dissipation. They generally seek * remedy for these evils amid: ndw scenes, and new lands. The search is more frecjuent tha the discovery. But this conversation is too grave for youc people, and I see there is a move up yonder. I suppose we mi think of starting homewards at last." He rose and began to collect the tea-cups and plates, whi nj Mrs. Ormatroyd and Aunt Allison w^re packmg into varic hampers and baskets. " There will be a full moon to-night," he said. " The dr: home will be delightful." It was close on sunset. The clouds in the west glowed 1 burnished brass. There was a faint breeze stirring the tree-tc Sheba rose slowly to her feet, and gazed somewhat anxiously the direction of the waterfall. h She wondered how the stranger had fared — whether he ' reached the black man's hut — whether she should ever see r. again ? Her secret weighe:l heavily on her mind. She knew the pe: of the bush well enough, and he had seemed so weak and help! and perhaps he had miles of that rough, wild region tO tiavc before he could reach shelter. >iri Well, whether he had done so, or not, she must leave undcri ui She had promised to say nothing of her adventure, and would kcej) her word. "< With a strong effort she- threw off her pre-occupation, endeavoured to help with the " I'lrkin.^; ii^," and to chat andifO^ with IJessie and the children. Shortly before the van w \s ready. Fe!i\- ^'tort came up to and dr;;\v her a little apart fiom tac; ot.bc.s. *t, TllK ENDING OF THE DAY. 7'J ^oman. Ive again. 'I'^^y ,ut if a woman I a man as long )pose that somt nd the opinions me out here ai« ;e has often les y" J a little at tk ided * once ' yo vn even Englu ad associates aj hese evils amid- ,re frequent th grave for yout suppose we mi: and plates, wKk pking into vane said. "The dr. west glowed ii Erring the trec-U; lewhat anxioush d— whether he' nould ever see ^h^ She knew the ixii^ o weak and bell seJ lid region wO tia\^ mst leave unden \c:\ adventure, antl pre-occupatlon. and to chat and i.r|^ ,,rt cameup w^l <" I say, Shcba," he whispered, "have you seen how Ted has fen ^'oing on with the Saxton girl ? He's quite thrown you over. )u'd better give me a turn now. You owe me something for that )k, you know." I will return you your book to-morrow," said Sheba with rnity. " And I'm no* [joing to have anything more to say to of you boys ! Thert ! As fur sweethearts — I hate the word ! " f*rhew-w-w," whistled the boy, as he thrust his hands in his :kels and, stepping a pace or two back, surveyed her with igled wrath and irony. "Oh, my! Miss Spitfire, don't you think you can give yourself airs. Hate sweetheur. ■, do you ? ikely story ! I suppose you think yourself so mighty grand luse you've got a grown-up one. Well, I wish you joy of the ting prig, that I do, and " [e never got to the end of that sentence, fo'* Sheba, suddenly jng into one of her "rages," lifted her liand and gave him a rin^ ox on the ears that sent him reeling back. " How dare !" she cried. i)anting like a small fury. " You are a rude, ill- ired, hateful boy ! Never attempt to speak to me again ! " le swung round on her heel, perfectly white and t ibling passion. The action brought her face to face wiih iNcel Hill ^Bessie Saxton. tood gracious, Sheba," exclaimed her friend, " whatever is the ir?" •"elix was impudent, and I boxed his ears," said Sheba. " she added passionately, " 1 wish I was a boy, I'd fight ^pon my word," faltered Bessie, retreating a step or two, " I lo idea you were such a little fury ! " Noel I J ill laughed outright. " Is that — c/iic, Miss Bessie? " ted. " \t least you must allow it is not conventional." Shcba ^ rage, as usual, dissolved into tears, and she tore off )lind, unreasoning fashion and once out of sight, threw her- the ground scbhing as it" her heart '"ould break. lorus of " roo-ee's " a. 1 ist forced her to return, so she crept back and found ever^ me in the van, and had to face a le of rcjiroaches and tiuestions to which she gave no answer. ^hen a day begins well with me, it is sure to end badly," she It to herself. " I wonder why it is ?" crept into a cori:er near Aunt Allison, and as far as possible the region of Felix Short's withering glances. She only they would all let her . ' ">.e, forget her very existence. ^It miserable, tired, and hunrliated. The kindest voice have jarred on her, the tenderest sympathy only distressed. hot '■1,1 SIIEBA." Fortunately, Mrs. Ormatroyd decid' I she was in one of her " sulks," so contented herself with oUling at her, and then relapsed into a fatigued and resigned silence, and Noel Hill under stood her well enough now to draw attention away from her with all his tact and kindness. The evening was closing in, the wind seemed full of exhilaratin. coolness, the sky grew clear and soft, the Southern Cross glitterec gem-like above the horizon, while the moon, full and radiant anc bright as liquid silver, poured lavish floods of light upon tht rough road, and the tall trees, and the far-off shadows of th hills. Some sense of the beauty, and strangeness, and enchantmer of the scene gradually stole upon them all, and hushed the id: chatter and foolish laughter which had jarred on Noel Hill's ean It was all new and strange to him, this glory of an Australia night amidst the grandeur and solitude of the bush. The diife ence between seasons and scenery had never come home to hi: before as they came home on this night of waning summer, whic he could but contrast with the grey skies, and smoky fogs, ar, cruel chilling winds that were at present the portion of t native land. *' Australia is a favoured place," he said at last. The remark raised a rapid controversy. Mrs. Ormatroyd dwt on discomforts and self-denial, failing to see that the force of t: one compelled the exercise of the other, and therefore robbed of any pretensions to virtue. Mr. Ormatroyd found fault with the legislation and the societ Mr. Saxton with the mosquitoes and paucity of railways ; Ai Allison sighed mildly over domestic difficulties, and Bessie abu; everything indiscriminately as being altogether " so different England 1 " Sheba kept silence, her face averted with an expression childish pain. "As if those trifles mattered," she though; herself, " when life is so vast and great and lies all before oiii. ^' For Sheba did not know yet how widely diff"erent are the c of youth to those of mature years, and how Time that chari, all things, might one day rend her illusions asunder, till she ' , . self should wonder, not that they had ever existed, but that ; „ ' should ever have seemed so rda/, and so full of [lurposc aiii hope, to her ! i t i T ft U »p< In 'he midst )t the controversy she heard Aunt Allison' voice addressing her. ui< THE KNDINO OF THE DAY. 8i '•■J 1 one of hei cr, and tha jcl Hill under from her wiih of exhilaratin. Cross gUttcre. tnd radiant an. light upon tht shadows of tb nd enchantmer hushed the id. Noel Hill's eaii 3f an Australia: ish. The diffe; ,me home to k ig summer, whic smoky fogs, aj e portion of I St- J J . Ormatroyd m at the force of; herefore robbec ,n and the sorie! of railways ; A. and Bessie abu^ j |er " so diffeicnt 1 an expression i" she thouij;nt is all before one fferent are ib- , Time that c\m -sunder, till shet, dsted, but thai: W of purpose ni, Aunt Allison's " Why are you so quiet ? " she asked. " Has the day tired you ? " JThe girl lifted her face— it was very pale, and the big dark eyes >ked intensely mournful. "It is all so disappointing," she said. " I was thinking how feront I felt when I set out this morning." '*That experience," said Miss Saxton gently, " is a very general , I imagine. We all felt different when we set out. Every- ig was to come, you know ; now it is all over, and has become lemory instead of an anticipation. But," she added, " you »ed to be enjoying yourself — in your way." Is my way so very different to the others' ? " asked Sheba, king that hesitation in ending the sentence. 'Yes," said Aunt Allison, "quite different. Bessie, you know, )ys with due regard to her own position as a central figure ; considers her appearance even amidst the wilds of bush lery. Your mother simply endures under protest. I take my )f pleasure quietly and with serenity ; my brother noisily ; father philosophically. You note the difference ; but the of enjoyment may underlie it in every instance." heba smiled. " And I," 'she said. " How do I take it ? " lOh," said Miss Saxton gently, " that is different altogether, [said anything at all, I should say too deeply — too enthusias- ly. I wish," she added after a short pause, " that you were of a child. Can't you enjoy without going into the why and hforeofitall?" To," said Sheba gravely. " How can I help it ? It is just i^what I said to mother wlien she told nie I was so ugly, ' I ^'t make myself. I don't icanf to be like this," she added, roice low ^nd deeply earnest, "but I have got to be — just as list put up with my sallow skin and ugly features. I would ra^lipr be like Bessie if I had the chance, but what use is it to wish ipossibilities?" fcne whatever," said Miss Saxton cheerfully. " So if I were [dear, I wouldn't wish to be like — Bessie." ^he is not fond of me," said Sheba mournfully. " I so hoped rould be, but she is not ; she just tolerates me, that is alL *t understand about dress, or trimmings, or styles, and she t^B^ me SG stupid when I can't remember if her pink gown has ntOB flounce.] than her white, or the grey is cut with a pointed and the brown with a full one." tnink," said Aunt Allison smiling, " there are more im- •P<^B^t things in life to remember than the cut of a bodice, and ici^less Bessie will think so also one day ; she likes pretty things »ri^ht colours and she knows they suit her. Now your w^m ^M^ ■1 i ii f Si ••SilEBA. t> ■• • auite as incompreherisible to ;';t;;r:ntVoung - you -■: ^^ ^^^^ opinions." sa^Sheb. ^' Sarn Uu,hed sofUy ;Did B^ say soj ^^P.h shefinds you too strong-m;"fed f°4'ie^„ ^^^ . ^^^ tenJ t?hl ne^? " "-eSif U o^^^^^^^^^^^ aUernately. u,nnv " said Sheba. "I think, sne * ^"14he^;ants to have lesso-J-^^^^^^^ learning as a r^e "«Hti^rXSi^:S^o^urs:3-toL M\ kind t neyer tlinilU'" ' "" -^C^=ation bad Xt^n^^^b^^ '"can.^: s^* Suggested tbat as the horses bad a ^'7 ..^,„,,e. walW 4rb^ :Sl^tnSetu^°"^>> -^ -- '"^ ^''' '' " 1 "THE FALL 01- THE REAlMUiS SCVTIIE.- «3 isible to there was jarred on not quite ileties and Lthful soul the voices discussion, iris are the think, and i courage of said Sheba. I don't feel 0? Perhaps in she was at some friend rin. I sonu- ferent at Mid- I used to laugh -poor Bessie." iscussion, who red Sanderson k," she added Allison with an rning as a rule. ringly ; " Laim assies or Euclid. French scholar.' astically. "And enough to have low tone, under e a sudden lull- y the driver and :Umb, the gentle- U'se, walkee." /ere all out of ilie van, with the exception of Mrs. Orn atroyd, who was too tired to walk, and Miss Saxton, who stayed to keep her company. Sheba, who was far in advance of the others, found Noel Hill by her side. " You are evidently not tired," he said, glancing down at the slight agile figure. *• Have you enjoyed your day ? " "Yes, and no," said the girl. " It has been different to what I thought. I am sorry," she added with sudden pained humility, " that I lost my temper. But Felix was very rude ; he had no right to say what he did, and a boy will never understand you are angry with him unless you box his ears." " I think," said Noel Hill with a quiet laugh, "that you left VeWx Short in no doubt as to your feelinijs. Do you intend to make it up again ? " "No," said Isheba, shaking Imck liur long thick hair with a sudden imi)atienV movement. " I am sick of hoys, and I told him I would never have another sweetheart, and I mean to keep my word." " Perhaps you are right," said Noel Hill. "The office certainly appears to possess disadvantages." " I will make then? all over to Bessie," continued Sheba mag- inanimously. "Ted Sanderson has deserted me already; the lothers may follow suit. Oh ! Mr. Hill," she added with a sudden :hange of voice, "I had almost forgotten your handkerchief; may give it back to you — now ? " " If it will relieve your mind," he said pleasantly. Then, in a lower key and bending a little nearer to her, he said, " Wasn't there a little mystery about — about the other handkerchief, Miss ;heba?" She started and looked up at him with a pale terrified face. F' Oh," she said eagerly, " please don't ask. I — I m.ustn't tell — ind there was no harm — nothing wrong." "I never suspected that," he said reassuringly. "Only if you rish to avoid further remarks, you had better try and remove 'lose bloodstains from your frock. There are more curious )eople in the world than I, Miss Sheba." CHAPTER XVI. "the fall of the reaper's scythe." seemed strange to Noel Hill to think of May as a winter )nth, but after a long spell of tropical heat and heavy rainfalls 6-2 masBi 84 •♦SHKBA.- i iii'i'i: \ ' ! ;■ ;«:! i(i 1 ■ '■ ■ I ' i| j ; ifjl 1 'I'l' ll' 1 ^'w '' ' 'm ' '■'%< * Ml ' i 1 n ' si . i'! 1 i ■■• ' t ; ! ' i: ■1 M , -f M' ; t ■ ' r ! ! ■; '1 ■,'',' ■ ..' 1 . ',■'■ i ■ i i . i »- :{' L .; ' t \ ■■' ■; ' ' . .■! \; ,1- d : •'\y":\ "t '■' .1 ■ ' ■ '\'' ' " and terrific storms, he found himself acknowledging that it was by far the jjleasantest month of the year. He had become used to his quiet life and its daily round of duties. fHs health had visibly improved and he told Sheba laughingly that he trusted his case was not to be one of the " usual " ones she had so cheered him by citing as fatal. His interest in his young pupil only increased as time went on, and his influence over her was extraordinary as well as beneficial. With his teaching on the one hand and Aunt Allison's womanly counsel and tenderness on the other, Sheba could not but im- prove. The Saxtons had done her good in many ways, but all the devotion of her heart was lavished on Aunt Allison, who was her ideal of all that was perfect in womanhood. It was growing towards dusk one May evening — the evening of Sheba's fourteenth birthday — and she was sitting on a low stool before the bright wood fire, expecting the arrival of Bessie and her aunt, who were to spend it with her. She had not seen them for some time, for visits were not so frequent since the weather had been less certain, and as the fire flames played over the rich dark red of her frock — her father's present — she was wondering a little what Bessie would think of it, and if she would say she was a little less ugly in it than in most of her gowns. That had been her mother's verdict when the frock had been put on — her father having had it made up by a Sydney dressmaker, a piece of extravagance which Mrs. Orma- troyd could not bring herself to approve. The fire flushed her cheeks and played on the rich colour of the dress and the soft tumbled waves of hair which still fell loose about her forehead, and softened the irregular outlines of her face. On the rug at her feet lay the pretty goat, chewing the cud in a lazy, contented fashion, and occasionally rubbing his head against his young mistress's knee. Mrs. Ormatroyd was in the kitchen superintending the making of scones, and various other comestibles which were destined for tea, and not to be safely trusted to the skill of the Australian domestic. , It still wanted a quarter of an hour to the time fixed for the Saxtons' arrival, and Sheba was luxuriating in a spell of rest and quietude. The room looked at its best, though Sheba despaired of ever making it anything like that drawing-room at the Crow's Nest. She was quite unaware what a picture she made there in the firelight — quite unaware that two eyes, grave, distressed, pain- filled) were contemplating the picture and that their owner shrank tSI -THE FALL OF TTIK RKAPER'S SCYTHE.** «5 it It was t ound of d Sheba e of the went on, )eneficial. womanly : but im- 5, but all who was evening of . low stool Bessie and ere not so as the fire ler father's Id think of I it than in erdict when made up by Mrs. Orma- :h colour of till fell loose s of her face. the cud in a head against g the making ; destined for le Australian fixed for the II of rest and paired of ever row's Nest. 3 there in the stressed, pain r owner shrank from disturbing it, even while the sternness of necessity made it- self heard like an audible voice and told him he had no choice but to do it. " She has ( ourage," he thought ; •' she will bear it better than her mother .... but how hard it seems to break in upon her now." Suddenly the goat lifted its head and looked towards the door. Shebu turned in the same direction and saw the figure of Noel Hill. She sprang to her feet. " So you have come after all," she cried eagerly ; " and you told me this morning you could not. Come near the fire — won't you ? It must be blind man's holiday, for mother said I was not to light the lamp till she came in from the kitchen." She stirred the fire as she spoke and drew a chair up to it. Noel Hill advanced slowly, and as he cam within the light of the blazing logs she saw his face was very pale and troubled. " What is the matter? " she asked quickly. " .Vre you ill ?" "No," he said, looking sadly at her. "Oh, no — only I have heard some bad news." " Ah," said Sheba ; " it is mail day. I never like it. If father or mother get letters from England they are always miserable, and if they don't they are always cross. You have had a letter ; I can see that — and now you are miserable." He did not smile as she had expected, and he did not answer her speech except by a question. " Where is your mother ? " he asked, and so grave was his voice, so strange his face, that Sheba felt there must be some weighty cause for anxiety. " In the kitchen," she said. *' I told you so before. Do you wish to see her ? " " No," he said, " not yet. I — I have something to say to you first. Sheba, try and be a brave little girl. I know it is in you, if you make the effort." She turned very pale, but she looked straight at him. " T>iease tell me," she said ; " it can't be very bad. Mother is [all right, and Hex — and father " Something in his eyes as she said that word struck to her heart [like a pang. Involuntarily her own turned to the pretty frock, [then flashed up in terror and dread. " Is it — father ? " she said hoarsely. " Has anything happened Ms he— ill ? " Noel Hill took her hands in both his own. • Poor child," he Isaid tenderly. " Poor little Sheba— it is your first real grief. But Ifor your mother's sake — for Hex, who is so young — try to bear it. I Your father died this morning (juite suddenly. They are bringing IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MY-3) 1.0 I.I 1^128 12.5 lllll 1.8 1.25 j|U ||l.6 6" — ► t V] /; /A O^^ w Photographic Sciences Corporation '^ '9) 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. MS80 (716) 872-4503 Svili-d land Uke this, tha ^I Xy;n,\^y ^ot^i.^ been,. S. I ' an ne^'v:; tget how I was brought up '. • ■^Tfe» (iATIlEIUNG CLOLJJJ. 89 or child had days lo feel ) a dim and ,scious words of them now. make "both 'or the matter at all. But if this calamity, ;, she felt that 5nce, and here none. these wails and a and cheering IS even possible, oyd with dreary diamonds, pooi le could see me ;o of course sk " Ah, well ill' ie could see thii jft desolate ini » half-impatientl' he shutters to k ^er. " You bear in,'andadeathi: " Do you mean : is dead— we are; in bed, and puttj .crilegious light tt ,f grief. " t)«. ^' all these years in. en the decencies ny lot has been,! tupl" «*Well," said Sheba brusquely, as she closed the shutters, "I 'liave not been 'brought up' among dead bodies, so I don't *know what they consider etiquette." I " You are an unfeeling, worthless girl ! " cried Mrs. Ormatroyd, ^dropping her handkerchief. " I don't believe you have shed one i%ingle tear for your poor father ! And look at you in that flaring %carlet dress. You might really have had the decency to change It after what has happened." She has not had time," interposed Aunt Allison gently. "She las never left this room all night." "Well — she may go now," said Mrs. Ormatroyd pettishly. And when you have changed your frock," she added, " you can lake me some tea. Perhaps it will revive me." Sheba left the room in a stony quiet way. It was quite true te had not shed a tear. She felt too cold and numbed ; the ddenness and horror of grief had paralyzed the easy channel of tars, and seemed to hold her in a chill and icy grasp from which le could not free herself. # She went straight to the room where they had laid her ither. She had not yet found courage to look on the face that id seemed so kind and hearty only one short day before. She id no conception of ueath, yet she felt an awe and terror of what fWould be like, and she hesitated for long beside the narrow bed »ere that sheeted form lay outlined, in a stillness the like of lich she had never beheld, or even imagined. 'hen she lifted the white covering at last and looked on the Het face, her heart seemed to stand still. She was not afraid — the mystery and strangeness of that marble brow, those closed fes and mute pale lips, touched her with such awe that she lost rself in depth of wonderment. "Where is he now?" she mght. "This is not — father .... I never saw him look like It ! Can he see me, I wonder ? Does he look down and know It this was once — himself? That those lips kissed me but rterday .... Oh, father .... father, I was not half fond ►ugh of you when you were here .... not half good enough — ' now " he threw herself down and the tears rushed to her eyes. ow," she sobbed passionately, " I can never reach you .... r tell you I am sorry .... never sit on your knee, or feel arms round me. Oh, death is cruol .... cruel ! How know I shall ever see you .... How am I to find you, if — en I go where you are ! And it won't be the same ! If you ri angel I shall feel afraid of you .... I could not be your little girl like I was — here ..." 90 *• SHEBA." She sobbed so bitterly that she soon grew exhausted ; anc finally she sank down on the floor with her head leaning againsi the bed and there fell into a deep sleep. Mrs. Ormatroyd grew tired of waiting for her tea, and Aunt Allison went to look for Sheba. She had not the heart to disturc the poor child, so made the tea herself and took it to the bereaved widow, who expatiated on its delay as another proof of Shebas heartlessness. " Whatever '.s to become of that child ? " she moaned. " As ii my trial was^ot heavy enough without such a daughter. Hex is my only comfort. He has not given me an hour's anxiety — but Sheba " " At all events Hex went to bed comfortably last night," said Aunt Allison dryly, " and took good care to have his breakfast this morning. Sheba never left your side. Nor has she tasted food since midday yesterday. You can scarcely wonder she ii exhausted now." " I hope," said Mrs. Ormatroyd, whose ideas were always con- sistent, "that she has changed her frock. Don't let her tome near me again in that glaring scarlet thing ! I said it was a waste of money when her father bought it, and my words have proved true .... of course it must be put away now .... and she must be in mourning for a year. I think it is a year for a pa»-ent, is it not ? . . . . Yes, I wore black a year for poor dear mamma— I remember quite well. And it was summer too, and oh, the heat of that crape ! But I have never flinched from duty — nevei .... Oh — if poor Sheba had only taken after me .... and as I was saying that dress will have to be put away for a year . .., and by then I suppose she will have grown out of it. What a pity it was made up." Allison Saxton turned away and set down her empty cup on th( tray. " Poor Sheba," she thought, " I pity her from the bottom oi my heart." It is strange what a morbid pleasure some people take it making death even more dreary than it naturally is. Sheba felt instinctively that anger ought to have no place io her heart at such a time, but she could not always " command her soul in patience " when Mrs. Ormatroyd posed as a suffering martyr, and oscillated between fits of hysterics and useless re proaches at the dead man's inconsiderate behaviour. The fact of his loss seemed to the girl to dwarf into mere lit significance the value of furniture, and china, and jewellery. tian GATHERING CLOUD'='. 91 hausted ; anc eaning againsi tea, and Auni eart to disturb 3 the bereaved )of of Shebas 5aned. " As ii ghter. Hex is s anxiety — but fist night," said e his breakfas; has she tasted wonder she is ere always con- 't let her tome i it was a waste ds have proved . and she musi pr a parent, is ii ear mamma— 1 nd oh, the hea; m duty — nevei . . . and as 1 For a year . . . I of it. What a ipty cup on tht the bottom oi beople take it [is. |ive no place in lys " command Id as a sufferinf land useless rfr lur. ]f into mere in jewellery. Mrs. Ormatroyd persisted that everything must be sold and it F'^e would have to work henceforth to support her children, which purpose she made as many vague plans as there were rs in the day. She would be a governess — a teacher of music k working housekeeper — a domestic servant — the keeper of a lool — the superintendent of a hospital, and so on — each scheme it occurred to her being eagerly discussed and then found iracticable. ihe seemed to resent the fact of her husband's death as severely if he had voluntarily chosen the time and place of his decease, though she would weep floods of tears every time his name mentioned, she never lost sight of the fact that s/te was the |ef sufferer, and expected to be considered as such. ex and Sheba took counsel together over matters and won- id whether it would not be possible for them to earn their own llihood and thereby release the disconsolate widow from at ft one burden. But when they hinted at such a thing they opened fresh floodgates of tears, and were alternately scolded anil caressed as " poor dear ignorant children" who knew nothing ol\|he world, or what life and its duties really meant. lut those dreary days came to an end, and Mr. Ormatroyd was ied in the quiet little churchyard that Sheba had often wan- id through, with such curiosity and conjecture. ^Hhe widow did not attend, ^he remained shut up in her dark- eQlp room with the Bible, Thomas k Kempis, and a bottle of sflflrolatile as companions. iss Saxton came up in the afternoon and wanted to take >a back with her to the Crow's Nest, but Mrs. Ormatroyd was .ndalized at the suggestion that it had to be dropped. The lette of mourning had to be observed even in the wilds of the and Sheba was condemned to sit by her mother's side and Thomas k Kempis at intervals during the afternoon by way laying proper respect to her father's memory; while Billy led mournfully in the yard for his young mistress in the ir- •ent fashion of ignorance that fails to comprehend or excuse leparture from the ordinary routine of life. it had not been for Aunt Allison, Sheba would have been miserable, but she stayed on till the evening, when Mr. »n arrived. He had not yet seen Mrs. Ormatroyd and he ;hat something must really be aecided as to her and her 'en's future. imall portion of Mr. Ormatroyd's salary had been due at the if his decease, and this was at once paid over by the firm. MtiJSaxton had, however, to explain that even with extreme 9* ••SHEIJA." f economy '.his could not keep them for a longer period than thre months, fnd then to stem the torrent ot Mrs. Ormatroyd's teai ful laments, and present to her a way out of her present difficult! The head of the firm of merchants in whose employment M: Ormatroyd had been for the last three years, was a widower wit an only daughter, a child of four o * five years. He was in nee of a lady who would undertake the superintendence of his houy hold and see that his daughter was not quite at the mercy ( servants — such specimens as find their way to the Australia colonies being indeed a class altogether impossible to descri; with anything like poetic justice. He offered a salary of ;^ioo a year, and had asked Mr. Sax!: ? to propose the matter to the widow of his deceased clerk befo p advertising for any one else in the papers. *J " Do not decide too hastily," said Mr. Saxton in conclusk J " You will have a comfortable home and be able to pay for He: S schooling and clothes. As for Sheba she must come to us fo: . ^ year or two until we see how matters go. Expense I Phoo • She doesn't eat more than a bird, and as for her dresses it will hard if we can't manage to supply them out of Bessie's superfiu:j wardrobe. Mr. Payne will take Hex to board with him— | can spare j^$o out of your salary for his food, clothes and edt' , tion, I suppose. Now what do you say to the offer ? " .^ It can scarcely be supposed that Mrs. Ormatroyd was theki of woman to adopt suggestions, however reasonable, without L putting forth objections. She invented these with a facilitj, which Mr. Saxton had really not given her credit. As fast as|Ji was combated, another took its place. Sheba, who had tCj there passive and mute, felt that there could be limits to patie; and that Mr. Saxton might well be excused for telling her mop bluntly that if she had nothing on her own side to suggest, it w be as well for her to cease opposing what was a really feasibkj kindly meant way out of her present difficulties. j.^ This being an unanswerable argument it was received with fl: " of tears, which made the kind-hearted Englishman feel he] been brutal. He therefore took an abrupt leave, murnii| apologies and condolences with more zeal than coherence,^ whispering to Sheba to do her best to persuade her motlif ] think well over the matter for her children's sake, if not for her The girl looked at him somewhat hopelessly. She wonji in a vague and helpless way whether he really thought she,ej other mortal, could persuade her mot'ier to do anything y did not suit her own inclinations, and yet be cited as an inc^j vertible proof of marvellous unselfishness "ONE HAPPY YEAR." 93 jriod than thre jd.^ course by the next morning Mrs. Ormatroyd had decided rmatroyd s tex j^^ept the ^loo pounds a year, and to pose as a martyr on ^::^^y. «^'-"«"^ °' '"■ i a widower m\ He was in net tice of his houy at the mercy ) the Australh isible to descri: ^j asked Mr. Saxt. -ased clerk befa ton in conclusk le to pay for He 3t come to us fo; Expense! Phoo er dresses it will Bessie's superflu; ard with him-!_ , clothes and edi^] e offer?" ^ ot^ atroyd was the t ionable, without; se with a faciUtj edit. Asfastasi,,, eba, who had tc, be limits to patie; or telling her mof^ e to suggest, itj^ s a really feasible ,. received with glishman feel be pt leave, murw than coherence,,f rsuade her mfi .ake,ifnotforhei lessly. She^von5 lly thought she, e to do anything y ■>e cited as an inc^i is CHAPTER XVIII. "one happv year." of evil comes good," thought Sheba as she found herself St established at the Crow's Nest with all her treasured be- fngs. Billy was here, and her pet cat, and Vic, her own ugly rough terrier. The fowls and pigeons had been sold, so had furniture, pictures and plate ; but Sheba had kept possession ^r cherished books and cared very little for the loss of the jehold gods " over which Mrs. Ormatroyd had shed such tears. iemed strange to the girl to contemplate the altered circum- ;s of her life — to think that she was now an inmate of the which had so often excited her envy — to hear Aunt )n's kindly welcome and the girls' rapture and Mr. Saxton's |ful greeting — to be kissed, and caressed, and made much be led into the cool, pretty chamber which the girls' loving had decorated for her — and on all sides to receive a sister's le. Mr. Saxton had even arranged that Hex should come ivery Saturday and stay till Monday, so that there was abso- a vista of unclouded happiness opening before the girl's id calling up a mist of graicful tears as she sat in the pretty -room among that kindly group and heard the plans made comfort and her pleasure, ras — to Sheba — such an altogether novel sensation to be lered in any way, or form, that she was almost bewildered Imuch attention. ^nly as she had felt her sorrow, bitterly as she still regretted idly, if somewhat careless, father, for whom life was now an ; tale, she was too young not to shake off the weight and clog ry grief, under the influence of brightness, and the novelty and cheerful society. [sorrows of childhood are intense while they last, but, thank ley do not last. Stormy and dark and passionate as the m an April sky — like the clouds they are soon dispelled line, by the imperative need for joy and light and happi- lich takes so little to supply, so much to quench. had the prospects of a happy year before her. Noel Hill 94 "SHEBA. would still teach her. sonage twice a week In the winter she was to walk to the P the other days he would come to the Croi Nest. Mr. Saxton had decided that Bessie would also bet better of some instruction at his hands, and the two girls were carry on their studies together. It seemed to Sheba as if nothing was wanting to complete i happiness. Naturally she ought to have felt sorrow and regre: her mother's absence ; but Mrs. Ormatroyd had always trea:' her as a " thorn in the flesh," and it was scarcely to be expec: that the girl should feel regretful at the absence of cter scoldings, worryings, and fault-finding. Besides Mr. Saxtonr. assured her that her mother's situation was rather enviable t; j otherwise. The gentleman to whom she had given her valu; ^ services was one of the magnates of Sydney, and she would j in comparative luxury and ease — and could always console her ^ with a grievance — if she deemed it necessary — by dwelling |, the deprivation of her children's society. || "I think," said Mr. Saxton with a twinkle in his eye, "thaty 1 mother really likes a grievance. Some women do." gg Sheba drank her tea and pondered the matter over in her h}^ but did not commit herself to tb.e actual disrespect of an oii'cp on her mother's character. Quiet as she was to-night, her fec^ou were strung to an unusually high tension. She was thinkinjjg how hard she would study — how eagerly she would learn-p^ steadily she would try to fit herself for some career of indej^ dence. She had never, even by a thought, dishonoured the|l tons' kindly and heartily given hospitality by calling it "cha: Mrs. Ormatroyd had done so, but Sheba took it for what it| and in her full and passionate gratitude she felt that no;| could ever repay it. ||< She wondered why they were so good to her and so fond 0: and the wonder made her heart glow and her eyes brim: with tears ; but she felt too thoroughly convinced both goodness and the affection to attribute them to pity forlorn situation. K She had soon discovered that the home life at the Saxtons i very different thing to what her own had been, and that t)J Allison was its very core and centre. No one was checked or repressed — never was a harsh l{ uttered. Innocent and spontaneous as the children's- thoughts, were the mirth that enlivened, and the love that crij< their days. Fun, mischief, gaiety — the natural outcome oio^ and light-heartedness — were entered into by their elders i'oi couraged by them as much as possible. To Sheba it wasalj •♦ONE HAPPY year: 95 walk to the P nn^ delicjhtfiil, and she only wondered why Bessie would persist 3me to the Cro' iff %eeping up her lady-like airs and afTectations in the face of so irould also be " ^ J two girls weic HMjIh that was simple and pleasant and natural. Yet she was VOy fond of Bessie, and had never conquered that idea that she f to be the friend of her heart. She felt there was good in the gilWi)eneath that veneer of selfishness and affectation, and for those cMPcts she blamed her school life and companions more than ,0 to complete : )rrow and re-re; \ad always trea tll4||girl herself. If anything would knock them out of her it -ly to be expcc irM|d be this unconventional, free and easy life here in the tbsence of eter bglS} as Mrs. Ormatroyd designated their surroundings, ies Mr. Saxton ; pessie seemed fond of Sheba also in a protective, patronizing ither enviable i sdil^of way, but she would have preferred a more yielding given her vain: character and one more in sympathy with her own latitudinarian and she would ideH of life. Still as the winter passed quietly on, she found Lways console he: tl 2^^y__by dwellings h in his eye," that V en do." _ Ltteroverinherh'. respect of an ^'o to-night, her ec^i She was thmkir. e would learn-i e career of indt dishonoured the w calling it" ^h.' look it for what it she felt that no; ler and so fond o Id her eyes bnm ^onvinced both > them to pity lifeattbeSaxtons; wi been, and that ^1 lever was a harsb I^ s the children s ,d the love that cui< itural outcome ot a by their elders .^ 'o Sheba it was alT heba's companionship was becoming almost a necessity to r the difference in years between the two girls was more ridged by the mental precocity of ths younger. h that first shock of grief, that first insight into the real s of life, Sheba had put all things of childhood away from T ever. She had felt the heavy hand of misfortune, and she never again forget its ♦ouch, or look out on the sunshine with- ang of remembered cares. In after years, when she looked t this turning point of her life, she wondered to herself really would have meant for her but for the kindness of xtons, and specially the influence and charm of Aunt *s companionship. as not a thing to be defined, neither could the girl have ed it ; but she felt its effect, and its benefit too, long, long eir life paths had diverged, and a dark and bitter struggle ng their hearts and tested their affection. s no wonder if under such totally different auspices, nature expanded both mentally and physically. altitude for learning was something wonderful, and she ed Noel Hill by avowing a preference for really useful essary subjects— by attending strictly to penmanship itself as to what it conveyed — by studying history, grammar, >hy and such like useful branches of learning, as well as the nd Greek and composition she loved so dearly. e career she had marked cut for herself, she knew she t afford to dispense with these necessary, if uninteresting and Noel Hill could not but admire the stern and uncom- ig fashion in which she set to work to master them ly. was a very dilettante sort of student, and more bent upon 96 •' SIIEBA." u hi c* , Ltisfied qu escence. bhe aiimj troublesome passic^ would -co^ntent her always hat Aose t .^^ ^^eetheamfi, . Tvings had been d-,ssepressed, so lot 'er father's goo. capacities reco. 'liPhooh!"he said, "she will be all right. She's not pretty OMUgh for men to spoil her with too much attention, and if she e^f cares for one, he is sure to be some . msty old bookworm wlli will charm her with his stores of erudition." Hunt Allison laughed. "You don't understand Sheba," she aiid. "She has a poet's fervent romantic heart, and life won't ^,. b#ltasy for her, I feel sure. The very knowledge of her own lack d scarcely belie' opjjf ysical charms will make it harder. Not all the intellect in ained Sheba oi tii^^orld will satisfy the cravings of a woman's heart, or alter her nafkire. Sheba's nature is one to take things far too seriously." :ton had expec: ^you are fond of the girl ? " questioned Mr. Saxton a the poor chil g^M^nly. s in her charac. #|^gry. There is so much character in her. I am constantly : stunted or train; gp^lating as to what her life will be." ihe was left to: ^#^h," said Mr. Saxton lightly, "those young things aren't ind as time went w<$i^ speculating about. She is happy enough now, why strong, gentle, i snfdn't she remain so ? " [ change, for she« ^MMThy ? " — Miss Saxton smiled sadly. " Dear Joseph, does lifiei^er stand still, unless one absolutely stagnates ? Sheba will d read of in b° n^Jdo that." es she ever speak to you about leaving us ? " he asked. s, now and then. She wants to go to Sydney to be a ess, and support her mother and herself independently. is why she studies so hard j in two years' time she thinks 1 be quite prepared. She has been with us nearly one. Ulison Saxton sp. ,0 be waged htit. tood these terni;^, »f life. , ^ and desires, bu ,ces had lulled it ;hat such qui^^'^^ jublesome passio: ,yish sweethearts, Z her as UtUe^j work in life and;! . question its dis^ oul that looker! Oil, ion soul, and often 1 \he girVs futui^l ould make or ma,*' lat sweet face and'^ -tried heart, and j L her so deep am H? low. Saxton laughed. " Phooh," he said. " What nonsense, she's only a child now. As for her mother, I'm not at all Lllison,that the charming widow is not contemplating a new lonial venture. The last time I was at Levison's place I [t he was very devoted. Of course Mrs. Ormatroyd will change ' sacrificial,' and only make it for the sake of her but all the same she will make it, or I am very much *n. Saxton's fair sweet face coloured softly. " Oh," she said, she won't. It doesn't seem right or decent for a woman two husbands, especially when she has children." dear," said her brother, " your views on the matter are It obsolete. I shouldn't advise you to confide them to rmatroyd." * - W'- ..^^* m \ ''■] ;. r: 98 " SUE15A." • v^er " said AlVison i' 1 wonder,. saiQ J- father." u what she will say to a step I ^ ^ # • . ^^^^^^ of the honour in store Meanwhile Sheba, '" J^^'Jl'ySous "we- „ , „ mother had for her, lived her ow" qm ' during that year her mo^ ^^^^ ^ The year was "e"ly ovc j^^, j,, ^yaney ^^^^ never o'nce been to see her or^^ ^^^^^ 'S,,'"^^^ „ fspecially „ day. She »'~« '°^^f„"ite role of martyr, she was ^^^ ^^^. „ -:r th^'-^b^ra^^ rtiorthat Mr. Lev.o» luxurious hfe, or the ^ ^^j^^ lavished "P°n,^^'-„ .„ ask Sheba over to t^f P'^'^"4„ed him that The contrast ]^?^7;^ loyer, though he was no somewhat tickled her emp y „,v vears ago did :%Urnems expec^^^^^^^^^^ capital of ^ve-d-twen V^^^^^^^^ The New boutn >*<» ,^,,;Uv nor had it Deen i* ., ^,,„v. jnonev nolboast of very ""'J,i;°^"='|'verything «»?/«", 'hough m lovely bay, 0P«;»? °^^'ftom the, ocean beyond, ^dj ^„, , lands which shut it in ^. jj^glf . •■ '"' jty ; no m wide, and blue, and clear to .^ P"f«'=l 'f,^ "nd the le 1 capital. d Allison intensely .verytbing ;s, and no Sheba was rood-nigbt, FTCTION AND REALITY. 99 )ur in store motber bad y for even a r letters she not specially of ber lazy- . Mr. Levison r villa of wblch suted bim thai ng companions plump perso"' )t cbary of the V years ago Qi", wouredbyroya. tbougb mone^ boast of palatia ;^Uc gardens 01 auty, tbougb sfe tieddle. . , ,barms tban tK" reat natural hea^ d, andspreadi: ny islands dot J J c security; f- bour, and tbe ound and bey r eading upwards land side ot u One of the great charms of Port Jackson is that the land looks so beautiful from the bay, and the bay so beautiful from the land. The somewhat sad thought that the promising town has its foun- dations laid in a penal settlement, and half a century ago was peopled almost exclusively by criminals or rough diggers going to and fro to the goldfields, is lost sight of now, when the eye of the tourist, or the gaze of the curious visitor take in the sur- rounding beauty, developed and utiUzed by all the magic powers of wealth, taste and enterprise. Mr- Levison was a great believer in the future of New South Wales. He had hopes of getting into Parliament in a few years' time, and used to confide these aspirations to Mrs. Ormatroyd, who in her turn told him as much as she could remember about England and society — things only known to him by name, as his parents had brought him to the colonies when he was a mere boy and things which he delighted to hear about from a credible ource. It may be surmised, therefore, that Mrs. Ormatroyd's ines had fallen in pleasant places, and she herself was startled o find one morning that a year had passed since she came to ydney ; that the winter season heralded festivities and gaieties hich she might now participate in with a clear conscience, and at a handsome cheque from Mr. Levison lay before her as a esent for all her kindly care and attention to himself and his tie daughter, and was tempting her to sally forth on a shopping edition to George Street, in order to purchase some of those licate grey and lavender fabrics which she had so long coveted, d with which her conscience assured her she might now really ;hten her mourning. CHAPTER XIX. FICTION AND REALITY. ml [r. Hill," said Sheba one morning when she had walked over the Parsonage for her lessons, " I thought you only came to ^tralia for a year." rhe young man looked up from the volume of Pindar before jYes," he said, " that was the least possible time fixed ; no but as much more as I Jiked. You see. Miss Sheba, your lecy about my health has signally failed. I have benefited so m every way by the change of climate, that I feel in no to return to fogs and frosts, and east winds." 7—2 I lli i '... 1 1 ■' too \n , , . fpe\ very ^onc^) .. 1 am glad," she said simp y , ^ ^^^ ^^^ ^ ^,^^^ ,,tuout you " X suppose y«;;^,S-e of your ardour u Without tht i^ ^ , u couia ini ^^\' ! of her slaving b€r life aw^y ^^^^ ^^3t^ ^""^ Governess in Mr Saxton toiu ^ ^^ year. ^"f.j^» . cfvdney ^^^^ ^^^ ^A^n^tVbe splendid ? to get sud '^^i l;Tso tougb and ugl^' Jo"e nation speakmg'^ ^„, ,. ^«?Vou cannot ter»^esa>d. ^ ^^ .^ Greek b» vfould wruc jnorning can, France ? , Trench was necessary W conscientiously, l ^ets« c. Is the feather CO ^^^^^^^ ^f his ecu FICTION AND RKAI.ITY. 101 very lonely ,u are a very your ardoui J accustomed make bis own 1 can't beat X do so long I 1 will work, governess in rnment House. ng to get sud ,dern langu^e. And your Oroc. learn at aUi d French souni iure you, and it. ,el anywhere a^ ^ectlamaftxtii ys best to be pi ,t the Greek bo. gues. 1;^^')] the weather, o ^ » Oh dear me, nee ( ,^ .. **you mustnt c ,ugh to be told rn'depen« ■"'n M > )usin ? ^*^"' When the three hours were over and the Ijoo'cs put away she turned eagerly to Noel Hill. " And how long," she asked, " do you really think you will stay here ? " *' At least another year," he said ; " and perhaps after that 1 may try for a curacy in Sydney." " Another year," said Sheba thoughtfully ; " I shall be sixteen. Quite old enough to work. Why," she added suddenly, as she looked at him with those large deep eyes, "I may be in Sydney too." " That," he said, " would be very delightful. I confess to feeling curious as to how you will work out that future of inde- pendence on which you so fondly dwell." "You may laugh," said Sheba, "as much as you please, but I iam very deteYmined ; and as I look so much older than I am, jthere will be no difficulty in getting a situation." "Please," said Noel Hill, "don't talk of it as a hoisemaid [would. Call it an engagement." She laughed. " Oh, what signifies a word ? " she said. " I am lot too particular and you have taught me to have no prejudices." " Tried to teach you," he said ; " I don't think I have lucceeded." "I am very troublesome, I know," the girl said gravely. You know mother always called me ' a trial.' I feel so much me and yet I can't do it. I make such good resolutions and let — I am always forgetting them. Oh dear .... What an effort » le IS "You have just described it," said Noel Hill gravely. " It is an fort ; and an effort more or less severe according: to our natures." " Well," said Sheba, as she put en her hat and took up her )oks, ** there's no use in worrying about what may be. I used to it once ; but I am getting wiser. I mean to lake life just as [comes and not expect too much from it." "You are too young for such philosophical doctrines," said )el Hill. " Now I must really send you off, I have two ^pils coming, and they are .due now. I thought Hex would re been here to walk back with you." It doesn't matter,'' said Sheba as she shook hands, " I like own company now and then, and I don't get much of it at Crow's Nest." Jhe walked slowly away, her books under her arm. ^ery soon she came to the old hcuz;. nd stopped, as she often and leant on the gate to look sadly and regreifuUy at the irted garden. ■ U : !( ■ ,■>: ! 102 io2 . 1 .,1V the place had that deso NO one ^ad yet -;^-;:;^.^.^tnffiViod oC unoccup. late and neglected ^f^^' ^^ ^„<1 f i, tion gives to a hou^^^ „„e bare, the ^l«"^^=Xight wintry sky. The oleander "ees g^^^ ^nder 'he d b ^^ „ees looVed gaunt and^^^ ^^ them and tho"|ht^o ^.^^ ^^ tnhro'igr^-VS^l^osebefo.^ As she thought ofit a nv -^^^s that ^^e^chang y ^^^^ as she did so some o ^^ » Sanderson. ; ii Two days ago, i»^^ ^ g^ys it is a go*J --T pIos Vou are wondering .bat has brought . .. Yes. I suppose yo __ ^^^^^^ ^^ ^^^ back." „ „:rt the "irl «ith a faint smile, y " Perhaps," said the »i . ^ .< ,w's all over. Sk -Bessie!" .. q^ „„," he ^aid, »* g; and y* Jiin^r. V™ SSK'. .? .* i- -' - " Did you actually T'm not goin. . Sh" must have laughed^,^^ ^^.^^ ^^^ „,er that. I m 8 " Yes, she did. " ■ ,5 any more. _ ^an cot to bother my head about g._^^ ^^^ ''flarnriealous, but: "Well," said SheCa, 1 ^j^^. I *asni J ,^„„, fi„e your ^f e"ons to o-^a^^^ «eaheart, y^^^^^ might have been, "o" H • . j^j^^ton you «en ] and the moment you s^* «« ^^ „„ brother j,^,;,! U vv..sn t .-air, e^Pee'a»y ^^ ^1. ^on't tend youe^^^^^^ „„« of^ "^^'•^"■"udtoget"!llof-e. Y,^nt'in&llowtree' Horr-fl'b^oVt the scent and hid It FICTION AND RKALITY. >03 hat deso iinoccupa ; and fruii intry sky. le summer time ago it her books ice she had discovered t all looked e lay only in sh tears, and id said : Sanderson. | me it is since | like the place hance for me, ? " interrupted | as brought \rx u wanted to see aU over. She roung ; and yoi | erself would evei ? » asked Sbcbi I'm not goin: iless you can cor ,n't iealous, but etheart,youkno^^ ^^ent off after be. »j n cared. Ibe^ev nswered one oi i that hollow t'^^^ your wilderness, and you never even looked for it. I know that because I found it there one day, ever so long afterwards." " And you took it out and gave it to Bessie." " How on earth did you know that ? " "Oh," she said, laughing at his discomfited face, "I only guessed it ; I didn't suppose you would waste anything so valuai)le. But come, I must be getting home or I shall be late. Where are you going ?" " I was thinking of going to the Crow's Nest," he said some- what hesitatingly. ^ " Then come with me," said Sheba, " and you can tell me all about what life at a sheep-station is like. Did you come back by Sydney?" " Yes, and — I wanted to tell you I saw your mother there. 1 met her in George Street." "Ah, poor mother," said Sheba, "she has had a long trial. How she must suffer .... Tell me how she looked ; was she worn and ill ... . and decs she still have those dreadful headaches? " " She looked remarkably well," said Ted. '' She was just getting into a very swell carriage ; she told me she had been shopping ; she was ^'^autifully dressed." Sheba glanced down instinctively at her own shabby black gown. *' Beautifully dressed," she said. " Wasn't she in mourning ? " " I don't know," said the boy, " if you call grey and white nourning. She looked about ten years younger than when she lived here, and it struck me altogether that she was very jolly and in very good spirits." Sheba grew somewhat pale. This account did not tally at all ith the martyr's letters, and the incessant plea of poverty which e had heard for the last twelve months. Her brows darkened iminously; a sudden resolve flashed into her mind. She said lothing of it to her companion, but walked on beside him for me moments in silence. When she next spoke it was of something totally different, and Sanderson followed her lead without the least suspicion of ly mischief to accrue from his chance words. They reached the [row's Nest, and Sheba left him in charge of the delighted girls id went to her own room. She took off her hat and cloak, and then stood leaning her [ms on the dressing-table and surveying herself in an abstracted id quite unconscious fashion. "What does it mean?" she thought. " Well— beautifully :ssed— ten years younger ! Oh, it ca;i't be ; what do boys |0w about dress ? . . . . Why, only in her last letter she speaks kd I m III I in if m f ' I I m n 'I H!, 'I ' INfi •il 3 •• '■! -n 1 ' ■ I . iM II !: ;; '■. I? I 't !i !,r«'' I £ ' !i i :i :■ 104 "SHEBA of how she misses us how of her lonely, unhappy life . . hard she has to work." She paused abruptly and lifted her head. ** I will go and see for myself," she said resolutely. " I will toll no one. They shall not prepare her. I will leave early to-morrow before any one is up .... I can walk to the ferry ; it is only four miles off ... . and I have just money enough to pay for crossing. Yes .... I wi// do it. She has never asked me to go and see her .... never once come here. She cannot be surprised if I go just for a day." The colour came back to her face. She smoothed her hair, and brushed the dust from her shabby gown, and then went back to the sitting-room to have her dinner. But there was a change in her. She was the Sheba of old, sullen, disturbed, defiant ; mind and temper were thrown out of gear, and Bessie's light foolish talk and Ted's incessant chatter seemed to irritate her beyond endurance. Aunt Allison noticed the difference, but thought that something had gone wrong with her studies, or else that Ted's attentions to Bessie had annoyed her. She was far enough from suspecting the truth. The girl avoided her, and as soon as dinner was over went off to her own room with her books. Evening came, and instead of appearing at tea-time she sent word she had a bad headache and had gone to bed. Miss Saxton at once went to her and found her flushed and heavy-eyed, and evidently ill. But the girl would say nothing and only begged to be left alone, and Miss Saxton knew her peculiar disposition well enough to refrain from troubling her with questions. She made her drink some tea and then after a few gentle words of sympathy left her to . herself. All that night Sheba tossed and turned in sleepless misery. Towards daybreak she fell into a heavy slumber, but woke at six I and started from her bed with a dull sense of trouble weighing i on her mind and oppressing her memorj-. She was s )n dressed, i and leaving a pencilled note on the toilet table to explain her absence, she slipped out and through the garden, and gained the! road without any one seeing her. The air was keen and cold and exhilarating. She walked swiftly along the rough uneven road which led in a straight line to the ferry. It was too early for the steamer, but a boatman offered to take her across for a shilling, and she gladly agreed u give it. At any other time she would have been in ecstasies over the lovely scene ; the deep blue water, the rocky islands ; the tower i I .1.11 MRS. ORMATROYD DEFINES UNSELFISHNESS. los 1 t .... how I will tell to-morrow s only four )r crossing, go and see ised if I go d her hair, went back eba of old, rown out of sant chatter It something | ittentions to | 1 suspecting " ; dinner was rening came, ihe had a bad )nce went to ntly ill. But ft alone, and igh to refrain r drink some | ly left her to| jpless misery, jt woke at six uble weighing! s m dressed, o explain her I ind gained the| She walked! a straight line a mt a boatman r adly agreed to] tasies over the ds ; the tower mg cliffs of the Heads which shut in the harbour, the valleys clcthed in primeval forests of pine, the white houses of the town gleaming in the sparkling sunlight, the masts and spars of in- numerable vessels in the inner br.y, and the far-off blue range of hills which bounded the horizon line. But now though she noted them all, it was in a dreamy absorbed way. She only wanted to get to her destination. The ferryman pulled slowly and mechanically and it was half-an-hour before she reached the opposite side. As they touched the wharf she handed him his shilling, and springing on shore took her way up the steep rough street whicb she remembered led into the town. CHAPTER XX MRS. ORMATROYD DEFINES UNSELFISHNESS. Sheba took her way past the wharves and docks, looking about her with considerable curiosity. She had only been to Sydney once in her life, though it was so near West Shore, and it seemed to her a very wonderful and beautiful place. It was too early in the morning for any great stir of life, and the girl being totally ignorant of what part of the town her mother lived in, wandered somewhat aimlessly about. She found her- self in a narrow and unsavoury street chiefly populated by Chinese ; then she passed warehouses, offices, public buildings, dark alleys, opening out here and there into wider and more im- portant streets. Finally she made her way into George Street, where the shops were just opening, and an early omnibus or twor was driving along in leisurely fashion amidst carts with market produce, fruit and fish. Sheba began now to feel somewhat hungry. She walked into a baker's shop and bought a couple of rolls, and then asked the man who served her if he could direct her to Mr. Levison's private house. " Mr. Levison," said the man. " Oh, he lives out at the Glebe. It's a long way from here. You'd better take an omnibus. One runs every hour from the corner of ||ing Street." Sheba thanked him and left the shop. She was not tired and a walk of four or five miles did not terrify her. Besides she had no more money and an omnibus would mean another shilling at least. She therefore set out resolutely to walk the distance, feeling rather pleased at the novelty of her surroundings. i \-i. '*ti : ft i\ *°^ . fimP and took the shape of ^,e Honse.^^- ^Sr: t„TV -^ ^.^^^^^^^ villas more °'f''sWoa glanced cuno"sly at me g / ^^^ spacious rt 'i,,tX re^^hed one sheltered by large she passed. At » j^ stonework. ... QaWands "- with a name carved, m ^^^^ ^^^ i°°'""L„ eate with con- It was the name '°' " • the handsome >/<>" Jf 5 ^ „( Mr. Levison's P^,^f ' °Sred, and found herself « ^J";,^^ ,derab.e d^«; f.^:^: gig.„Uc -" to^J^TW^uV «ro aniJeyJeretoJor^-C-^l^tfofs^^^^^^^^ beautifully -^°"' w,^^^^^ ^^ , r^Tu" '^ ^-"'^'y '' "'"', two-Stoned buiiaing ^^ ^^^^^ *^^-,(i--drs:;^n?^^^^^^ suddenly she P^"--i-,^,.,.V,t before ^J^- .^8^ Colfire played her ears, i^he iook ^^^^ ^f a d'^^S"' ^^ gnowv two people : one a ^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^, °'^|;;T;>omentShebastood^^^^^^^^ ^^ -^^-.tS' erSped and puffed, her ^^^ mamfold trimmmgs ^^^ the breakfast equipage, ner .^^^^gs. ^ . long windows, and the noi .^^^^i^n and his exciam Seeing she was observe , ^^^ ^^^ into the roorn^ ^^^ ^rows and angry eye , Dusty, pale, witn w^v MRS. ORMATROYD DEFINES UNSELFISHNESS. 107 he shape of rounded by gateways as ge oaks, and Dalclands "— ;ate with con- i in a sort of accustomed around were and aowering he house. It merely a wide und, supported d two or three prettily draped ,r voice reached room, the like of wood fire played ares and snowy ere were flowers seated at it were ooking man, the is be her mother, idst of sorrowfit with her fair ban ,ose grey mornin; nings of lace anc Iver and china rsh or complainm, ,ment ; the picture cture those mou" . supplemented, he fastening of tt; cted Mr. Levison his exclamation ^ 'handle and walke rry eyes, she stoo before her mother, who was too utterly startled to do more than gasp out her name. * Yes," said the girl, " it is I. ... I have come to see you. . . . I thought you were ill, lonely, unhappy. . . . Your letters always said so, and it was so long .... twelve whole months." Mrs. Ormatroyd's face grew perfectly livid. If it had not been for Mr. Levison's presence she felt she could have struck the girl in that first moment of rage and shame and speechless fury. As it \^s she did her best to calm her face into some expression of maternal joy, and rose slowly to her feet and kissed her daughter coldy on her brow. "'.'his is a great surprise," she said with asperity. "Why on I earth didn't you write and say you were coming? And oh, good I gracious I what a sight you lool .... all over dust and mud." " li this your little girl ? " asked Mr. Levison amiably and op- porturely. " And so she has come over to see you at last. Dear ime I Veil, surprises are always pleasant. Come and shake hands [with mf, my dear, and let me see if you are at all like your hand- Isorne mother." Shebaturned her dark and lowering face and wrathful eyes in the direcion of the speaker, and then looked at him from top to )e. Hebore the scrutiny with smiling good humour. He did lot guess for a moment that that uncompromising young mind id put bin down as vulgar and ostentatious, and that it cost the firl a greateffort to give him her hand. " No," sad Mrs. Ormatroyd sharply, " she is not at all like me [n anything. What a very odd thing of you to do, Sheba, to come icross to Sydey without letting me know. What were the Saxtons *)out to let y\u ? " " I didn't tftl them I was coming," said the girl, turning once lore to look a\the changed and most unmournful figure. Ten ^ears youriger. Yes, Ted was quite right. "Ah," interp(;ed Mr. Levison, "an impulse, an impulse of iffection. How harming 1 A little — well, not home-sick — but lother-sick, eh ? Upon my word I don't wonder at it I What lould I do withut her, so what must the loss be to her lildren ? " It was a new expeJence to Sheba to see her mother blush and 5t down her eyes, ad falter out bashful denial to compliments. was an experience lat turned her cold and sick, and made her sk herself if she were,ot the victim of some malignant dream. ." Well, well," continvd Mr. Levison, "suppose we give you )me breakfast ; you loo tired, and to have reached here by this le you must have stand very early." 1 . io8 suera; \ her mother was a g , ^^^^^^^ ^j ^^e hoji o" ' j jitocc matters *o"l' ^°" """"o L hereaTd Tow- prying, ""'^"^^f'sfofnot wishing you to come here had my T' . f „„„,.ionatetean "^« ,,«ed-sheburstintoafloodofangrypa«^° Her grasp relaxed, sneo ^^^^^^ ^t *>" " erwasout Sheba only j^tller^ed to her that her member ^^^^^^^^^^ wonderment. » ^e?" isjake. The old si«en S . °f ''^P'°\°n^and lovXsness came over her "d^^^ ,^„, """.SignatTon swept through her heart as rvTh^f S? her.-l f^at last, « that you ha^good reasons -, " 1 see now,' she saia a .,^^ ot say J^^ , „ot wishing Jie to -J° yor"'',?rrv "^ " ^ "'°"' ''"f letters? \ou rei) j^ ^^ ^orry »' i i-eep you, and s worked, and I . • • • oh. ^^ ^^_^^ ^^^ y„„.nd keep y thought or^yofbem „ ^^^ „, did Hex, a"a »" *^tathf ul disgust was hk*^" ^ ■ .j,^ discos MRS. ORMATROYD DEFINIvS UNSELFISH NKSS. 109 eba curtly. are here you I excuse mc a ash the dust esent you look ndesirable, that ised ; but that mtimated her ht. In silence Levison's eyes LS6« iseUasthedooT ly grown ut) and '11 do when she ying she tloughi a spaciois and oor and Iplting 11 like a vi:e, while that nesrly stifled y, you dSobedient, detest scenes. I le here and novv- TTvpaJsionate tears er in white, stom her'?anger was out ken'ig sense of hei her and a burning as ne asked herseli la goo^ reasons foi .ot say so in you: ^. and sad and hare ays for you, and! id keep you, and m el to the fire. Mis y the jarring discoK add reproach to i to suppose that an' Lb equanimity. '^ "You are a perfect little idiot !" she cried stamping- her foot. '-^"Evcr since you could walk or stand alone you have done nothing ut worry and vex me. I never heard of any one doing such fthings as jou do, never. Did you suppose I was going to wear Alack all the rest of my days, and never smile or take any pleasure f^in life again ? Such rubbish ! And as for you and Hex working for me — why, you talk like a baby I You work for me — you ! Why, you haven't the sense necessary to get your own living, leave alone supporting any one else, and I am not of the nature to accept sacrifices, even from my children 1 But, thank Heaven, there will be no need for you to work^ as you so grandiloquently talk of doir.g, and as for Hex — well, he shall have only his mother to thank for his prospects. I have made up my mind he shall go to England and have a profession." " But how — when ? " asked Sheba in a stifled voice as Mrs. iOrmatroyd paused from sheer want of breath. " Go to England . . vhere will you get the money ? " Mrs Ormatroyd drew herself up and shook out her delicate rey Craperies, and looked straight at her daughter's white res^d face. Then she said slowly, clearly, without fairer or remor n her voice : " / am going to marry Mr. Levison." For a noment Sheba stood there perfectly motionless. Every of Hood seemed to rush to her heart, and then flow in a iling wnthful torrent through her veins. It seemed as awful as if her mother had said she was going to ;ornmit a cume. Marry Mr. Levison ! Marry again, and that dious, stou, Jewish man with his thick lips and greasy black hair nd vulgai ncanners. Oh, the shame, the horror ; and her father, er poor forg>tten father ! " Well," sail Mrs. Ormatroyd sharply, " are you going to stand ere all day ? I daresay you are surprised .... I was surprised yself. He is o rich .... and he knows almost every one worth owing in Sydrey .... but still he has done me the honour to opose, and tho\gh I don't approve of second marriages, this is uite an exceptioial case, and I owe it to my children to provide r them, not leavtthem to the charity of strangers." Sheba coloured h)tly. " You don't— caru-for this n- ;, then," .she said. " Care ? " Mrs. Ormatroyd looked a little perplexed. " Do you can am I in love like some romantic school girl ? Good avens, no ! But I an going to marry him." "Oh, mother I " crie^ Sheba in a voice of such horror, and yet -h misery, that Mrs. ^xmatroyd started. Irop no t V; ''i ! 1 .1 sHKliA..'* ^^ ^^^^ y°?:S"bat" swrmed her mo*er ^^^^ ^^^^,,„d, and your aa:fy?U - °^ -^"" ,o«*egUVsUps/-neve^-: 1' '-^ Ttave twrfathcrs and no -n ^^^ ^TLCp d! Wta. cannot have ^^^ i am 5 ^^^j f^ijiy gaM ^"tu: Ormltroyd san>c down - a^c^^^ ''^^rf^^ worse on -* ri^ ^^^^ trand tro^looWn. to b. "^='*"::'er and she was too tall ^^^^^,^^, ^n'^S.^^'^vison o -" ^^ outspoken, vml^^„ ,, j ^t how couW she take t u. ^^^ ^„„iack to the breakfast-room and be civil to Mr. Levison ? Your lanne ■ when I introduced you was almost insulting — but then Ifou dio not know " " I Will never accept him as my father," reiterated Sheba sternly. "That," said Mrs. Ormatroyd, "may be as you please. If )U do not wish to live under my roof I must make other rrangements for you. Thank goodness, I have one loving and itiful child. Hex will be with me at all events. I shall go back ith you this afternoon to the Crow's Nest, and see them all and Ijjfeak the news. I do not wish my actions misrepresented." A little odd smile just touched Sheba's pale lips. " You need Hot fear," she said, "that /should do— that." !■'*•;!(: 'PI ' • •i ; t l!' ii I! j ^ i I I ! 12a "Sur^:RA.' CHAPTER XXI. PERSUASION. Mrs. Ormatroyd returned to the breakfast-room alone. Mr. Levison was still at the table. He looked up expectantly. " Where's your little girl ? " he said. " I just told nurse to bring Dolly down, I thought she would amuse her." " My poor child is dreadfully fatigued," said Mrs. Ormatroyd apologetically. "She has been foolish enough to walk all the way from the ferry, and is quite knocked up. I have made her lie down, and you must excuse her. She will be better after a rest." " Have you told her the news ? " asked Mr. Levison. " Of course," said Mrs. Ormatroyd with a fluttered blush. " It was a great surprise — very great. She is such an odd child, so different to her brother. Sheba has always been a trouble and anxiety to me. I really can't understand her." " So she doesn't like the idea ? " said Mr. Levison, rising and cutting short further explanations. " I thought she wouldn't when I saw how she looked at me " "Oh, I assure you," said Mrs. Ormatroyd eagerly, "she likes you very well, rnd she is so pleased to think I shall have a home at last." He laughed — a little grimly. " Well," he said, " it won't matter one way or other. She will get used to me after a bit. And now I must be off. I shall be late at the office. Dear me— nearly eleven o'clock. Your little girl will stay now she is here, I suppose ? " " No," said Mrs. Ormatroyd, *' I fear not ; she must go back to-day, and I am going with her if — if you don't object. I wish to see my son, and also make some arrangements with those people with whom Sheba has been staying. Besides " — and she looked at the ground with becominir bashfulness — "now that I am engaged to you, it is not — well, not quite etiquette for me to remain under your roof. I really think I had better stay with the Saxtons until — until the time fixed for our marriage." "Oh, damn etiquette," said David Levison good-humouredly " I can't have you all that way (^{^^ you know. If you want to stay anywhere you can go to the Moss's in Fort Street. They'll be delighted to have you, and they're sort of cotfeins of mine by marriage. I'll arrange it alU" "Just as you please," said Mrs. Ormatroyd, to whom a visit to PERSUASION. t>3 lone. Mr. itly. Id nurse to [Ormatroyd falk all the made her itter after a n. >lush. "It dd child, so trouble and 1, rising and mldn't when " she likes have a home won't matter a bit. And Dear me— ! she is here, lUSt go bark ject. I wish s with those s " — and she "now that I tte for me to ter stay with age." humouredly. you want to eet. They'll s of mine by cm a visit to the Crow's Nest did not specially commend itself. Then she rang to have the table cleared, and took a chastely saddened farewell of her affianced, and saw him leave for his office with inward satisfaction. Once alone she ordered the carriage to be ready in half-an-hour's time, and then went to her room to change her morning gov/n for an out-door costume of plain black cloth. Sheba was sitting by the window and watched her mother's preparations in silence. " I am going to take you back," Mrs. Ormatroyd said pre- sently. " I shall give the Saxtons a piece of my mind for letting you start off by yourself in this fashion." " I told you they did not know," said Sheba wearily. " I hft the Crow's Nest at six o'clock." " You deserve to be locked up and kept on bread and water," said her mother wrathfuUy. "If you were only a little younger I would do it. Heaven knows when you are going to get a little sense, or behave like a rational creature ! I should have thought with such an example as Bessie Saxton's you would have improved in some slight degree, but your present conduct doesn't look as if you had." Sheba set her lips tight and said nothing. She felt it would be useless. She had done an unwise thing in coming here, and she felt herself an unwelcome intruder in what would soon be her mother's own house. Its beauty and luxury did not appeal to her in any single de- gree; rather they awoke in her a feeling of shame and degrada- tion, since it was for things like these that Mrs. Ormatroyd was about to sell herself, and so wreck the whole of Sheba's schemes for an independent future. When the carriage was announced she followed her mother without deigning to cast a look at the rooms through which they passed. The only thing that moved her was the sudden appear- ance of a little, fair-haired, laughing child, who ran out into the verandah as they left it, and called out after Mrs. Ormatroyd. That lady turned instantly, and then went back and took the child in her arms and kissed her with the warmest aff"ection, ex- plaining that she would be back next day, a fact about which the little girl did not appear to concern herself. Sheba looked on and wondered if she had ever received such caresses, or been addressed by such endearing words. If so, she decided it must all have hap])ened before her memory had been roused from the passive into the active state. Then they got into the carriage and drove off, Mrs. Ormatroyd 8 ii: I Ii »»4 " SHEBA." ■)! m\h < ! 11 I maintaining a dignified silence until they reached the ferry, and took the steamer across to the opposite shore. When they reached the landing-place the first person they saw was Noel Hill. Mrs. Ormatroyd greeted him with dignity and immediately treated him to a dissertation on Sheba's extraordinary freak and its consequent trouble and annoyance to herself. "And howevei I am to walk to the Crow's Nest I can't imagine," she lamented. " 1 am so unused to exercise now, and Mr. Levison always insists upon my having the carriage .... it is all owing to this inconsiderate and vexatious gin ! " "I never wanted you to come back with me," said Sheba curtly. " It was youi own desire. And you know there are no cabs this side of the water I " Noel Hill interposed. He saw that matters were a little strained between mother and daughter. He suggested that Mrs. Orma- troyd should rest at the Parsonage, which was only two miles off, and then — and then if she felt equal to the fatigue she might go on to the Crow's Nest in the evening. To this Mrs. Ormatroyd consented, and the trio set out to walk up the long rough hilly road. Mrs. Ormatroyd chattered volubly in a light agreeable fashion, having learnt during her residence in Sydney that she was entitled to consider herself fascinating, and even intellectual — and intellect, in her opinion, was chiefly made known to the world in general by fluency of conversation. Sheba was quite silent. She felt faint and weak after her long journey and her long fast, and she looked so weary and so miser- able that Noel Hill found himself again and again wondering what had happened. Mrs. Ormatroyd's incessant chatter about Sydney society, and Sydney gaieties, irritated him almost beyond endurance, though he did his best to listen with some show of interest. He was thankful when they reached the Parsonage and he could leave Mrs. Ormatroyd to indulge in maternal ecstasies over Hex who had grown so tall and looked so well, and was more like her- self, she fondly declared, than ever. As soon as his uncle appeared, Noel Hill slipped away. He had seen Sheba leave the room and cross the verandah, and he wondered where the girl was going. He followed and overtook her at the gate. " Where are you going. Miss Sheba ? " he asked quickly. " Not ; o the Crow's Nest, surely ? " " Yes," said the girl, " I am not wanted here — why should I .^ay?" 4;4» PERSUASION "5 erry, and they saw ;nity and aordinary elf. t I can't :ise now, lage id Sheba re are no e strained rs. Orma- miles off, might go )ut to walk le fashion, t she was :tual — and e world in r her long 1 so miser- iering what )ciety, and :e, though id he could over Hex •re like her- iway. He ah, and he d overtook :ly. " Not ^ should I "But your mother has only just arrived," he said ; "you surely won't leave her so abruptly ? '' For all answer Sheba opened the gate and walked down the road. He hesitated a moment or two — then followed. " What has happened to you ? " he asked quickly as he reached her side, " you look so strange, and your manner is so odd. Was your mother angry with you for going over to Sydney ? I don't wonder at it. The Saxtons are also very much annoyed. You ought to have told them." Sheba stopped short and looked ai him. " Are they angry too ? " she faltered. " I did not mean to do anything wrong .... but it is always so with mc .... I only wanted to see my mother — to know if what Ted Sanderson had said about her was true " " And was it ? " he asked gently, as her voice broke into a half- suppressed sob. " Yes," she said stormily. " quite true ! she has forgotten papa — forgotten us too, I think. She wears fine clothes and lives in a beautiful house, and she is going to — to marry the man who owns it " The disgust and wrath in her face would have amused Noel Hill had it not been for the inward tragedy it displayed. He was not surprised at her news. Mrs. Ormatroyd's hints and simpers had prepared him for it in some measure. Besides it was just the sort of thing he would have expected her to do, and then pose as a martyr for doing. " And I thought she was unhappy," Sheba cried passionately — " unhappy and working herself to death for us, and my whole thought has been to lift the burden from her shoulders .... to fit myself to work that she might rest, and all the time .... all the time " She turned aside. Her chest heaved. Great bitter tears welled into her eyes. Noel Hill read the struggle going on within her heart, and he pitied her with all the depth and earnestness of his own. But he dared not tell her so. In her present state of mind he felt it would be unwise, and that — even if it hurt her — he must show her the path where duty led, and bid her curb the resentment of passion, and the instincts of revolt. " Sheba," he said gently, " don't go to the Crow's Nest in your ^present mood. Come back with me and let us go to my own little study and talk this matter quietly over. I can feel it is a trial to you; but my teachings must have been of very little effect if you have not learnt that life is made up of such trials, and that jthey must be faced — endured with patience, not rebellion. You 8 -a H'i' !r if ■ V iry i! IJ r;T II . i 'i •■'si ' #1 .« SHEBA." ^16 . . Qtn^yway— but be guided by know I never Vr^f^^J.'^^ty^^^^^^^^^ !l'e\t'wUh a 'heavy sob. ^y advice novj. J do"^ ,^ ^.e," said tbe f r^ J^;^y,o does really "You are always gooQ ^^^^ er met ^no ^ . I think you aretheon_ly Pers^ ^^^j'sCy 1 ever went I understand me 1 J^e^ ^^^^^^ ^ ^m sorry temper run away with m ^.^^ ^^ Sydney 1 " ^ ^,, ^nly walked quietly by ^^^^ ^ \^^^^ u den," as he called it, where ^^^.^^ ^^^ ^''^^reThe made her sit down mf^« ."^^f biscuits, which he pl^^Uy brought her a c.p^of tea^a^^,, sp^W to e-t^a^ ^^^ tKse n^«.*ods, and hence ^^^.^^^ discu^^'O"- ^^^^^ „„; '''t'\ HiU w^n "worlc gently and *f i'Win 'point ; tha, Noel H'" **=" was obedience—up to a ^.jm that a child s duty wa ^^ ^^^^e herselt an ^^ her mother had a Pe*^;,,,° n might ^^^^ .* ^^t the world Lt'sretUntrand UU^^^^^^^^ & con^d- 't^so. t^ ^- S a chMs pre,ud- „ "«fB:ri%Tn^%r u\de^ ^It^^^^^^ ^^e says I must-'. I could not bear to live c.Remembei ^ ^^«/^ «^^-" . , Hntv ? " said Noel Hill gently. ^^^^^ thought it would last, ^^ ^^^^ ^,, ^^i^S-" U a law of nature and a law of hfe, "Change IS a law 01 V (11 PERSUASION. 117 guided by /heavy sob. does really lave let my Iver went to side till tbey I little "den," letimes gave iCr chair, and its, which he \CT at all. refreshed, and action in the ; firm, but not ion or rational loyed either of es so invariably He pointed oul :ain point ; that and marry again noral offence to ;, but the world not likely to sac- idice. ed the girl, " and says I must— I ly. »*Remembei nnot expect their be altogether dit ler if you do no an uncomfortabk nation were havin^ ti as they are? nf happy and: s different— ever; e," said Noel Hil ;" Nothing remains quiescent, that is why happiness should always be received with trembling fear — not with exultant certainty. Existence has infinitely more prose than poetry about it, though that sounds an unpalatable truth in the ears of sixteen. As I [have often told you, I hate to preach ; but there are certain things fthat must be said, and, young as you are, you have learnt that [sorrow is a more constant friend than joy." Sheba moved restlessly. " I hope," she said suddenly, " that [the dead do not — know. I was thinking of poor papa. Just a [year — barely a year . . . and now 10 give his place to some one [else : call a stranger — husband." Noel Hill looked at her with thoughtful searching eyes. "How true a nature," he thought, " and how deeply she will love — some It hurt him to see the pain in her eyes as they sought his, be- jeching in some way for comfort which he felt he could not give -for duty is a hard thing to preach, and a distasteful thing to )ractise, and yet he could but speak to her of it, and its exactions id possible reward. He spoke as he felt — sincerely, conscientiously, earnestly — but 11 the time he felt very sorry for the girl, and he did not antici- ite any wholesome results — to her — from the forthcoming sacri- ^ces entailed by her mother's new mode of life. The past year had done her a great deal of good. He scarcely Iked to think what another might — undo. But it was not his ray to hint discouragement, and when, halfan-hour later, Sheba ^ntered the sitting-room where her mother was still occupied in itting Hex, and painting a 'brilliant future for him as a reward )r his patience and dutifulness in the past, all traces of ill-temper id insubordination had vanished, and she was so meek and quiet lat Mrs. Ormatroyd could not understand the change at all. She [as still more puzzled when, finding herself alone with her mother )r a few moments, Sheba rose and standing before her said lietly : " I must ask you to forgive me for my rudeness this lorning. I had no right to speak to you as I did. I will try to •to like Mr. Levison — if you wish." Had Mrs. Ormatroyd been a wise woman, she would have [cepted the girl's submission with some sense of the ordeal her j^irit had gone through ere she would have made it ; but, not ring wise, she only drew herself up haughtily and delivered to daughter a lecture both severe and judicial on the subject of unbearable temper, her physical shortcomings, and general iciencies. [t was gall and wormwood to poor Sheba to listen to it after S8- ••SH'EBA.'' n8 But she did listen, and i ' i' v CHAPTER XXII. INTROSPECTION. s^lovew! she thought, !'»"'='' ^.1^11^" surrounded it so closely But Sheba did ""'f ^^ ^j, towards raising her spirits, The day betore she Ictt INTUOSPEC'ilO!^. ti9 listen, and ly away to tness," and trees, she lever done d out alone x\(r was bold- Sheba had to house looked blossom from it so closely, Never had through the nor settle- r lUt, ; in wandering Bessie Saxton with Billy trot- be left btliind as Mrs. Orp.>^ IT desecrated by end's dislike to] I foolish. Wbat' hore, where youj jrs of your own' i intimate hopes-; e new Mrs. Levi ;he was therefore bent on impress- rally accrue from;^ .-•ssie's arguments, her spirits, or re e rose very early, and making her breakfast ofT a slice of bread and some milk, she set out to bid farewell to the old house and the "wilderness," which represented to ht; so much that was happy, and sorrowful, and strange and perplexeo, of her child-life. It was very early — scarcely five o'clock — the dew still lay on bud and blossom, and the dusty road was damp and sweet, as if with the tears of some new-fallen shower. A soft wind blew the heavy fragrance of the peach and orange blossoms across her face as she walked past the old familiar pal- ings ; starry passion flowers were wreathmg the wooden pillars of the verandah ; the great oleander tree that fronted the steps was a maze of rose-coloured blossom, and its rich, sweet scents were to Sheba as the greeting of an old friend. She felt her eyes grow dim as she looked at it — the pride of the garden — the loveliest tree of its kind in the whole neighbour- hood ; that strong, sweet perfume turned her faint with many memories. Whenever she felt the scent of the oleander blossoms she always thought of one scene in her life .... how she had stood under the great tree one mild spring evening, and Ted Sanderson had brought her a book, and she had opened it and read the first story — the story of a boy who had been accidentally killed by a schoolfellow in a fit of passion. There had been a picture of it, and she. had shuddered with horror as she had looked at the beautiful young dead face, and the terrified, re- morseful eyes of the boy criminal as he gazed at his victim. The story had been to her like a real thing. She had seen the very I persons who took part in it — had followed out the incidents even to the bringing home of the dead boy in his coffin, and the agon- lizod grief of his heartbtoken mother. She had been so wrought upon by the story that she had sat [there under the rosy blossoms, with the book on her lap and the [heavy tears falling on its pages, until long after the time she should have been in bed, and then had been sharply reprimanded foi her conduct, and obliged to give up the book as a punishment. How it all came back to her now — how it always had come )a(:k every time that the oleander broke into flower, and its fubtle perfume thrilled her senses with almost painful intensity. She wondered why memory was almost always painful to her, rhy scenes and faces and deeds became almost tragic in what "ley represented, or recalled. The fact of remembering too itensely is a great drawback to happiness — Sheba had always jiund it so. She wondered whether she always would find it so, she stood in the old familiar garden and looked with loving id regretful eyes at every tree and flower that held a history o\ k f 'I If'- 1' r i'! \ Urn ♦• SHEBA.** >** J M^^tW she walked on past in the peace and^°'"'^" handiwork. . ;„ her hands, seems to consecrate her t. ^^^^.^ ^"ueTeU instinctively S:.^-: «H^^^^^^^ had once swept o- her senses as The thrill and e^tasy.^^^ ^^^ ^^^ „,ght mean, t^^r and colourU. °^j- ,,, ''-rf^S o^^^ - Filled to the core »nd cen re ^j^, jhe true, she °n^{ ^er Jlongingsafter^e goo^^^^^^ ,„ s.cy.J^r.^^ll^l^,^, kt;r;se:et»-^^^^^^^ wondered vaguely "^y !''« ^i^hich ^he^^ad so tender », 1 thing; why rf her heart too deeply f<"X sS Vo no one, always touched her he feelings she co^djea^^^erstood, balance P^'"' „f"„e?ception that theyj'ould not ^^ .^ ^^, having some f ^ percei' mockery, ^s «>" ^i, tut • and might only 5""^ ^^de she had confided m Noel ^^^^ possible for her toj°"£^t„een their two natures^^na ^^ [here was a ^'^e ^f ^^T a child. Her heart «as'n^ ,^,/,„, "^''' '" '^'^ Xe^^' too fiercely and eagerly °;eXi„g ,, down her mind, ^"e /»' (jdue that spiru ^ humanly, she she felt, and ui^til she cou commonplace huma to the nearer level o eve y^^^,^^^^^^^^^ ^j,,„^ would never find existence INTKOSPECTION. 121 her senses as If individual life was just suited to its individual surroundings, there would be an end to all such conflicts as these, and character would need no discipline, but expand naturally under congenial influences. But, looking out on the battle-field of humanity, we find that the surroundings are invariably at variance with the character, disposition and mind of the individual. Hence the perpetual warfare which Sheba's awakening soul began dimly to recognize, and for which her strange nature was as dimly en- deavouring to arm itself. Shut in now in her self-chosen solitude, she went over every detail of her child-life. She felt sorry for herself as she let her memory range over those mistaken heroisms, those pitiful mis- takes, those ill-aimed intentions which invariably fell short of their mark, those hours of prayers and tears and struggles ! And amongst them all what a lonely figure she looked — uncompre- hended and uncomprehending, yet feeling the keenness of need, the strength of impulse, as one far beyond her years and ex- perience might have felt them. Sheba had gone through many phases of feeling and many grades of experience in her short life, by reason of tnat habit of hers of thinking out everything that came into that life. She did not pass things by as mere accidents of occurrence, but looked into the why and wherefore of them all, and formed her own theories respecting them. But now it seemed to her that her spirit had suddenly lost its way in the mazes of life. The irre- vocable law of change had stepped between her and the peace and happiness she had enjoyed for one short year, and as she lifted her troubled face to Heaven and faltered out some frag- mentary prayer, she yet could not but acknowledge that the vital principle of religion was as a dead letter to her soul, and that long familiarity with its " forms " yet seemed of very little help or sustenance in moments such as these. A sudden wave of bitterness came over her heart. ''What am I, that God should care for me, or listen to me ? " she thought. " Have I ever had a prayer answered ? has ever one single thing in my life been altered though I brought all my faith to the petition that asked it ? No. It seems time and feeling wasted on nothing. It is all very well for Noel Hill to talk ; he is a clergyman, and he lives for God's service, and perhaps God does recognize him and his work — but as for me " There she broke off, almost frightened at her own audacity. **0h, how wicked I am ! " she thought, and a faint sob broke the : stillness of her leafy shelter. " Why can't I remember God's way is not man's way ? " <■ SHEBA." '*• -J. it was not conquered. She V u. ™,t rebellion aside, it was ""^ ~J ^nj that But though sl>e put f^^<= j^g P»^»°'°P^^°l nhne of endur- was too young »"f J^^^that comes as the d,sc plme o deeper, "*««" P^'';"^*, was as yet a stranger to her n ance and accepted so row, lonely as she fett m ^^^ She had 'Tfjte/before gone so d'^^f'' ",'^udish life had because she had "ever panorama of her cnii >"^^"'"f ?/. u's en by scTne, incident by ."cule'it un« ^^^^^^^^ unrolled itself s«:ne oy ^^^^ T„ „^mbled, disturbed faded away, and now ^h ,, ,he asked it she t embed, ^^^ ^ "What next ? Ana ^^ ^ n^"°''. • whe must yield, of "' f Te S' of domlrtic tyranny to wh.ch^fXl ex'iinction ^ose before ber eyes, »n ^^ .^ this-.s not 1 rfe^ ^^, heart "Thln° a suddrflush of " f'^t wa'^he, one small - Jm^'dtogrow^uietandbum^^^^^^ pleasure were f ^"* °to its exactions. aims! She drew a ^^^g^f g^emed to her that she haa B ^^^. because their learning ^^^. ^^^ g^ory. ,^ , v.^rd-she could picture nothing ^^^^^^. ^ Xi would be J^ard s^,^, f^r-off ^T' nice seemed whisper- 2u thou learn the wherefore. |w i b ENDURING. 123 ;red. She and that of endiir- nature. 1 this hour, le root and ish life had until it had ask herself, .d, disturbed ick she must ^ust yield, of lal extinction ionate revolt, and her heart one small in- i of humanity, t came to in- ^e, to demand f her will and nd her nature taken up arms ich could only leavy hair away lad ignored the; reacher of forti-i is footstool andj all life's lessonv iture oi all self- inp harder; but soft and sudden » seemed whisper :y now ; hereafter CHAPTER XXIII. ENDURING. ** I REALLY think," said Mrs. Levison complacently, " that Sheba has very much improved. She is not nearly as passionate or as wilful as she used to be. Her manners are better, too — more self- possessed and lady-like. If only she was a little more presentable !" She sighed and looked across the table at her husband. [Dinner was just removed, but they were- lingering over the ileasant frivolities of dessert, and Mrs. Levison was ready to Indulge in the confidential chit-chat her soul loved, and which to iheba was unmitigated boredom. Mr. Levison stretched out his legs under cover of his costly lahogany, and tossed off a glass of wine before answering his ife's observation. " Improved ? " he said. " Well, I'm glad you think so ; I lon't. She's as proud as Lucifer and as cold as an icicle. All le seems to care for is books and music. When she's not lading she's strumming or singing. Isn't it about time her [ucation was finished ? She's nearly seventeen, isn't she ? " " Yes," said Mrs. Levison ; " I can't believe it. I can't fancy |at I have a daughter grown up ! " Mr. Levison laughed a little grimly. Two years ago he might \ve fallen into the trap, and made the expected rejoinder as the relationship appearing more sisterly than maternal — but it was two years ago. 'She certainly is grown up," he said. "You'll have to bring out a little more this winter ; she looks much older than she is." 'You needn't say that," said his wife pettishly, "or people say I have been keeping her back^ Society is always ill- lured." •ciety — as Mrs. Levison called the compound mixture of Jews, wealthy business folk, and miscellaneous individuals of irticular status that made up her circle of acquaintances, to le houses she went, and who in turn honoured her dinners dances — was not at all ill-natured with respect to her, but was pleased to think so. She liked to imagine herself an of envy to persons who could not boast of descent from a old English family : who had not so fine a house or smart a ;e, and, above all, knev noc the glory of having a yearly ?om England with the latest fashions in dress and millinery, hich she might adorn her comely person. m ^ ^ 124 ••SHEl'A." IV '! i i ) I .ii fl' 1 t li M: For things had gone very smoothly with the late Mrs. Orma- troyd. Mr. Levison was very good-natured and let her have her own way in almost everything. His riches were always on tlio increase, and he denied her few things on which she had set her heart. On one point he had been firm, though, most unexpect- edly firm, and that was in refusing to let HtA go to England and study for a profession as his mother had so ardently desired. "Stuff and nonsense," he said, in answer to her entreaties; "the colonies are good enough for men of capital like me; they're good enough for young whipper-snappers like your son. There are too rriany people in the old country already. We'll keep what we've got here. The boy shall have a good commercial education and a good berth in my office as soon as he's old enough, and I'm sorry for him if he doesn't like his prospects. I only wish I had had such chances. I'd have been Premier now." So Mrs. Levison, after a good deal of fretting and grumbling, to which her new spouse paid not the smallest attention, gave up the project, for which Hex himself was not at all sorry. He had no brilliant gifts and he hated learning, so the thought of " exams " had not been a pleasant thought. He went to the best school in Sydney, and it is only fair to say, learnt as little as he possibly could, though he became a famous cricketer and oarsman. With regard to Sheba, her resolutions of patience and forbear- ance had been severely tested. Her step-father never liked her and they were constantly at variance. If she showed the smallest inclination to proceed in one way, her mother persistently pulled her back into another. It was her system of discipline, as she considered Sheba terribly self-willed. She had engaged a French master and a music master for her, and considered that was quite sufficient to " finish " her education. Girls ought not to know too much, it made them conceited. But Sheba's passion for books, tempered by Noel Hill's judicious hints for self-mstruc tion, stood her ir* good stead, and Mr. Levison was only too| pleased that she should make use of his really very creditable library, which was quite a white elephant to himself. Those hours her mother spent in dressing, visiting and enter| taining or being entertained, were always spent by the girl in clo« and earnest study. Often and often she longed for Noel HilFs advice and assistance! but for the first year of her life in Sydney she never saw hin, though he frequently wrote to her. However, she had recentl] received from him the news that he had been appointed cu at St. Margaret's, Sydney, and was coming over almost imme ately. ENDUKINO. las on, gave up y. He had thought of t to the best , little as he Lnd oarsman. and forbear- ^er liked he! Ithe smallest tently pulled iplvne, as she iged a French red that was ought not to leba's T^assion or self-instruc- was only tool ery creditabkl f- I ing and ente^| he girl in clo«| and assistanctj never saw m had recently )pointed cui almost immec It was the satisfactio*". and glow of expectance raised by this letter, that had led to Mrs. Levison's remark as to Sheba's im- proved manners and disposition. The prospect of introducing her daughter into what she termed "society" was not a pleasing prospect to Mrs. Levison. In the first place it would make her look old, and really with her easy-going life and her fashionable toilettes she was used to being complimented on her youthful appearance, and accustomed to consider herself as still on the safe side of that debatable ground, " middle-age." But with a daughter as tall as herself, and of such stately man* ners and pronounced ideas, who looked quite twenty though she was not seventeen, what should she do? Australian girls, as a rule, were pretty and bright and lively, but Sheba had none of these attractions. No one in their senses, so Mrs. Levison decreed, would call that dark face, with its sombre flashing eyes, and coronet of hair, and proud set lips, pretty. It was striking, and so in a way was the tall young form with its stately grace of movement, but then now-a-days people went in for brightness, audacity, cAic, as Bessie Saxton called it, and Sheba possessed not one of these charms. So she sat on there in her luxuriously-appointed dining-room and held forth to Mr. Levison on all these points, while he sipped his wine and thought complacently of the prospect of the next elec- tion, at which he was almost sure to be returned, and paid no heed whatever to his wife's somewhat tautological discourse. Meanwhile the object of that discourse was sitting by the wood- fire in the library, listening half-amused and half-bored to the pre- cocious chatter of Miss Dolly Levison. That young lady had been thoroughly spoilt by her father, in whose eyes she represented all that was perfect, beautiful and clever in childhood. His wife having long since discovered this [weakness of his turned it to good account, and also petted and lattered the child in such a manner that her natural good qualil'es ere fast disappearing, and she was developing into a pert, forv^a.d little minx, who tyrannized over every one in the household except heba. She stood somewhat in awe of her, and in a way respected ler because she was so uncompromising and so straightforward. ihe was a pretty child with dark saucy eyes and a cloud of fair lair about her shoulders, and a passion for bright colours and gaudy wclhry, probably inherited from her Semitic ancestry. She wore a bright scarlet frock just now, and a coral necklace d a gold bracelet respectively adorned her neck and arm. She as holding forth to Sheba on the glories of a child's party she fad been to on the j)rcvious evening. 120 "SHKBA." ,'! ■) !.:!: iii; iir ill .:! *' No one had such a pretty dress as mine," she said compla- cently. " Mrs. Moss came up and asked who made it, and I told her it was a French dress, and had been sent out in mamma's last box, and Sarah Moss did look so cross. They have all their clothes made here, you know, by Miss Page, and she can't cut a skirt properly at all. Theirs hang like bags, and they will wear such big crinolines. You never wear crinolines at all, Sheba ; but if you ' come out ' this winter you will have to. Mamma says she won't go about with such a dowdy." Sheba smiled a little. " Won't she ; well, I'm afraid then I shan't come out at all. I certainly will never wear a crinoline. They're too hideous for anything ; making every woman look like an inflated balloon." " Well, you look quite as funny without one, in your dresses," said Miss Dolly, tossing her fair crimped locks. " Whatever makes , you go to that queer woman to have them made ? Now at I Clarke's in George Street you can get them very well done, and | the Governor's family all go there." "I like my dresses to be comfortable," said Sheba, *'and| Madame Toinette is an artist in her way. She is very poor, Ij know, and lives in a little back street, but for all that she has tastej and skill, and she pleases me." " I never saw any one who cared so little about dress as youi do," went on the child, looking at her with curious eyes ; " yourl mother dreams about it when she's going to have a new onel She takes days to decide on the trimmings and flounces, anil| you " " Have neither to decide about," laughed Sheba. " That is thel best of having one's gowns always made the same way." " But when you go to your first ball " said Dolly. " I am not going to any balls," the girl answered impatientifj " Dancing is a ridiculous way of wasting time, and time is a thinj| for which we shall all have to account. Our years are shoiil enough, and when there is so much ignorance and distress in tha world, it seems wicked to shut one's eyes to it, and spend one'l days in frivolous amusements which benefit no one." " Oh, gracious! ' cried Dolly, opening wide her own eyes, "yo talk like a clergyman. Fancy not going to balls because othe| people in the world are in distress ! I never heard anything! ridiculous. Catch me doing it 1 Why I've thought out my fin ball-dre'js already. I mean to wear white satin and pearls. have always made up my mind to wear that ever since I read description of the state ball at Buckingham Palace." *' I think if you were to read sensible books and learn y(J ENDURING. 127 lur dresses," itever makes I £? Now at ill done, and] ««That islb{| (ray." )oUy. . , d impatiently^ time is a thins ears are short distress in tht^ d spend oneif )wneyes,"y* ■ because othe! fd anythings jht out my nr 'and pearls- iince I read fand learn f rd lessons, instead of studying dresses and shop windows, you would be all the better," said Sheba impatiently. " I shall have plenty of money," said the child loftily. " I don't require to be clever." *' You will be a true daughter of Israel," answered Sheba with asperity. " Money — that is a fitting god for a race who once worshipped a golden calf ! As far as my experience goes I can only say that rich people are odious — a mass of ostentation, vu]- garity, and pretence. I would sooner have brains than riches any day!" She rose from her seat as she spoke, and crossed the room to the bookcase. She had changed very much. She was tall and slender, and had a certain air of quiet dignity about her that stamped her every movement. She wore a gown of some soft grey stuff, girded at the waist with an antique silver girdle ; at her throat nestled a crimson rose, the only spot of colour that relieved the almost nun- like simplicity of her attire. Her hair in its glorious asses of dusky brown was coiled round her small well-shaped ead ; her face was still colourless, but had lost its old sallow hue and ken that clear olive tint which is essentially a brunette's charm. No one could have looked at her without interest, though pro- ably many would do so without admiration. Her eyes had even xceeded the promise of her childhood — they made her face re- arkable at once — they were so large, so deep, so full of passion- ,te life and eager thoughts. To look into them was to look into human soul, and lose yourself in a maze of wonder as to what at repressed and ardent nature would make of life. The girl's face itself was quiet almost to repression, but her es were not to be schooled so easily. In their flash and fire c inner force of her nature spoke out, and told its own tale of ibellion, and its own longings for freedom. " Are you going to read ? " demanded Dolly pettishly. " What you find in books to be always reading them ? I hate books I always shall." " You are a foolish little girl," said Sheba calmly, ** and you n't know what you are talking about. Books are the food of mind, just as meat is the food of the body." 'Why do you want to be clever?" asked the child, looking icizingly at her. " Is it because you're not pretty ? You're not, know. Mamma always says so. You are so dark, and have a bad skin. You ought to use pistachio-nut powder. She jays does. I've seen her put it on. It makes her skin quite tliuugh it does get greasy after a while, but it makes you look nice while it lasts. All the Jewesses use it." -.'1 128 •'SilEHA." ;!( ; I n '. Sheba coloured. "I shouldn't think of using face powder," she said indignantly, "and my looks only concern myself. What do they signify ? " " They will help you to get married," said little Miss Precocity. " Don't you want to get married ? All girls do. At the Moss's they are always talking about it, but Sarah and Leah will have money, and you won't. The money is all my papa's, and it will come to me, not to you. I heard him say so, and that's why you otight to get married. I thing you had better try the pistachio-nut powder." " I think you had better go to bed," said Sheba sharply, as she turned her back on her little tormentor, and opened her book in hopes that the hint might be taken. Miss Dolly turned up her little pert nose with scorn. "Indeed I shall do no such thing. I'm going to wait till they come in from dinner. I want papa to take me to the opera to-morrow | night; it's the first night. The company have just arrived! from Melbourne, and I want to see the great tenor, Signer f Riola. Every one is talking about him. They say he hasj such a lovely voice. Papa must take me. Wouldn't you like toj go ? You've never been to the opera yet." " Yes, I should like to go very much," said Sheba eagerly. "Oh, well, I'll ask him to take us both," said the youngl chatterbox. "That's why I'm waiting till after dinner; he'si always good-tempered then, especially if he's had that broml sherry, and I told James to be sure and give him that tliisi evening." " What is the name of the opera ? ** asked Sheba. " The * Prophet,' and I saw a picture of it ; a whole lot M^ people skating on the ice. It was lovely. I wonder what ice ii like, real ice, or snow either. I mean to go to England one c and see. Oh, here is papa. What a red face he's got. I'm suit he's in a good temper ! " CHAPTER XXIV. THE " PROPHET." What an enchantment there is about the very first experiencec any special thing. It is brief— brief as the hue of the rainbow, the bloom of tl grape, the sparkle of the dew — but its brevity does not makej any the less beautiful or divine to the untired eye, and the untriij heart, of youth. THE "PROPHET." 129 , Precocity. the Moss's ^i will have and it will t't-s why you J. »< Indeed hey come in| :a to-morrow' just arrived I tenor, SignoiF y say lie has! n't you like to a. , / a whole lot (<; der what ice t! ngland one m .got. Vmm rst experienced he bloom of does not make e, and the untn« To Sheba no time in her life, before or after this night, had ever, or could ever, hold such magical moments. Anticipation thrilled her with its possible wonders. The stir and flutter of life around her, the beautiful building, the crowds of people, the perpetual noise and movement in the orchestra, were all part and promise of something better yet in store for her. Of music, in its highest and greatest forms, she knew very little, neither had she any very specific talent for it, but any melody that touched her heart, or appealed to her fan cy, was capable of giving her the keenest delight, and affecting her with the most intense excitement. Her cheeks burned like fire, her great deep eyes shone and glowed with a wonderful light as the crashing chords of the over- ture fell on her ear. She became utterly oblivious of everything land every one around her ; an emotion, so strong it was almost pain, thrilled her heart, and the music seemed to speak to her of great and vague and wonderful things, to which, as yet, she could [give no name. Then slowly the curtain drew up, and she felt herself watching [breathlessly as it were, the unfolding of a drama. The book in ler hand had explained to her the plot and action of the opera, ind after a time she grew accustomed to the incongruity of seeing people acting and moving to music, and setting their senti- lents and sensations into various rhythms, and changing vagaries )f " tempo." Then suddenly a stillness seemed to fall on the crowded house, |ind she heard a voice ring out clarion-like above all other voices. )he was dimly conscious that a face was looking at her from ^midst flashing lights and moving figures, and that as it so looked, id as the clear, rich notes rang out, something familiar and miembered struck suddenly on her heart, and for a moment it jemed to stand still as with the pain of a great shock. Then it leaped within her breast as if endowed with new, warm le. She felt glad and startled all in one, as she watched that itcly grace of motion an ■ listened to that wonderful voice. For jfore her she saw again the stranger whom she had found half- ^ing by the Koonga waterfall nearly three years before. She )ndered if he would see her — if he would remember — then she It the blood dye her face with sudden shame even as she thought Why should he ? What had she done for him after all ? — kd she had been only a child then. [Everything before her grew dim and confused ; she lost all ise of what she was looking at ; she only thought of that autumn she only saw the foam of the falling waters, and stretched Ipless at her feet, the figure of a wounded man. ir"J^: *rJ.i»pli !!.■:, *.'**rv.> 130 "SHEBA.' : i ':i I i I' !t !•. Then the curtain fell ; there was a tumult of applause ; loud cries and shouts filled the house — the curtain was swept aside, and alone, and looking straight at her across the footlights, was that remembered face. His eyes, as they swept across the eager, excited crowd, flashed suddenly on h jrs. She saw him start and move a step forward, then recovering himself he bowed and drew back, and again the curtain fel). The blood rushed in a warm swift tide to Sheba's brow. " He has not — forgotten," she thought in her heart, and even as she thought it, wondered why that heart should feel so glad. She seemed like one in a dream. She sat quite motionless in that second row of the parquet — her hands clasped, the colour glowing like a rose in her cheek, her great eyes dilated and full of liquid fire. The music thrilled her, the voices and movement and action of the great opera were like the unfolding of a new experi- ; ence ; but that stately figure in its white robes and with all the ' tragedy of a doomed life foreshadowing it like a melancholy fate, appealed to her as nothing else appealed, entranced her as nothing else entranced. It was a living, breathing reality to her, from first to last. From time to time his eyes met hers. She little knew how that! absorbed face, those dark, passionate glowing eyes touched hirai as he looked at them, set in a crowd of other faces. How theyl puzzled and allured him, like some memory that escapes just asi we are about to grasp it. For he recognized nothing of the littlel bush girl who had saved his life, in this slender white figure withJ its eloquent face and marvellous eyes. But those eyes touched^ him and inspired him, and he sang to them, and not to the idle; curious crowd around, and when again and again they called hini^ back, and the great space rang with his name, it was still to that' one face he looked and in which he read his best reward. Then for the last time the curtain fell, and it seemed to Shelu Ormatroyd as if all the world had grown mute and dark and emptr The whole night long she heard that grand music — she sawthil one face in its love, its triumphs, its despair. All her thoughii j seemed merged into a vague emotion, and she alternated betweei the intensity of sorrow, and the exquisite visions of imagined jo^ He seemed to her as a being from another world, as somethiij great and gifted beyond all mere humanity. In her i^noran; youthful, fanciful soul, the fact of his being set apart to inteipn that masterpiece of genius seemed to give him a place of stand such as no man could lightly acquire. He was a king in his n a king by might of genius, and as such she worshipped him revij ently and afar. 1 THE "PROPHET." 131 jce ; loud ept aside, lights, was the eager, 1 start and i and drew row. ;, and even ;l so glad, otionless in \ the colour d and full of >vement and , new experi- with all the ^ ancholy fate, | need her asl eality to her, | :new how that touched him! 5. How thej scapes just asi ig of the little iite figure withl . eyes touchedsj^ lot to the idl^;| hey called him€ ^ras still to thai reward, emed to Sheb;^ iark and emptf| ^c— she saw thai Ul her thougliii ernated betwea . of imagined jo!| Id, as someth# In her ifenorai tpart to interpf place of standu L king in bis w ipped him revt That she might ever meet him apart from his mimic throne, ever speak to him or hear him speak, as on that day when first their lives had crossed, did not occur to her. That singing of his seemed to throb in the air and to echo in her heart, until all the darkness of the night grew glorious with its sounds, and it seemed to her that life could never be wholly sad or hard again, if only sometimes she might see that face, and hear that divine voice. Thoughts and emotions like these robbed her of sleep, and at last she grew impatient of tossing to and fro on her pillow, and rose and dressed herself, and opening her window, looked out on the cool fresh beauty of the early day. Fleecy whi<-e clouds were drifting overhead ; the sunshine broke slowly forth from amber mists, and all the sky grew clear and radiant. Sheba turned suddenly away fror^i the window and seized her hat, and then softly opened her door and went down the stairs and through the library into the verandah, and from there made her way with quick elastic steps across the lawn and garden, and in a few minutes was out on the Sydney road. It was very early, barely five o'clock, and they never breakfasted till nine or half-past nine, so Sheba resolved to walk to the Domain, [which was a favourite resort of hers. The Domain is the Hyde Park of Sydney, but a park where [nature has done infinitely more than art. Tropical plants flourish [luxuriantly all the year round, magnificent trees tower proudly |over the lawns and flower-beds, the winding walks, and varied foliage of perfumed shrubs. - It was so early 'tliat Sheba seemed to have it all to herself, and she chose the less frequented walks and alleys, and her buoyant foung feet bore her along with that swift and easy grace that comes [rom unimpeded freedom of limb, and perfect health and youth. Insensibly the fresh air and the swift exercise calmed the Excitement under which she had laboured for all those hours. [er step grew slower, she clasped her hands behind her — a trick ^f hers when wj^king alone — and half unconsciously her lips broke ito the melody of that beautiful air from the " Prophet," where )hn of Leyden proclaims his mission to the people, and which she id heard for the first time on the previous evening. As she was softly singing it to herself, she turned the corner of le of the dusky alleys, and doing so, came suddenly face to face jith some one advancing from the opposite' direction. She paused involuntarily, her hands dropped, her startled eyes )ked back at two other eyes — laughing, interrogative — that shed with something of her own surprise, and her own recognition. I She saw before her the singer at the opera the previous night. 92 tmimmm mHm i ■ i !' •• SHEBA" 13* u M^r a fair-haired beau- He had a Httle chUd perched - J^^*- <^-' , and Sheba Jn a fiful liitlc creature with g'^^f;j'?ii:_ess between them, even as the ^ f.rpntial grace that struck Sheba as a & ^^st night ' 1 " t 1 « «/-in nre not mistaKen , u '^''.^NT.'said Sheba, colouring shyV/- ^o" a« n ^ „as at (he Koonga «»'"f i-Cb>5en suddenly. " Ho« coul H^ .^firted ; she saw his lips » •— ^1,0 saved my we "'' 7f7o shut out some horrible sight. 1 w^ ^^^^i eyes as it to snui uu ^^ ^g y^g Iookcu k^ ^ i " f "" l°"^no: fou are so great, so famou. J '"^S'e"" Se'd at hVas if in -f ^^- TamCj a poor si J face "Famous," he said, „°'^'"°'he opera house last nightfl At least, my master ^-"d so. and li^ ^^^^ ^^PP^^^Tiers' e I Angers in his time. J'7^y'^^J,st operas at n»y fi"?" „"^ ■ »etlien?e >t a^aTa^^S^J;. -r^^^^ ,. '^".fltad never^heard an op- f^ ^'possib^Jor a-y f dreamy voice. ^ ^'"^^^.g ^eant. I shall never torge more alluring, yet even as w b i- :■. II THE "PROPHET." "33 tantalize us with possibilities yet unachieved. But I mustn't let my hobby run away with me ! I feel I have never yet properly expressed my sense of your courage and of my obligation. I have often thought of you ; but years have changed you so much, that you must forgive my not recognizing you at once." " I did not expect it," said Sheba, the warm colour ebbing and flowing under her clear brown skin. " Still 1 am glad you should know I kept my promise." His brow seemed to darken suddenly. He lifted the child down from his shoulder and set him on the ground. " And I," he said, " have kept your handkerchief; though every time I looked at it, it brought back one of the darkest and worst hours of my life. It is odd we should meet like this — is it not ? " "Yes," she said simply. "But I always thought we would — some day. Is — that — your little child ? " she added with some hesitation. "Yes," he answered, looking down with sudden pride and tenderness at the quiet little face. " One thing saved out of a wreck of wasted feeling, and mis-spent passion." " He is like you," said Sheba involuntarily ; "but he looks very mournful ; is he shy ? " " Not in the least ; he will go to you if you desire — go and shake hands with the young lady, Paul," he added, laying his own hand lightly on the little fellow's shoulder. The child advanced and held out his hand to Sheba, looking at her all the time with gravely solemn eyes that made her feel strange and shy. She took the little hand, but did not stoop to [kiss the cnild as would have seemed natural in an ordinary intro- duction. Glancing up, she met his father's eyes ; again the colour [flushed her cheek. " So you think he looks mournful ? " he said. " He is very juiet and old-fashioned, and does not make friends readily. He las always been, with me ever since he was a baby, so I su j)posc that IS the reason. But shall we walk on ? It is cold standing lere." He turned, and with the child clinging to his hand, walked )eside Sheba in the direction she had been taking when they met. That there was anything strange or unconventional in his doing never occurred to the girl. It had all come about so naturally id so tasily ; there was nothing to cavil at in his manner, or reeting, and he talked to her now as an old friend might have liked, until it seemed to her that he could not possibly l)e one 1(1 the same with that majestic whitc-robcd jMophet, who had ithralled all hearts and ears the previous night. Mil! I: 'I ■ i 1> : la ^ ■ i: 1 < i i , f ■ I ' I . !^ I I I I! li ii 134 "SHEBA." Quite lightly and easily he took up the dropped threads of their last meeting, and wove them into the story of his after experi- ences. They had been somewhat adventurous, and lightly as lie dwelt on them, his descriptions were graphic enough to encham Sheba's vivid fancy. He had been to the gold diggings at Bal- larat, and had a continuous run of ill-luck ; but amongst the many strange specimens of all grades of humanity to be found in those regions, he had come across a German professor, who in a sudden attack of gold-fever had left his native land and never ceased to regret it. "This man," he said lightly, "kept alive my one talent — if I may so call it, and it is to him I owe my success last night. I had always sung — I think I inherited a voice from an ancestress who was an Italian opera singer — but he taught me what was far more important than mere vocalization. When he left the diggings and went to Melbourne, he took an engagement in the orchestra of one of the leading theatres, and I, to please him, studied music as an art, and gainea a living by teaching it — as a penance. A short time ago d. large company came over from England to give performances of Italian opera, and some of them who had only minor parts, took it into their heads to decamp and visit the dig gings. This was my opportunity. My friend and teacher intro- diuced me to the manager, and when he heard me sing he at once engaged me. I under- studied Riola, the tenor; and hence my appearance last night in Sydney in his part. He is still very ill, and to-night I appear in 'Trovatore,' and to-morrow in the 'Huguenots.' You should come to the * Huguenots.' It is magnificent ; some say it is Meyerbeer's finest work. For my ' part, I like John of Leyden : it suits me, and my old German taught me every bar of the music." ; " Is he here in Sydney also ? " asked Sheba. " Yes, we lodge together. He is one of the first violins in the orchestra. Do you live in Sydney now ? It was far enough away from there that I first met you." "I came here nearly two years ago," said Sheba. "My^ mother married again, and we live at the Glebe now." " I know it. It is a charming part ; much prettier than the town. Do you like Australia — are you a native of it ? " " Yes," she said, " I was born here, but my parents are English. And you are English, are you not ? " His brow clouded suddenly. " Yes," he said briefly, " I have not told you my name yet, have I ? The truth is, I have choseo to sink my identity under another — for— special reasons. 1 an known in the company only as Paul MererUth. Probably, it i THE "PROPHKT." 135 make a hit, I shall have to turn it into Italian, and inform the public that I am Signor Somebody ; but at present I keep the English nomenclature, which is partly my own." " And shall you be a singer always ? " asked Sheba. •' I hope so. I like the life. It is triumph, labour, excitement, festival all combined. Favour is capricious, but while it lasts it is a good life, and it is about all I am fit for." "It is a great thing surely to be fit for," said Shcba. " When I tliink of you last night holding all that multitude of people breathless " He laughed a little bitterly. " And if I died to-morrow not one of them would care," he said. " The fame of a singer lasts but with the breath of his songs, and there are always people to say the new voice eclipses the old. Who cares for the past sum- mer when the glory of the present holds out its promise ? " " But the past," said Sheba timidly, " may have memories that make it sweeter and fairer than the promise of the present." He looked at her gravely. " True ; but public memory is not addicted to sentiment. Only to some rarely-favoured mortal here and there has it been given to reach a height where Fame sits for ever enthroned, and men cannot but see, and hear, and remember ! " Sheba looked suddenly at his face. His eyes were dreamy and absorbed, and gazed far away into the soft blue space of the cloudless heavens. " I think," she said softly, almost reverently, " you might reach it if you would." His eyes turned to hers — again that look as of repressed pain [crossed his face. "No," he said, "never. It is not for me. 1 There is that in my life " He broke off abruptly. " I am getting egotistical, ' he said. {"Never mind about my life, or my future. Let us rather talk about yourself and the strangeness of our meeting. I do not §ven [know your name. It would scarcely do to call you by that one jyou told me of in the bush, for you are a grown-up young lady now." Sheba laughed. " My name," she said, " is Ormatroyd, but I think no one ever calls me that. I am always Sheba." " 1 suppose even I shall always think of you by that name," he said. " And so you kept your promise that day. You told no me of your adventure." ' No one," she said. Then added timidly, " Was it really a Fall ? You have the mark still on your brow." " It was not a fall," he said, and his brow darkened. " I was Ihot at, and left for dead. The traitor was one whom I had custed, aided> loved — more fool I ! Never again in my life would do that — never, never again 1 " 13^ "SHKBA. •* Oh," said Sheba, " that sounds hard." " It cannot sound," he said, " harder than my hfe has been made, ere ever I could say it." '! ■ •<'.l li iv ! , , I ; ' i ' i n •■ i: CHAPTER XXV. FROM POETRY TO PROSE. T'hey wandered on here and there through the vast space of the Sydney park, and talked as freely as old friends might have talked. To Sheba those hours were enchanted. She had never met any one who knew so much, or had had such varied experiences. Then it was altogether a new sensation to be treated like a grown-up young lady, and with such consideration and delicacy as belongs only to what now-a-days one seldom meets — a gentleman who ts a gentleman in thought, and word, and action. He ex- pressed no curiosity at finding her rambling alone in a public park at such an early hour in the morning, but he was a little surprised all the same, and wondered if the girl had quite a happy home. He thought not, for the young face was too sad and thoughtful for her years, and in the deep, dark eyes he seemed to read the troubles of a soul but ill-content. She interested him — but no more than that. She was not beau- tiful, and had none of those dainty, feminine, capricious ways which he knew so well, and despised so utterly. At last it occurred to Sheba that she ought to be turning home- wards, and the pro^e of that fact broke the enchanted spell of | their wonderful morning. Her new friend went out to the gates with her, but then their ;| waysb diverged. He held out his hand. " I wonder," he said, " if I might be permitted to call on you at your home." To Sheba, it was as if a throned monarch had suddenly ex- pressed a wish to visit her. Her face showed only too plainly the | delight she felt. ' " Oh, do you mean it ? " she said eagerly. " How proud, hoff glad I should be " "Would your mother wonder how I made your acquaintance?' he said ; " she does not know of the waterfall, though she heard me last night." Sheba coloured and felt confused. " What shall I tell her?' she asked. He answered that (question by another : " Is she at all like you?" FROM POETRY TO PROSE. 137 has been »ace of the lave talked, rer met any xperiences. ited like a delicacy gentleman He ex- a public was a little a happy f sad and seemed to nd m in [uite i too le was not beau- )ricious ways turning home- inted spell of 3ut then their J der," he said, ne." suddenly ex- too plainly the | DW proud, how cquaintance?" ugh she heard] 11 1 tell her?" she at all like " I — I think not," said the girl wonderingly. *' She always tells nie I am utterly unlike her, but I am sure she would be ddighted to know you. She admired your singing so much." "Oh !" he said. " I know what ///a/ means. Never mind, I will get an introduction to her. We are sure to meet soon, and it's as well to observe /es convenances." He released her hand after one quick look into the deep, soft eyes vhat met his own so frankly. Then Sheb^ glanced down at the child. " Won't he be tired ? " she said. " He has walked a long way." " Oh, he is used to that," said his father. " He goes every- where with me. He is quite a well-known character at the theatre and he never troubles any one. Do you, Paul ? " The little fellow looked up at the handsome down-bent face with such an expression of adoring love that it brought tears to Sheba's eyes. He made no answer in words, only took his father's hand in his, and mutely pressed it to his lips. And as Sheba went homewards through the glow and radiance of the bright young day she saw that scene repeat itself again and again. What love, what perfect confidence existed between those two! " Oh," cried her longing heart, " will no one ever love me like— that ? " They were all at breakfast when she arrived. Mrs. Levison looked up impatiently as she entered the room. " Late again," she said. " I wish, if you are so fond of morning walks, you would learn to come home punctually. And I wish you would give up that habit of rambling about by yourself ; it was all very well in the bush, but it doesn't do here in a town. It is not — not ladylike." " Sheba doesn't care about being ladylike," piped Miss Dolly's shrill voice ; " she told me so, and she says she won't go to a ball if she has to wear a crinoline ! " Mr. Levison burst out laughing, and under cover of his mirth Sheba drank her coffee — caring very little for the remarks or the laughter. She was quite happy ; they could not spoil her golden morning, or the memory of last night. "Well," said her step-father, when his amusement at his daughter's cleverness had in some degree subsided, " and what did you think of the opera, eh ? Rather a decent singer that tall chap, wasn't he ? Rum idea, though, for a man to paint his face, and dress up in all sorts of ridiculous garments, and shout away at the top of his voice for two or three hours. To me opera is mi Ml!; t^i i ( I- 1 ji ''1 i! I 1 111 I ■ 111 ( ill ! i^ ili ^i 138 ••SIIETU. always idiotic. The idea of singing out to a rrowd of people tha» you love a girl, or arc going to fight your rival, or poison y< mother-in-law, or march to battle, or assassinate your king — down- right nonsense,- you know. Such stuff shouldn't be allowed." Sheba's face grew scarlet. Talk of two sides to a question — here was indeed the prose to her poetic idyl. Before she could give vent to her indignation, however, Mrs. Levison chimed in : " You talk very absurdly," she said. " Opera is quite one of //le things of fashioiiible life. Royalty has always patronized it, and in fact the London season wouldn't de the season without the Italian opera. I am 01 Jy too pleased to think Sydney is waking up to the fact of its importance." " Oh," said Mr. Levison, " if it pleases you, all right. I don't object to all their fal-lals, and tra-la-la's. I only said what it sounded like to me. I'd a thousand times sooner see a good play with a thundering murder in it." "Hand me over the newspaper, Sheba," said Mrs. Levison languidly. " I want to see what they say of the performance. I'm sure to be asked what I thought of Riola's singing, so I must read the criticism." " Won't it be better to say what you did think of it," said Sheba with her usual downright in judiciousness. " The critic's opinion isn't yours." " It will be mine when I've read it," said her other sharply. " It is always best to trust to the judgment of p 3 who under- stand these matters. Now a musical critic is paid for his work, and I suppose he understands what he undertakes. Therefore his opinion is useful — in a measure." " It is only the opinion of one man," persisted Sheba. " Why should it be set up as better than that of all the hundreds who heard the music last night ? If they hadn't liked it, or appreciated it, they would never have applauded as they did. They had no critic to tell them when to do so, and when not " " Now, Sheba," snapped her mother, " for gracious sake don't begin your arguments. You are perfectly dreadful. It isn't right or — or decent for a girl of your age to be always airing her own opinions, and before people older and more experienced than her- self. I never dreamt of such a thing when I was a girl." " But what she said wasn't bad," chuckled Mr. Levison, rubbing his fat, coarse hands together ; " 'pon my word, it wasn't bad. I really think she had the best of you — upon my word I do." " Oh," said Mrs. Levison, rising with dignity. " Of course, if I am to be insulted at my own table by my own daughter and my m ii'' FROM POETRY TO PROSE. «39 rs. Levison erformance. T, so I must eba. " Why r undreds who , >r appreciated rhey had no • as sake don't It isn't right ring her own need than her- vison, rubbing ivasn't bad. 1 d I do." . «« Of course, n ughter and my own husband, it is best for me to retire. Come, Dolly, my pet, I don't want your young ideas to be contaminated." " I don't care," said Dolly ; " I want to stay with my papa, and ycni are not nearly so kind to me when 1 am with you alone as you arc when he's there." Mrs. Levison retreated precipitately after that speech. She did not tell Miss Dolly not to argue with her elders. Her father was so delighted with her sharpness that he took her on his knee and gave her a new bright half-crown as a reward. "She's my own child, all over," he exclaimed, chuckling audibly. " She knows what two and two make, don't you, puss ; and how did you like the opera, eh ? " " It was very funny," said the child. " I liked the skating though, and I liked the man in the white cloak ; I thought he was lovely. I'd like to know him. Why don't you ask him to come here ? " Sheba felt her face flushing hotly. "Ask him — here," said Mr. Levison ; " why, what an odd fancy. What should we do with him ? A dressed-up stage doll, hired for so much a night. I should have to pay him if he came, and I can get much more entertaining people for nothing." Sheba sprang to her feet. The vulgarity and pomposity of that speech fired her with indignation. " I think," she said proudly, " you scarcely know you are talk- ing of a gentleman." " Hoity-toity ! " exclaimed her step-father. " And"pray what do you know of the matter ? Gentleman^ indeed. As if a gentle- man would do such a thing as turn stage-puppet, and squeak out so many tunes for so many guineas a night. That shows how much you know about the matter. Dolly could tell you better than that, eh, Dolly ? You know what makes a gentleman, don't you?" " Money," said Miss Dolly confidently. " Lots of money ; millions of money, eh, papa ? " " Of course," he said, laughing heartily, " money — that's power — and rank — and success now-a-days. Never you marry any one who hasn't got it." " I should think not indeed ! " exclaimed the child, tossing her fair cloud of hair with scorn. " But Sheba is so old-fashioned I and silly. She told me the other day she hated the very name I of wealth, and that all rich people seemed made up of vulgarity [and pretence ! " " Oh, indeed, young madam, is that your opinion ? " sneered jMr. Levison, putting down the child and rising from the break- i i ii ■ 1 dii 1 I f I ■ i ■J y m ! I'll Mil 1:1 ti I .1" ii^ 140 •• SHEBA. fast table. " Then let me tell you it is damned ungrateful, to say the least of it, to make such remarks about people but for whose charity you would have been a beggar ! Yes, a beggar. Here you've lived and been fed, and clothed, and kept in idleness and luxury, and all the thanks you give is to make remarks like those behind my back ! " Sheba grew white as death. The child's statement was true, but she had made it more in reference to Mr. Levison's circle of friends, than himself. " I should like to know who>'^M are to give yourself such airs," continued her step-fatl.er, with rising anger. " I've had about enough of them, I can tell you. If you were independent it might be excused, but when I pay for the very clothes on your back, the very food you eat " " Stop," cried Sheba passionately, " you needn't say any more. You know it was no wish of mine to live under your roof. I only obeyed my mother's commands. After such an expression of your views, it is scarcely necessary for mc to say I will not accept another fervour ! I have always wished to be independent. I am young and strong, and I can work for my own bread. I will do so at the very earliest opportunity ■, I will not live under your roof an hour longer thar is necessary." His loud contemptuous laughter rang out and drowned her words. " Work .... you, oh Lord, that is a joke ! Why, you don't know anything that's useful ; you are always dreaming over your poetry, and such like rubbish. That sort of thing's no good in the colonies let me tell you. If you could cook, and scour, and wash, you might have a chance of earning a livelihood, but with such trumpery talents as yours — pooh— you'd best go on the stage and paint your face and spout poetry. Perhaps this Signor— Signor Propheto, or whatever his name is, will help you." Sheba stayed to hear no more, but swept out of the room, proud and mdignant as a young goddess. Often as she and her step-father had come into collision in matters of opinion, he had never before expressed himself so coarsely. She felt stung to the very core of her being, as she thought that it was to this man she owed food, clothing, shelter, i One by one his words came back to her as she paced to and fro her room, and every recurrence seemed only to bring a deeper disgust and a clearer meaning. " I will not live on his money any longer," she cried passionately. " I wt'll not. He says I cannot work .... well, we shall see." She leant her head on her hands, and for a few moments gavel FROM POETRY TO PROSE. 141 ach airs," ad about endent it on your any more, of. I only iression of I will not iependent. "bread. 1 live under rowned her r, you don't ig over your , no good in d scour, and od, but with on the stage his Signor- you." of the room, collision in id himself so being, as she thing, shelter. paced to and bring a deeper! id passionately, ^e shall see." moments gave! herself up to thought. Something, some merhory, vague and misty, was floating through her brain, the recollection of some advertisement she had seen and noticed ; but where was it ? Ah, in the paper of the previous day. She must get it. As she moved to the door she heard quick steps in the passage beyond. She looked out, and saw Dolly. " Dolly," she cried eagerly, " come here. I want you to fetch me yesterday's Herald from the library." " Why don't you go yourself ? " cried the child pertly. " I am not going" to run your messages ; you were very rude to my papa, and he has gone away in a very bad temper. You are a silly. He won't give you a new dress now for the ball on the 20th." " I don't want his dresses, or his presents," exclaimed Sheba wrathfully. '* You are just like him. All you think of is money ; it is the one god that all you Jews worship. Much good may it do you when you come to die ! " Dolly stared at her. " Oh, you are in a temper," she said. " I will tell mamma to come to you — you shouldn't get into tempers. It's very wicked, and you do look so ugly ! " But Sheba had lost all patience ; she gave the child a stinging box on the ears which sent her howling off to her step-mother's boudoir, and then she went to the library herself and sought out the Sydney Herald zQ>n\.zSrAXig the advertisement she had noticed on the previous day. She found it at last and jat down to read it over carefully. " A gentleman wishes to engage a daily governess for his little boy, aged four. One who would accompany him in his walks, and be with him from the hours of ten to five. Apply personally, or by letter to Herr Franz Muller, 18, Fort Street, Sydney, any day this week. Salary — ^if 30." Sheba seized pen and paper and immediately dashed off an application for the post. ;£'3o a year meant independence. Surely she could provide her own food and clothes with that, even if she must live under this hated roof. But then she suddenly remembered the Saxtons were coming over to Sydney very shortly, and perhaps they would let her board with them. If so Her train of thought was here roughly interrupted. Her mother entered, followed by Dolly, who was weeping spasmodically. "What is this I hear?" exclaimed Mrs. Levison stormily. " Vou have insulted my husband, you have struck this poor little child. What do you mean by such conduct ; are you out of vour senses ? " 'it il i i n ! ,i ■ II \ I ; 14a «• SHEBA/ ' • ^ cu^^hn. "He called me .Yout husband insulted me." cried Shcb. " ''^"'' '^'/ Jo to bifs-and then to choose to «ork ^^ ^„ tad jewels, and go to balls ^^^ ,,^„d I I have ;irl who has ice she was soon as ever I situation as lly echoed it. fk with anger ot live under II little voice, e dresses, and » She begap ihallbesoglad 3S instead, and ays make bitn He often says nown what you ." she said, fot, ; that frightened I her a little. Before she could say any more, the girl took up the Iclter she had written and left the room. Mrs. Levison threw herself down on the couch and began to cry. She was furious with Sheba for making all this disturb- ance. Things had been going on so smoothly, and now, here tliey were all upset just through one of her tempers, as if her life was not hard enough without all these disturbances. Mr. Levison was not a bad husband, but then he was certainly not a gentleman, and he did grate upon her occasionally ; and then he knew such a lot of horrid Jews and he would insist upon her asking them to dinner, and they were so dreadful, especially the women, who powdered their faces till they looked like clown's masks, and dressed so loudly and always would play cards for money, which was quite against her principles, more especially as she always lost whenever she did it. So she lay there crying and fretting and grumbling until she had worked up a headache, and then took herself off to her own room and had the blinds drawn down and j.teeped herself in eau- de-Cologne, and sal volatile, and agreed that if ever there was a Christian martyr of the nineteenth century, that martyr existed in her own proper person. CHAPTER XXVI. SHEBA RESOLVES TO BE INDEPENDENT. In a large room somewhat barely furnished, but light and airy and with one large window commanding a view of the harbour with its fairy islands, and passing vessels, an old man sat at a table copying music. He had a fine face, framed in by long iron-grey hair, which gave him a somewhat bizarre appearance. He was writing busily, and humming a tune from time to time, when a knock at the door interrupted him. * " Herein ! — come in, I mean," he cried with a strong German accent. " A young lady, sir, to see you," said a voice — the voice of the domestic of the lodgings recently taken by Herr Franz Miiller, and Paul Meredith, of the Italian Oi)era Co, " A young lady I " He lifted his head and tossed back the long loose hair. " So ! . , . . Very possibly ; show her in, my good Miidchoi^ show her in." The girl stepped aside, and in the doorway stood a tall and Iblcnder figure — the figure of a girl -who adva.nced slowly and, I' ^ i % 4, 144 '•SREBA." y ,1, 'A n somewhat hesitatingly into the long, low room. She had a letter in her hand. *' Am I speaking to Herr Vranz Miiller?" she asked. " But certainly, mein Fraulein ; to what do I owe the pleasure ? " "I saw your advertisement in the Sydney Herald oi yesterday," she said gravely and earnestly ; " I wrote an answer to it, but on second thoughts it seemed to me I had better come myself ; then I should knov if I was likely to suit. It is for your little boy, I suppose, yea require a governess " "I? Lieber Gott ! No, I never had any little boys. I am a wise man. I meddle not with your sex, charming as they are. No, I spend my time in writing music that is for the future, and histories, that are of the follies of life." " But," stammered the girl, " the advertisement — was that not yours ? " " Oh, yes ; but certainly, that is all right ; the little boy — he is my friend's. He lives with us. He is too much alone, derkleint Engel ! and he gets too old-a-fashion — what you call ? We want a lady who will teach him and companion him. You think you will do for that — yes ? " " I should like to try," said the girl earnestly. " I have never taught before, but I am fond of children." " Gut ! " said the old German, surveying her deliberately, " your face speaks well .... you would be kind and patient, nicht wahrl He is a peculiar child .... sensitive so to be scarcely believed, and quick, clever — oh, amazing ! One thing, he is not to be taught any religion — none of the faiths and dogmas that so confound and bemuddle the brains of childhood and youth. That his father insists upon. For the rest, you tell him the alphabet, and reading, and to make the letters and strokes — what you call pot-hooks — you take him for walks, you tell him pretty stories, you try and make him less old-fashion, more of a child, yes .... you would do this ? " " Certainly," said the girl ; " I think my duties would be very easy. Do you — do you think his father would engage me ? " *' His father gave me permission to engage whom I think tit," said the old man. "He knows I have a great gift to read character. I am sure, inchi Friinlein, you would do. I have seen one other lady, but she seemed old and cross — what you call 'old- maid-gone-wrong.' I do not like her. But you I like ; wait — yon shall see the child himself. You shall know if he likes you." He raised his voice and railed twice, " Paul — Paul ! " A door opened, communicating with another room, and a little boy came lii iti'iii SHEBA RESOLVES TO BE INDEPENDENT. 145 lave never in. As the girl saw hun she started, and her face grew pale. *' Taul," she said . . . . " you ! Is it possible '* " You know him ! " cried the old man in astonishment ; " how comes that ? " " I know his father," cried the girl, her eyes sparkling, her whole face lighting up. " He is the child of Mr. Paul Meredith, the singer." "yiz / that is so" — excitedly ; " and you know him — you have heard him — is he not great ? He is my pupil— my art's prize and crown. To him shall it be given to revive all that is best and purest in style and method of singing. It has suffered much, that pure, good, perfect method; but he has it — he will be great, famous. Oh, yes, I prophesy it, and I am not mistaken, never. Look," he went on excitedly, " look there — and there — and there ! — all the papers — all the press — all praising, extolling him. Not that critics concern me much — I know more than any critic knows — but they lead foolish people, and it is well they have their little say. So they say it of him, and I know he will be great if he choose — all the world may say s6 yet ; his fame is all to come, all to come, but I shall have made it. Ah, how I run on. I forget. Here, kleiner Junge, come forward and speak to this lady, who is so good as to say she will teach you all a young gentleman should know." The child advanced. He looked somewhat wistfully up at the tall figure, and dark grave face. " Are you going to teach me ? " he said. " I shall not mind you. You will not be cross." " He is a tender little soul," said the old German. " His father spoils him — they are all in all, those two. It is odd to care so much for a child .... a little fragile bit of clay, that the merest accident would destroy. Some day I will write a history of the affections ! " He leant back in his chair and looked speculatively at the two faces fro..i under his thick grey brows. " They understand one another," he said to himself. "It is good ; she will do." "What is your name, mein F,dulein ?" he suddenly asked. The girl turned. " Sheba Ormatroyd," she said. He wrote it down on a piece of paper. " Age ? " he asked, " or shall we leave that out; you are, if anything, almost too young. Address? — for I must communicate with you when I have seen my friend. Thank you. Salary — does that suit ? " "Yes," said Sheba, colouring. "I thought — it — it seemed to me a great deal for so little work." " Oh," he said laughing, " you should not ever underrate your- .■'I' K> 1 , 1 V I 146 "SHEBA. ii And when could you self. My friend thought it not enough, begin ? " x " To-morrow, if you desire it," said Sheba. **yii woM. To-morrow let it be. And the religion .... you will remember. No prayers, no hymns, no exciting nonsense. His mind is to be left free, till he can himself make his con- clusions." " I will teach him nothing," said the girl earnestly, " that his father does not wish." " Guf, then I need not longer detain you. You shall hear by letter to-morrow morning what time to come. I hope we shall be very good friends, mei'n Frdulein" He held out his large, ink-stained hand, and the girl gave him hers frankly and cordially. She seemed to tread on air. She could scarcely believe she had really succeeded in obtaining em- ployment so easily. What a change in her life. How it seemed to lift her above and beyond that petty, »' '^row-minded, home- circle, every element of which was antagonistic to her. She trod the streets with swift elastic steps. The radiant air, the bright sunshine, seemed to enter into her very spirit and make her bright and radiant too. The long walk home seemed as nothing to her. When she reached Oaklands luncheon was over, and Dolly was sitting in the verandah, stuffing herself with macaroons and sweetmeats. "Where have you been?" she cried as Sheba appeared ** How hot you look, and how dusty your dress is. There has been a visitor here for you. He was so disappointed you we:e out. I talked to him for a long time, and I told him how ill- tempered you were, and how you quarrelled with papa and boxed my ears, and were so rude to your mother that she was quite ill, and had gone to bed. He said he was very grieved to hear it." " You certainly are a charming child," said Sheba, looking at the card Dolly held out to her. Her brow clouded as she read the name, " the Revd. Noel Hill." How unfortunate that he should have called to-day, of all days. " He was very nice-looking," went on the irrepressible Dolly. " Too short for my taste, though ; 1 like tall men. I kept him here a long time. He said I was very entertaining." *' No doubt," said Sheba, turning away. " If you have only dwelt enough on my iniquities, you couldn't have helped being —that." " Oh, I told him lots of other things too," said Dolly cheer- fully J " all papa's business and how much money he makes, and SHEBA RESOLVES TO BE INDEPENDENT, 147 about the Moss's, and how mean they are. It was only when he asked how I liked you, that I told him about this morning. You shouldn't have boxed my ears, and then I'd have said you were as nice as nice." But Sheba had gone. Luncheon was still on the table, but she only cut a slice of bread and drank a glass of water. Even that seemed to her bitter and distasteful. The bread of charity, her step-father had called it, and her mother had said he was right. Well, to-night she could fell him she would be independent of that charity. She would buy her own food, and her own clothes, even if she had still to accept the shelter of his roof ; j£^o a yfear would scarcely stretch to board and lodging as well. They had laughed at her — they had defied her — they had said she was unfit for anything but dreams and poetry, but she would show them their mistake. Then her eyes fell on the card slie held. She wondered what Noel Hill would think of her, what he would say when he heard what she had done. Somehow she felt instinctively he would not approve of it ; he would tell her she had been too impetuous, that she should not set up her own will against her mother's. " Ah, but he doesn't know what my life has been," she thought, as the tears welled one by one to the great dark eyes. " I have tried to endure, I have tried to be patient, but there is a limit. I cannot bear to be told I am a useless expense, living on charity. Even he would excuse me if he knew what Mr. Levison said to- day." She remained quietly in her room till nearly dinner time, then she went to her mother'"* boudoir and knocked at the door. Mrs. Levison was going out to t\ dinner party, and was just arranging the dress she intended tc wear. Her face clouded as she saw She ba. " I hope," she said, " you h ;ve nr)t come to make me any mere scenes. I have been quite ill all day, and I don't want to be worried again." " I have only come," said Sheba quietly, " to say I have found a situation a^j daily governess, and am going to enter on my duties to-morrow." Mrs. Levison dropped the dress, and stared at her. "Are you mad ? " she cried. " Do you really suppose I shall allow you to do such a thing — to disgrace me in my position by going out working like a drudge ! Don't talk such ridiculous nonsense." " Mother," said the girl passionately, " is surely time you tried to understand me a little. You chose to marry this man, and you have forced me to live here under his roof for nearly two lO— 2 148 "SHEBA." 'i; i ' years. But when he tells me to my face that I have no claim on his courtesy as a gentleman, or his relationship as — your husband — he shows me very plainly that I must make my future indepen- dent of what he calls his charity." " Now, Sheba," interrupted her mother, " I want no grand speeches, and no arguments. It is sufficient for me to say I won't be disgraced in the eyes of my friends, and the society in which I mix. You were very rude to Mr. Levison this morning, and you had one of your usual quarrels. It is nothing new. You have made them up before, and you will make this one up also. Just tell him you were sorry you were so hasty, and he's too good-natured to think any more about it." " Never ! " said Sheba, setting her lips in firm determination. ** I will never tell him that ! He has insulted me too deeply." " Insulted you — stuff and oonsense ! " exclaimed her mother pettishly ; " one would think you were a queen to hear you talk. Now, run away, I don't want to hear any more, and it takes me quite an hour to dress." Sheba stamped her foot impatiently on the floor. . Her temper was getting the better of her again. " You care more for your dress than for your own flesh and blood ! " she said, " and as for the disgrace you speak of — it is not for the way it concerns me, or yourself individually, that yon mind it — but only because your friends will say : * How can th^ x Mrs. Levison let her daughter go out as a governess ? ' " The truth was so true that it stung Mrs. Levison to fury. "You may do what you like," she said, " and go where you like, so only you take your hateful presence away ! I am beginning to detest the very sight of you. If you want to be a governess, go and be one by all means — only you're not to stay under my roof and disgrace me ! Take yourself away altogether — and when you're tired of your folly, perhaps you'll crawl back and beg for the shelter and the kindness you now scorn ! " " Hoity-toity — what's all this row about ? " exclaimed a voice in the doorway. Mr. Levison was standing there, having also returned early from town, to dress for the dinner party. " Hasn't young madam got out of her tantrums yet ? " he asked. "She says she has taken a situation," cried Mrs. Levison, nearly weeping with shame and vexation. " You've driven her to it — and you know she's as obstinate as a mule — and what will people say — such a disgrace .... and just as I was going to bring her out too ! " "Taken a siti;ation," repeated Mr. Levison, thrusting his hands in his pockets and surveying his obdurate step-daughter "WHAT AM 1 TO DO WITH SHEBA?" 149 with a sneer. " Well, I'm deuced glad to hear it ! What sort of one — ballet-girl — shop-girl — eh ? " "Daily governess!" sobbed his wife; "only think of it ! I shouldn't mind if it was * resident ' — bat daily — it is shameful, wicked of you, to do such a thing, Sheba." " You told me to do it yourself this very morning," said the girl coldly. " I only took you at your word." " Pooh ! " cried Mr. Levison, " let her go .... let her do what she likes. Pride must have a fall, you know. She'll soon get sick of it and come back. Now take yourself off, young madam," he continued coarsely, " dinners won't wait ; and the Abrahams always give jolly good spreads. I'm not going to miss this for any of your tantrums." Sheba only looked at him as he stood there, jingling the coins in his pocket, swelling with visible self-importance as a wealthy man going to be wealthily entertained. Then she turned to her mother. " 1 have told you," she said, "that I begin work to morrow — do not forget that I mean it." " Oh — do what you like," snapped Mrs. Levison, with a feverish glance at the clock, which warned her of the lessening time for her toilet ; ' do what you like. I wash my hands of you ! I'm sure you'll come to a bad end some day." And with those words ringing in her ears as her only blessing, Sheba Ormatroyd set out on her career of mdependence. CHAPTER XXVIL " WHAT AM I TO DO WITH SHEBA ? " The first post next morning brought her a letter. She felt instinctively it was from Paul Meredith, even before she saw the signature at the end of the second page : "Dear Miss Ormatroyd," it began, "My friend Miiller tells me, that you replied persona)'-; yesterday to our advertisement. 1 could scarcely credit this, knowing the position your step- father holds in Sydney, and what a wealthy man he is. Are you quite sure you are not acting upon some impulse, which you may speedily regret ? The honour of your companionship for my little boy is one I would highly appreciate, but I must ask you to consider the matter carefully. Perhaps you would prefer to talk It over with me. In that case I shall be at yonr service bet^rf ; ISO "SHKBA." the hours of ten and twelve to-morrow (Thursday) morning. Meanwhile, with best regards and wishes, " Believe me, " Yours most sincerely, " Paul Meredith." Sheba read the letter with mingled feelings. It seemed to her cold and formal. Perhaps her new-found friend did not approve of her as a teacher. Perhaps her hopes were destined to be rudely disappointed. Her excited and feverish delight at the prospect of her new duties was suddenly checked. The old life of repression and tyranny seemed once more closing around her. In the midst of her troubled thoughts, she heard the breakfast bell ring. She put the letter in her pocket and went slowly downstairs. Mr. Levison and Dolly were at the table. Her mother was too fatigued to appear. Her step-father looked up as she entered. "Well, Miss Governess, ^ thought you were off. May I ask what sort of place this is you have taken, and where it is ? " " It is to teach a little boy — the only child of a widowed gentleman," said Sheba coldly. " I am going there from ten till four every day, and I am to have j^^o a year. I propose to keep jC^S ^ yc^r for my clothes and pay you the rest for my board and room here until I can make other arrangements." Mr. Levison fairly shouted with laughter. "Upon my word," he said, "it is the best joke I've heard for many a long day. You certainly have taken me at my word. Well, I'll give you a month of it, and if by that time you don't feel inclined to come off your stilts, and be " sensible again, I'll have nothing more to do with you. I wonder what your friends the Saxtons will say when they come over. They 11 be here next week. You certainly are the next best possibility to a fool, that ever wore petticoats ! " Sheba drank a cup of milk and ate a small piece of bread, then rose from the table, and without deigning a reply to Mr. Levi- son's observations she left the room. A few minutes afterwards she set out for the long walk to the town. The thrill of excitement had returned* Every nerve was strung to high tension — her pulses quivered — her heart beat quick. The thought of seeing Paul Meredith, as he called him- self, was uppermost in her mind. She would tell him why she had done this, and if he disapproved of her as a teacher, wtll, then she must try somewhere else — at a school perhaps — or advertise for herself. Buc she scarcely thought he would refuse ••WHAT AM I TO DO WITH SIIEBA?" >5« lorning. TH." id to her approve ;d to be It at the e old life )und her. breakfast it slowly )le. Her ^ay I ask is?" t widowed am ten till propose to jst for my .ents." I've heard ,t my word. ; you don't e again, I'll ^our friends )e here next a fool, that r walk to the ry nerve was • heart beat e called him- him why she teacher, wtll, perhaps— or would refuse ner when he heard all, when he knew that she must get work — somewhere. As she mounted the stairs again to the room she had been shown into on the previous day, her courage began to fail. The colour left her face, and when her timid knock brought forth the grufif " Herein^* from the lips of the old German, she felt ready to sink into the floor, instead of walking across it. They were all there — the child, and Herr Miiller, and the singer with his beautiful face and strange sad eyes. He sprang up as he saw her — and when she felt the clasp of his hand and saw the eager inquiry of his face, her fears vanished. " So you have come," he said. "I am glad of that — ^but how is this, Miss Ormatroyd — what has happened since we walked in the park together two mornings back ? I looked upon you as a rich, fashionable young lady — and now I hear " " Yes, it is quite true," said Sheba. " My step-father and I have quarrelled, and I have resolved to earn my own living. When I applied for the situation I saw advertised, I of course had not the slightest idea to whom I was applying — but if you think I should suit— — " A slightly humorous smile touched the singer's lips. " Suit — nay, it is too much honour — you are a great deal too clever, if anything, to teach babies, but 1 am engaged so much, and my little Paul " The child came forward as he heard his name. " I like her, my father," he said quietly ; " let her stay." " There, you see ! " laughed Meredith, " your fate is decided. You will find him very old-fashioned. It is MuUer's fault. He has made him half a German." " It is so," nodded the old man, "and quite right, nichtwahr? It was as easy to learn two languages as one. There, let the Frdulein take a seat, and we will tell her about ourselves. We are queer folk and she must take us as she finds us." Sheba smiled, and took the offered chair. Her shyness had vanished. She felt quite at her ease now, with this tall and stately man with his grave handsome face and courtly manners, who was still to her a being apart from ordinary manhood. "And so," said the old German after awhile, when he had rambled on about music and books, and their Bohemian life, and Paul's magnificent voice, till he was tired, "and so, inein Frdulein^ you have not a happy home. That is sad, for you are so young. But take heart, things may be better. ' It is a grand thing, * hope.' I say so always to Paul when he is what you call ; mt II J isa •• 8HEBA.* down in-the-mouth. ^ Mein Freund* I say, *hope — do not let it go — there is always the chance of things to get better ; so hope.' " Sheba smiled somewhat sadly. "I am afraid," she said, '* there is net much chance of things getting better with me, but if I can only work and make my own living, I shall be content." "What did your step- father say when you told him your inten- tion ? " asked the singer, looking at her gravely. " He did not believe me, I th?i:k ' said the girl, colouring shyly, " and this morning he said he would give me a month, and he was sure at the end of it I should be glad to throw up my duties. You see," she added with unconscious pathos, " he knows nothing of my nature at all. He does not understand that if I begin a thing, I must carry it out." " I am afraid," said Paul Meredith gently, " that you have had rather a hard life. Why did your mother not interfere ? " "She thinks I am very ungrateful," said Sheba, "not to be content with food, and clothes, and shelter. Perhaps I am ... . only it is the way a thing is given that makes one ungrateful — or the reverse .... and Mr. Levison has always made me feel I have no right to anything in his house." "Well," said the singer thoughtfully, "it is strange that fate should direct you here. But as Miiller says, we will be good to you, Bohemians as we are, and I hope your pupil will not prove troublesome. He is obedient to me always, but then he has the weakness to be very fond of me ; childhood is an irrational thing, you know." " It is a surprising weakness — very," said Franz Miiller dryly, "and you do riot share or ( r courage it — no ; you are not irrational ! " " In this instance I fear I am," he said with a smile at Sheba. " The child is the dearest thing in life to me, and I can give no reason except that — it is so." " Isn't that the only reason love ever allows us ? " said Sheba, lifting her great sad eyes to his face. " I never heard of any other. I don't see that any other is needed." " Perhaps you are right," he said abruptly ; " I won't go deeper into the matter at present. I have to run away now, but I must say I am glad you are to cast your lot in with us. I am sure we shall be friends. We are both unhappy — we have both a grudge against fate. Who knows — we may do each other good I " " Just what I expressed to the Frdulein yesterday," interrupted Miiller. " She will find us always the same. We like her, and we shall I hope be friends." The tears rose to Sheba's eyes. " I hope so," she said earnestly. " I have so few friends." ••WHAT AM I TO DO WITH SHEBA?" 153 So the compact was sealed and she entered upon her new duties. The week that followed this interview was a very hard and stormy one for Sheba. Hex was furious when he heard what she had done — her mother scarcely spoke to her, and her step-father sneered and scoffed at her, at every available opportunity. Sheba's impulsive action had annoyed him excessively — it made him look mean and tyrannical — and he was afraid his friends would think him so. The girl's firmness, her quiet hauteur and indif- ference to his remarks angered him still further, and by degrees his dislike to her became a settled animosity, and he delighted in prophesying all sorts of evil and misfortune for her future, as natural results of such an obstinate and headstrong temper. Noel Hill called again, and not succeeding in seeing the girl, he wrote to her and begged her to tell him her reasons for this strange step on her part. Sheba did so, and also wrote in a similar manner to Aunt Allison, who she felt sure would under- stand her better than any one else. In this she was right, for Miss Saxton saw clearly that the proud independent spirit of the girl could not but revolt against the constant humiliation of her position. She had, in fact, scarcely expected her to bear it as long as she had done. She wrote to her at great length — neither approving nor blaming, but giving her much judicious counsel, and saying the letter would be speedily followed by a visit, as they were all going to Queensland and would stop at Sydney for a week or two on their way. So Sheba went steadily to and fro, and felt so happy and so busy that she paid little heed to the growing discomforts of her home life. Her new friends charmed her more and more. The courtesy and chivalry of the one, the quaint humour and the vast amount of erudition possessed by the other, the docility and intel- ligence of her little pupil, were all novel and delightful experiences. She did not see Paul Meredith very often, but the old German was constantly in the room when she gave her lessons, and even sometimes accompanied them on their walks. On one of these occasions her mother passed them in the carriage, and turned away in shuddering horror from the sight of that queer-looking figure. She had heard from Mr. Levison that Sheba's employer was a widower, with a little boy, and naturally put this Bohemian-looking personage with his long hair and wide, slouched hat, down as that individual. " Well, she has made a queer choice, I must say," she thought. " I expect she will soon get tired of it." H 1^ m 154 "SHEBA." But little as she Lmderstood this troublesome daughter of hers, she knew that her resolves were apt to be veiy resolute indeed, and she felt somewhat uncomfortable as she thought of those two past years, and how little she had interested herself in anything that Sheba did, or cared for. She leant back in her luxurious carriage, but somehow the cushions were not so soft, or the springs so easy as usual. " I wish," she said suddenly to herself, " that I could get her married. What a comfort it would be ! " She ran over in her mind's eye all the eligible bachelors she knew, wishing they did not comprehend quite so many Cohens, and Mosf's, and Leveys. Sheba would never look at a Jew she was afraid; even if he had forsworn Synagogue, and "kosher mea^" Then of Christians there were so few well off, with the exception of one or two descendants of convict families, who, as far as money went, were people of the greatest importance, and regulated legislature and worked zealously for the country, to which they owed their wealth. But Sheba had no dower, and, in her mother's eyes, no beauty, and was hardly likely to commend herself to the eyes of such magnates as these. "She is not the style to suit any of them," thought Mrs. Levison in despair, "with her dowdy dresses, and her great eyes, and her coldness and self-confidence." It was rather an odd summing-up of Sheba's mental and physical attractions, but no doubt it was correct, or at least her mother thought so. " I think," she said, " I will go and see Miss Saxton. Perhaps she can advise me." So she pulled the check-string, and had herself driven to the hotel where the Saxtons were staying, and, finding Aunt Allison at home, she straightway poured out to her all her grievances and difficulties respecting Sheba. Miss Saxton listened, half pained, half amused. " Really," she said at last, " I do not see why you should object so much to the girl's desire for independence. Your husband is to blame, if any one, for telling her she was a dependant on his charity. No girl of spirit would like that. And what does it matter about her teaching if none of your fashionable friends know it ? Some of them are not even aware that you have a dadghter." Mrs. Levison coloured beneath the pistachio-nut powder, which of late had to be applied more lavishly than of yore, to hide the ravages of time, which she called — worry. "WHAT AM I TO DO WITH SHEBA?" 155 lything ow the lors she Cohens, Jew she " kosher with the , who, as ince, and untry, to ven to the t Allison at vances and lould object husband is dant on his rhat does it able friends you have a )wder, which , to hide the "Sheba would never go anywhere with me," she said sulkily. "And she hated driving so I was obliged to take Dolly." Then, after a short pause, she burst out petulantly : " I wish to goodness 1 could marry her to some one. " Miss Saxton started. " Marry her," she repeated. " She is far too young — and then she would not be easy to please. If she loves, it will be no light matter." " Loves ! " broke in Mrs. Lcvison with a slighting laugh. " My dear Miss Saxton, do not let us talk of such an everyday matter as marriage, as though v/e were two schoolgirls. Love ! Why, in a year what does it signify if you were in love with your husband? I have been married twice, and I can thankfully lay my hand on my heart, and say that neither sentiment nor romance inspired either of the marriages, or led me to expect more of men than common-sense shows us they possess." •• You are fortunate," said Aunt Allison dryly. "Some women are not so — sensible. I think, too, it is only natural for a young girl to look upon love as the prelude to wedded life. Otherwise It is such a cold, sordid, give-and-take business." Mrs. Levison began dimly to perceive that she had come to the wrong j)erson for sympathy. Her brow clouded, she answered with some asperity, " For goodness' sake don't encourage Sheba in any of these ideas, she is quite bad enough already." " I think," said Miss Saxton wilh quiet dignity, " that you need not be afraid of my cncoi^raging your daughter in anything to which you object. Indeed, I scarcely see her now. She is tngaged at her duties almost all day." " Duties," sneered Mrs. Levison ; "fine duties! Duty begins jat home, so I was always taught, and there she goes day after day [dancing attendance on a little idiotic child and his old father, [who looks more like the Wandering Jew than anything else — rasting her time and pretending it is a fine thing to be indepen- ent. Bah ! I have no patience with her." "And perhai)s," said Miss Saxton gently, "that is just what ihe wants — patience. If you had studied her character " "Studied her character, indeed,' interrupted Mrs. Levison itormily. "Upon my word, I shall begin to think the world is rning topsy-turvy. Where are parents told to study their ililren's characters, I should like to know ? My Bible tells me, Children obey your parents m all things.' I always obeyed ine, and I expect my children to do the same." "Mas!" thought Miss Saxton, "that poor misquoted Book. hy is it so painfully easy to drag out a text from its place and ntext, and fit it into the groove of our own petty, paltry desires." I ',.' 156 " 8HEBA.'' But seeing that Mrs. Leviscn was really very much perturbed she only said it would, of course, be very much better for parents if they could always secure the obedience they exacted. Still, children had a way of growing up, and displaying qualities and characters of their own, and under some circumstances it was as well to be a little — judicious. So, partly mollified and partly irate, Mrs. Leviscn drove back to Oaklands, with that riddle still unsolved, ** What on earth am I to do with Sheba ? " CHAPTER XXVIII. A NEW THEORY. Meanwhile Sheba herself found her duties sit very lightly on her shoulders. Her little pupil was docile and very intelligent, and it was really a pleasure to teach him. Then the old German had taken a great liking to her, and being a man of culture and great learning, as well as of strange experiences, his society had for hei an untiring charm. Of Paul Meredith she saw very little, though sometimes she heard the beautiful rich voice work- ing away at some new score, or difficult exercise. He rarely, however, approached her at lesson time, and she appreciated the delicacy which kept him from anything like supervision, or inter- ference, with her mode of management and instruction. At first she had been puzzled by the old German's intimation that nothing in the%hape of religious teaching was to be admin- istered, but before many days she found the key to the puzzle. Neither Franz Miiller nor his friend and pupil believed in the Christian religion as she had known and learnt it. Little by little, by hints and suggestions, and queer sharp queries, did the old German convey this to her mind, and after the first shock was over Sheba found herself eagerly and thirstily question ing him on many points and subjects which had hitherto been as a sealed book, oi a subject to be received, not questioned. Mrs. Levison had had one invariable answer to Sheba's inquiries from rhe time that the child had been able to put any! at all — " My Bible says so." She always spoke of the Bible as a sort of personal possession of her own, and had a superficial knowledge of sundry texts and chapters that served her as aj general ground-work of belief, and the assurance of her "wnj futare safety in the world to come. When Sheba had timidly maintained that good actions mustl surely plead for something, she had always been told that tlffcth^. adr fait beli Yoi accJ evej praj nior uei [I not , niar but f-— nd \W A NEW THEORY. i$7 turbed parents Still, ies and t was as ve back arth am ightly on ntelligent, i German ilture and >ciety bad : saw very oice work- He rarely, Kiiated the n. or inter- intimation be admin- the puzzle. eved in the Little by queries, did ler the first ily question erto been as oned. to Sheba's e to put any I the Bible as a superficial ed her as a of her «*iil actions musll told that m best actions and the purest deeds of self-denial were only in the sight of God as " filtliy rags." This sweeping denunication had somewhat disheartened her — so much so that she observed in her usual downright fa.shion that she could see no use in trying to be good, if God declared it to be bad ! He could but call sin — that. Yet Mrs. Levison had always upheld her own virtues as virtues, and never failed to declare that she thanked Heaven she was a Christian, and had been born of Christian parents. One afternoon when the lessons were over, a sudden storm came on, and Sheba and her young charge were unable to go for their usual walk. The little fellow was amusing himself with making notes on some of Herr Miiller's MSS. paper, and the old man was leanmg back in his easy-chair smoking a huge pipe, and watching the pouring rain. Sheba advanced to the window. " It looks very hopeless," she said. " I must wait till it is over, I suppose ? " He noddeu. " Sit down and we will have a talk," he said. Sheba obeyed, nothing loth, for she dearly loved hearing the old man argue, philosophize and dispute in his quaint, dogmatic fashion. She took a chair opposite his own. " Are you still angry," she asked, " with what I said yesterday ? " " You mean," he .^aid, " that inspiration and miracles don't admit of argument, but must be received in faith. No. I am not angry. One is not angry with a child because its mind can- not follow a certain line of thought, and if it were not for the faith instilled in childhood, there would be an end to the blind belief in religion, and the acceptance of the Bible as its basis. You, for instance, take its inspiration for granted just as you accept the authenticity of miracles that set at naught nature and every law of lature, and fAat for no good or satisfactory reason." I ' T^'e reason," saif^ Sheba timidly, "is generally i^^iven. The prayer, or the desire to. lelp in distressful circumstances." " Bah ! " he said contemptuously. " The desire of one feeble mortal in one small spot of the universe is, then, to work a re- volution in all the laws of nature ! Let man examine those laws before claiming any merit in blind faith. Traditional belief is not knowledge, and it is most often the ignorant and superstitious man who claims to know the Bible mosi thorougiily." " I know," said the girl sadh , '• there are many imi)robal)ilities, . but if one began to argue ihxtm oat, oat would end in believing [—nothing." " So much the better," he said grimly, " for the education of I the after-life." 158 "SHEBA. • U'^^ ! m^t 1 I 4 "I ^ .r "Ob," she cried, "is H- eyes ^ff^^::^^::::^^^ ..••'' — - '""" It'eC much more to learn/' , .. ^^^ ^^at this brief poor ''^y.X"w,VA,': and he ^-J^^%,JCJerrn.y bears the fru, of U„,e earth-lKe .s «« -^^J^^^er P-pa.ate^ such a doctnn , ''^"ihTlreater fools have beheved >^ ^oes^^ ^^^^^^ t;^? sTattfnt without proof ? s riot every ^^^^^ important facts p"f„ted as cause and ^ffect Yet^^^ ^^ ^^^, '^7'!,'; T^e" W Relative to the f ft ^We we „i„ds at. our mother skn^-^^^,^^^ *''"'; 'hidden 'o question one^orA ma host «. 1 are forb dden to q ^^ ^j books . . • • ; .^itislimiled rtsiruSrorp^tupo^^^^^^^^^^^^ 5:^ri!j::idrmti^-l^^^^^^^^^^^ fHor'e .an's wof^^.^el h- Ups' as .e watched tha, -?^Sb.e.sofli.^^-S--r^^^^^^^ deman'd' deep ' pat>e"' -rct'sid^rV' ^hey are care 1- problems that are the -;;^^^^ Tell me -w V"'^ l\J dismissed, or stuaio)^ ^^,^^^^ to 8°* to her, and say, mother ; she tau^nt yo ^^^^ go to ticf, ^ certain creeds and cokc^. U y ^^^^ beheve tha^ ? Ccu ' Explain this, or TeU n^^ J f can. ^^.^^^ . the Seven Hmsstretche^^^^^l^^^^ *''\" tT le" nt of religioj Having left It, he wdK- ^^^^^ j first jeaim j worthy of t,.nds! Th« ^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^ f"! books he raai From that time I began ^ ^j^^^r ^ook^ ' " „ J iather was a clever man He ^_^^ ^^ ""\'^'l." Christ o' 4 . ?rh'ufch,IshoUlhave>ostitt e^^^^^ '^-/-f ^ J Cm f'^!::!^SonU reality." -Jl i 1 A HEW THEORY. ■59 rief poor ; fruit of doctrine, :e accept ,re clearly •tant facts h nursery lee 1 ^^'e mproba\)ie nit inquiry it is limited them witli who know een handed n— that it is fftng a huge atched that Ire the very re carelessly you have a rch; to learn ler, and sajf. ,at?' Could an. Nowni!, nee a priest ot hypocrisy, Us Le, which froij a\f the woni and aniiuosii! nt of religiotil r myseh. H ^oks ; he mad ^at universiticH r Christ, or M pride to say »^^ >ut gradually' rew cahuer a' cm chaff, ^^^ ' "And now ? " questioned Sheba eagerly, as he paused again. " Now," he shrugged his shoulders, " I believe in art," he said ^ with a grim smile. " More — I dare not say, for fear it would shock you." "Oh, please tell me more," cried the girl eagerly. "I have never found any one to whom I could talk Dn these subjects. The clergyman who used to teach me was so good, he saw every thing reflected as it were in the light of Heaven, but I — I never could; — and I am so restless, so unhappy, so terribly perplexed." " Are you ? " said the old man, looking at the gre.'u eager eyes —the flushed ffcce. " Well, piein Frduleiriy I fear I shai! not make you any happier if I tell you what I believe, or question. Let it rest. Keep your own simple faith, and be content, if you can." " But— I cannot." " You must then be prepared to sacrifice many pet notions," he said, still regarding her with that speculative glance. " Progress in thought, as in everything else, means mental friction, and that raises clouds of dust between what has been, and what is to be, till sometimes men are choked and blinded, and ready to forswear further trouble because the result is not agreeable. Now we will suppose that you think your mind is swept and garnished, a clean, comfortable little chamber of childish simplicity. Then here come I like a great, rough broom. Prepare for the dust." " Well ? " she said, hali' laughing, but wholly eager. "Well," he answered, "I am not going to tell you there is no God, that the world grew out of nothing, and yet in seven days stood complete as it stands now, because, what matters seven days, or seventy years, or seven million years, when the Creative Power has once been granted. The command ' Be ' was sufifi- ient. The speculations as to actual time concern us far less [than the Power that first produced order out of chaos, and rganized a system of nature so perfect that the original laws ave never needed change, but stand fixed and sure for all time : ay and night, summer and Irinter, seed-time and harvest, all in ;heir way necessary, and all in their way incapable of improve- ent. Against the great First Cause — Divine, if you will, lOthing need be said. But let us come to man, and see from your int of view what he has done to further the wishes of his reator, or abide by the laws of existence. Very early we come sin. Naturally we ask, how could One to whom sin was un- ^wn, create a being in His own image with this capacity all .'.dy m \i,u:(l in his nature ? " "1 h;;\ c often woiidcicd a'lout that," said Sheha, as the old >%'*-1*^S^:.^4»*fc'Mi» ■i • i6o •• SHEBA." i ,'i i; I. man paused to blow Out another cloud of smoke ; " or why God should have created man at all, unless it was as an experiment." " If so, it was an experiment which has provided him with a somewhat troublesome Frankenstein," murmured the old German musingly. " Well, let us say it was an experiment. It did not answer, you see. ' He went from bad to worse. He began to develop with alarming rapidity all those sins and failings which we see to this day. Disobedience, deceit, treachery, pride, self sufficiency, envy, hatred, lying, blood-guiltiness, truly a goodly crop ! Yet, doubtless, he was intended for a special place in nature, and to fill that place perfectly. We are told he has never done so, and that has given rise to an ide^ that he has a future state awaiting him, where he will be able to perfect all that is incomplete here. But why limit him to one future state? Why should he not be a creature of many ? " As he looked straight at Sheba while asking the question, she felt he expected an answer, but the only response of which she was capable was to echo his own words. " Of — many ? " she said in a bewildered manner. " But certainly, mein Frdulein^ of many worlds, of many con- ditions. You cannot grasp the idea ? Ah, but I see in the future the dawn of a new science which shall set aside the world's old prejudices. Men are not yet ripe for it ... . but it will come .... trust me it will come. It will sweep away the irra tional follies that have clouded the sky of progress .... man , will recognize his own powers, and live for his own ennoblement; live, not for his three or fourscore years of human life, but for that future which now he dreads : that future which Priesthood has determined for him as a limitless period of damnation, or bliss, according to the mode in which those brief, blundering, [ helpless years on the earth plane have been spent. How rational! How comforting a creed, is it not ? " "Then what," faltered Sheba in bewilderment, "is your ideaj of man and his future state ?" He laughed, a short gruff laujh, as he blew his clouds of| smoke upward to the ceiling. " In nature," he said, "nothing is stationary ; all is progressive! The life and powers of this planet, which to us seem all andl everything, are linked with the life and evolution of other planets! more than we wot of. How shall I explain ? Life is perpetual! motion. Nothing is still. The blood in the human frame, tlij blossoms of the tree, the plants, the air, the sea, the chain planets, the stars, all have the rotatory impulse, all .revolve anij circulate, round and round and round uncea^ ngly, reaching! n A NEW THEORY. i6i fhy God riment." m with a I German t did not began to igs which )ride, self a goodly 1 place in Id he has t he has a perfect all ture state? many con- see in the ; the world's '. but It will ?ay the irra ss "^^" nnoblement; life, but for 1 priesthood lamnation, 01 , blundering,] iow rational'. his clouds ofl is progressive seem all ml f other planets ■e is perpetij lan frame, ttij a, the chain r all .revolve ac ;ly, reaching! end that is but a new beginning. Shall man alone have his one little day, and his long rest ? No, far otherwise. He too goes* on, and on, and on, further than the mind can stretch, higher than human thought can reach. Let not the gross and evil-minded think that with the end of earth-life, comes for him a pure and perfect change. To the drunkard, the debauchee, the thief, the murderer, the hypocrite, there still remains the spirit that he nourished and cherished to the exclusion of higher and nobler endeavours. He carries it with him, he hears still its devilish promptings, he sees his vice reflected as in a mirror. The work, the real labour then begins. Little by little, stage by stage, he can raise himself higher in the scale, or, still impeded and weighed down by the grosser passions, revolve in even a lower sphere than the planet he has left." " That," said Sheba thoughtfully, " sounds very terrible." "It is just," said the old man sternly, "though it is not theology — the theology that speaks of one creed for ' he salvation of all humanity, and of a few thousand years as the sole record of our earth-world." " Can it be traced back so far then ? " inquired Sheba. "Far?" he said thoughtfully. "If I were to speak to you of millions of millions of years, your brain would get perplexed. Yet there is a race about whom the civilized West knows little and cares less, who have traced back the earth history to a period modern knowledge has never reached — a race who were in exist- ence when there was no such thing as the Continent of Europe. .... Ah ! if you but knew my language, what wonders it to you 1 would unfold. I come of a people, who think, think — always I they think. What I have there " (he waved his hand in the direction of his bookshelves) "will only be known perhaps twenty, or thirty years hence, to English philosophers through the medium lof translation. To me they have long been friends. They have [taught me to honour life, and to have no fear of death. But jwhy? Not because I — poor, sinning, erring mortal — can throw )ff all my soul's responsibility and believe it possible to find happi- less in a future condition of utter quiescence, varied by harping )n harps and adoring some vague glory — no ; but because with ieath opens out a new life .... for all life is death, and all death is ife in another form. Nothing really dies ; it but changes its con- lition .... decay breeds life anew in the dead substance and gives It a different existence .... Is man alone to have but one ? All hligions teach it because they are rooted in past ignorance and |uperstition .... but science and thought teach it not. Again id again, and yet again shall man live — for that which is man II 1 62 ••SHEBA.' w I.-. ! i knows no death .... the essence of immortality is with him and through the changing cycles of years he sweeps along his course— his final destiny who shall declare ? No priesthood can solve that riddle, even though it professes to do so by Biblical record. Happily, I see a future when we shall read these records by the interpretation of science — not of priests." " You are very bitter," she said, " against priests." " Have I not good reason ? I know every detail of my father's life. I know from his own lips what are the dogmas of that most comfortless faith. It had its root in ignorance and superstition, and through every sign of progress and advancement, it still tried to hold that root as its basis and one of its surest weapons. To prove this, look for yourself into the history of any purely Catholic country, say Italy, Spain, France, or Ireland — what will you see? The iron heel of oppression and tyranny engendering poverty, distress and mental blindness. Can any power be so tyrannous or so overmastering as a power that decrees to itself command over a man's soul, not only for this life but for the hereafter ? There you have the keynote to the great breadth and magnitude of Popish possessions in the old dark ages. . . . When a man owned millions, and lay on his death-bed, and a priest whispered in his ear : ' Your millions to the Church, or your soul to everlasting damnation ! ' — I suppose he did not hesitate very long. By the time he found out that no other human being had the slightest power or control over his -spiritual welfare, it was probably too late to alter his will and testament, so his relations cursed him, and | the Church fattened and waxed more and more audaciouo every | day. The best part of man's mental outfit is judgment, and fr^e-, dom of thought. The moment he puts his neck under the yoke of any special creed, faith, or dogma of nian^ he sacrifices his bes! possession. . . . Let him search for himself, think for himself, and seek out Truth without help or hindrance from old-world prejudices,] and stale traditions." " But suppose men are weak and ignorant, and have neither! time nor ability to make such a search ? " suggested Shebal diffidently. He shrugged his shoulders. " For the weak and ignorant," he said, " they must bear theirl burden as best they can — priests won't lighten it, be very sure ; H for the Other class," he smiled somewhat grimly, " they will havef time enough " — he went on, as he laid down his great pipe, whiclij was finished at last : " Do you forget what I told you, that life iff by no means the brief thing of threescore years and ten most raeii| believe it to be ? " :?I A NEW THEORY. 163 «* But this — doctrine, shall I call it ? — is as much in want of proof as the old one that you demolish." He looked at her gravely. " Yes," he said, " you are rii^ht ; but you must remember that to me it has been the subject of long years of study and investiga- tion. I examine it, not as it stands alone^ but as an integral part of a whole system — a system so wonderful, so complicated, yet withal so perfect, that its study is also its reward. What does man know of man ? He is a bundle of senses and appetites, foolish desires and vain ambitions ; granted — but is there not also something— oTiQ small principle, let us call it — that represents in him the Divine nature and alone separates him from ihe animal ? This is the reasoning faculty, the human soul, a link between Creator and created which impels and teaches higher progress, until the strength of the highest attraction draws it finally into its original condition. So is free will granted that the choice between good and evil may be conscious, and every victory obiained by the higher over the lower nature an additional source of strength for ensuing conflicts. The soul is the battlefield. Here the warfare of passion, desire, vanity, selfishness and pride takes place, and here takes place also that separation which, as yet, you could not comprehend if I explained, but whose nature is to withdraw a permanent and eternal personality from a transient shape that it inhabits for the purpose of discipline. Death is thus no terror, only a mere physical ill brought about by physical requirements." " That is very philosophical," said Sheba. " But I and too great a coward to look upon death so calmly .... Indeed, the fact of having many instead of one, is not more comforting than the accepted Christian doctrine of judgment, and its penalties or rewards." " Phooh ! " said the old man contemptuously. " How you talk like a child who has well learnt its alphabet of religion. Death — it is simply the parting with a sheath that is rusty and cunibersome. Man himself, or that which constitutes him, escapes gladly enough. . . . The essence of his personality is with him — the best part — the only part, so to speak, that was the ;//a«." " Yet you say that is born again and again, with no conscious- ness of former conditions. It is like the doctrine of Pythagoras." " Not quite," he said witb his odd smile. " The science of [^which I speak, and whose doctiines are still like mysteries unre- i^ealed to the European world, deals with an entity during a long Beries of existences, all of them rational and none of Ihem proving [tliat, however its first principle was evolved, whether from the ape le resembles, or the Spirit who decreed ' Be/ he never returns II i i I 1 3 1 i '1 V ' ' ■!i i;'if ' I' ! I v^ II r 164 " SHEBA. a1. ■ 1 i '-■» 'i. |. ||ji f I 174 " SHEBA." changed your petticorits — and ready for your dress ! Gracious ! how quick you are." Sheba had paid very little attention to thi? string of remarks ; now she walked over to the bed for her dress and for a moment stood looking at it in astonishment, " Isn't it lovely ? I said so," chirruped Dolly at her ear. " Such soft, rich silk, and no fear of creasing it, and such a lovely colour, and hasn't Toinette made it your way — just as if you had told her, and only two days to do it in ! " Sheba took up the gown, almost fearful of its delicate beauty. It was of a thick, very soft silk, of a lovely pale shade of yellow— the very shade for her brunette colouring ; and it was made some- what in the fashion of her usual gowns, draped from the shoulders to the hem, and confined merely by a broad silver girdle at the waist. With her magnificent hair coiled high on the small shapely head, and that lovely flush of feverish excitement still burning on either cheek and lighting tiie great sombre eyes, Sheba looked like a picture of some Eastern queen, and as Dolly watched that slender figure with its free, graceful movements, she felt almost inclined to forswear crinoline and flounces herself. Just as Sheba was fastening the rich soft folds, the door again opened, and her mother entered. In her hand she held a bun( h of crimson roses just gathered from the conservatory. She almost started when she saw the transformation in her daughter, and the simple elegance of the young slight figure, that put her own gorgeous toilette completely in the shade. " Why, Sheba ! " she exclaimed in surprise ; " I shouldn't havi known you. What wonders dress can work ! " " Thank you so much for it, dear mother," said the girl timidly, coming near the violet silk and yellow roses, and bending to touch her mother's cheek. Mrs. Levison drew hastily back with a vivid remembrance of pistachio-nut powder lavishly and recently employed. " Yes, yes, my dear ; I quite understand," she said hurriedly. " And I am very glad you are going to be sensible again. Family quarrels are hateful, and what would the Saxtons think not to see you at dinner ? By-the-by, it is just upon seven. Here, take your roses ; I must be off to the drawing-room, and don't be long coming j down. I thought you would have been dressed by this time." "I think," said Miss Dolly pertly, "she was asking a blessind on her new frock. 1 lonnH her prayir^g beside it. Fancy savings] prayers except at bedtime. 1 wouldn't; it's bother enough then But Sheba is so funny ! " SHEliA RECKIVES A GIFl'. 175 narks ; loment er ear. a lovely ou had beauty, ^rellow— de some- houlders le at the )ely head, on either .ed like a .at slender t inclined loor again (\ a bunch Mrs. Levison left the room hurriedly without further observa- tion. It didn't matter to her if Sheba prayed a dozen times a day as long as she had for once dressed herself decently, and seemed prepared to be amiable. " She looks positively pretty," she said to herself with more ot surprise than pleasure. " I couldn't have believed it. Will she make an impression, I wonder ? " Just as she reached the drawing-room, Bessie and Mr. Saxton arrived, and Noel Hill followed almost directly. Mrs. Levison noticed his glance wander round the room. " My daughter will be here presently," she said, as she eagerly took in every detail of Bessie's toilette^ and wondered whether, after all, she had done well in keeping Sheba's costume to her own peculiar st^le, instead of modernizing it. For Miss Saxton was as complete an epitome of a fashion plate as woman's heart could desire. Her fair hair was creped and turned into a p\ ramid ; her gown was a miracle of flounces and lace, with little knots of flowers dropped cunningly amongst its many folds. It was also cut low in the neck, displaying a well-shaped bust and throat, and full white arms, and altogether producing a result that must have been eminently satisfactory to any woman's mind who studied fashion more than ease, or grace, or originality. In a few moments more the host bustled in, fussy and impor- tant, and vulgar as ever. Then came a loud peal at the bell, a nervous convulsion on the part of Mrs. I^evison, and almost im- mediately the door opened, and the i>ervant announced somewhat huskily, as became one unused to the enunciation of titles, and especially of foreign titles t " The Count de Pharamong ! " Mrs. Levison was gracious — and she flattered herself stately — in her welcome. Her husband was, however, too sensible of the honour of entertaining a title at his own " mahogany," as he deli- cately put it, to be altogether, at his ease. He used " Mossoo le Count" at every possible opjjortunity, and never left the unfortu- nate guest a moment's repose — talking to him, or at him, in a breathless, incessant fashion that irritated even his well-bred composMve. U nearly drove Bessie Saxton wild, she having decreed that the illustrious foreigner was to fall captive to her bow and spear, and not relishing Mr. Levison's interierence with her " soft eyes, and low replies." As for Count Pharamond himself, he was inwardly summing up liost and hostess and guests with an a( < uracy that did him infinite credit, when the door was quietly opened and ^le saw standing II II !.' S 176 ••SHEBA." there a vision that fairly astounded even his beauty-sated eyes. Eagerly he watched the stately young form coming forward with so serene a grace, anJ muttered below his breath : " Dieu I She is worthy of Paris ! " To associate her with his host or hostess seemed such an incongruity that he was conscious of a feeling nearly approaching disgust when Mr. Levison said loudly and brusquely : " Here, Sheba, I want to introduce you. My friend, Monsieur le Count de Pharamond — my daughter— or should I say, my step- daughter — Miss Ormatroyd." Sheba bowed. Her eyes, grave and questioning as a child's newly roused from sleep, gazed quietly up at the strange and singularly handsome face bent almost reverentially before her. Then she passed on, and greeted Bessie and Noel Hill, both of whom were equally amazed at her change 1 appearance. She had only time to say a few words — no time at all to notice Bessie's curious look and somewhat acrimonious greeting : " Well, Sheba ! you are transformed " — when dinner was announced, and she found herself following her mother and the illustrious guesi, on the arm of Noel Hill. CHAPTER XXXI. EXCHANGED CONFIDENCES. " I BEGAN to despair of ever seeing' you again," began Noel Hill to his companion as they seated ihuniselves at the flower-decked table. " I have called several times ; you were always out." •' t ;\ui out every day till five o'clock," said Sheba. " You know I have a teaching engagement ? " " Yes," he said, " I know ; " thinking how incongruous seemed the association of a daily governess' life, with this stately young goddess. " Do you like your new duties ? " he asked presently. •' Very much," said Sheba, while a quick, bright blush rose to her cheek, and for a moment her whole face grew sweet and soft and tender, as a fare grows at some pleasant memory. Noel lllll n(ilt(«'(| me change and wondered as to its cause. He had heard also of trie (jiieti old man, the Wandering Jew, who waH iSliilHrH eiMpifnTI Hlii'lv tlltiL' could be no great charm about him to raise llial llusli and glow of feeling The c ount, watching her also from his side of the table, felt an odd, jealous pang at sight of that lovely blush. He attributed it to something her companion had said, and wondered what it could have been. EXCHANGED CONFIDENCES. 177 eyes. 1 with ich an aching )nsieur ly step- child's ige and ire her. both of o notice : "Well, ced, and IS guest, Bessie noticed it too, and whispered audibly to her host, by whose side she was seated : " How Sheba does flirt, to-be sure ! " and all the time Sheba was unconscious of notice or remark, and only saw before her that face of her " Prophet," and seemed to hear again his matchless melody of voice. The dinner went on with its wearisome round of courses and sparkling wines, about each of which Mr. Levison had something to say and boast. "You see, Monsieur le Count, the colonies aren't so bad, after all, eh ? " And the polite Frenchman, who spoke English beau- tifully, would bow and smile, and say he was indeed too enchanted with such magnificent hospitality. Sheba's head ached with the lights, and clatter of tongues, and she leant back in her chair and wondered whL'never \\vy mother intended to give the signal to leave the ro\un. At last Mrs. Levison rose — Count Pharamond, being nearest the door, held it o[\c\\ as the ladies passed throuL;!i. Sheba was last, and as she moved along one of the crimson roses at her waist fell to the ground. The count stooped hurriedly and picked it up, at the same time he gave one long eager look into the beau- tiful grave eyes that met his own. Sheba had never met such a look, and the quick blood rushed to her brow as she held out her hand for the flower. " Nay, mademoiselle," he said in a low voice. " Let me keep it, I pray,'' and he placed it in his coat without waiting for a reply. Sheba felt terribly embarrassed. She was totally unused to language of compliment, or acts of gallanti-y. Would it be rude to refuse, she wondered ; then seeing that the rose had been taken possession of she deemed it best to say nothing, so she only gave the Frenchman a little cold bow, and hurried on to join her mother and Bessie Saxton. It happened that that astute young lady had just glanced back to see what was detaining her friend, and the little episode of the dropped rose had not escaped her. " Well," she said, as they entered the brilliantly-lighted drawing- room, " you are getting on I must say. I should keep to one at a time if I were you. Don't you know the proverb about two stools ? " " I don't know what you mean," said Sheba quietly. Bessie Saxton laughed — it was not a pleasant laugh. " Don't you," she said. " How very innocent you have become. How- ever, don't let us quarrel ; I want to have a long chat with you. Sit down here," and she drew a low cusKj ned chair beside her own. "Now tell me all you have been doing since you came to Sydney. But first, how do you like my dress ? " 12 : ' i li ! H J ■■! m ■i n 178 ••SIIEBA.- Sheba looked at it, or rather at where it ought to have been, and coloured warmly. " Doesn't it show too much — anatomy ?" she said at last. Bessie's cold blue eyes flashed angrily. " What a little idiot you are ! What's the use of having a good neck and arms if one muffles them up as you do ? But then of course you're thin ! " "I think,' said Sheba in her old direct fashion," that if I were fat, I should cover myself more." " Why don't you say at once I look indecent ? " snapped Bessie. "I hate hints." " You asked me what I thought of you " " No, what you thought of my dress ? " " Oh, that's very pretty," said Sheba, " for the style of dress. But you know I have a horror of flounces and bustles. If you had ever sudied the art drawings " " Oh ! you little Puritan, do shut up ! " snapped Miss Saxton with the pardonable vulgarity of friendship. " Why don't you make your mother wear high dresses ? I'm sure she's old enough." "She has her husband to advise her," said Sheba gravely. "Of course if he doesn't object, it is no business of mine." " You don't seem to have aliered much in mind or disposition," said Bessie, regarding her curiously, " though you're certainly grown out of all knowledge. But now tell me, who is this Count Pharamond ? " " I don't know," said Sheba ; " I never heard of his existence till I came into the drawing-room." "That wasn't a bad coup of yours," sneered her friend— "coming in just when we were all assembled. I suppose you thought you'd make a sensation ? " " I am sorry I was late," Sheba answered, with serene uncon- sciousness of a hidden meaning. " I had only a quarter-of-an- hour to dress in." " You managed to do it very successfully," said Bessie, regard- ing her almost enviously. " Whose idea was it to have your gown made like that ? " " My own," said Sheba. " All my dresses are made so. But mother ordered this as a surprise ; I never saw it till I put it on." "It's eff"ective," allowed Miss Saxton reluctantly. "But it would not suit everybody. You're such an odd-looking girl; perhaps you are sensible to adopt a style of your own, though it's rather — rather a strong-minded thing to do." " Is it ? " questioned Sheba. " I never tho ight about it in that way ; I was looking over some volumes of art prints in the library EXCHANGED CONFIDENCES. m been, my ? " ot you if one in ! " I were Bessie. f dress. If you* 5 Saxton on't you ihe's old gravely. position," certainly is Count [existence friend— )pose you »e uncon- Irter-of-an- le, regard- lave your so. But )ut it on." *'But it [)king girU p, though It it in that the litrary and I saw this style, and having found a little French dressmaker in the town who was very poor and very clever, I got her to modernize tne idea, and if you only felt the comfort—* — " " Oh, fancy thinking of comfort l)efore fashion ! " exclaimed Bessie. " Besides it would never suit me. You don't wear corsets, do you ? " "Oh yes," said Sheba. "But not those stiff hard steel and whalebone things you see in the shops. Toinette — that is the ittle Frenchwoman — makes them for me. They are quite .soft and pliable, and you can move any way with them ; as for waist, you know I never did care about that." "Mine," said Miss Saxton with pardonable pride, "is only nineteen inches; yours looks about twenty-five." " Probably," said Sheba, "it is. I never measured it. Yours is all wrong, though — (juite out of proportion to the width of your shoulders. You will suffer for it some day." " Really," said Miss Saxton, " I must say you talk the most insufferable nonsense ! One would think you were studying for a doctor. I wish the men would come in. Now, wh* n they do, pray content yourself with Noel Hill, and icave the Frenchman to me." " Certainly," said Sheba laughing. " I haven't the slightest wish to monopolize him. I don't like liim. I don't like the way he looks into one's eyes ; it is so bold, so rude." " Phooh ! it is only a way all Frenchmen have," interrupted Bessie. " There comes in your i)rudery again. You'll never get married with such ideas as those." "1 don't wish to get married," said Slieba reddening. " My dear, that is nonsense," laughed her friend. " It sounds as if — well, as if the grapes were sour. There's nothing more hateful in life than an old maid." *' Why should they be hateful ? " asked Sheba, looking with her large serious eyes straight into her friend's face. That look somewhat dismayed Bessie. " Really," she thought, " she ts getting handsome — in a peculiar style ; I don't think it is a style that ta/^es. Still one never knows." Aloud she said, "You are just as bad as ever, wanting to know the reason of everything. It bores people to have to explain. If you carry that habit with you into society, you will make more enemies than friends." " I'm sure I do not care," said Sheba quietly. " I shall never live or act by rules laid down for me. Every one ought to think for themselves, and not accept everything the world teaches, merely because it ts the world's teaching." 12—2 I,. ii IMAGE EVALUATSON TEST TARGET (MT-3) A :/. ■^ ^ .v-.^ fe K, 1.0 I.I i*^ lis 1^ 1.8 1.25 ] 1.4 1.6 ^ 6" ► Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. HS80 (716) 872-4503 iJ- . i "f i8o "SHEBA." I I :h' ^!l " Gracious ! " exclaimed Bessie in wonderment, " who's teaching you philosophy ? That old Wandering Jew, as your mother calls him, whose. child you educate ? " * " Old — Wandering — Jew ! " echoed Sheba in amazement. " The father of my little pupil is not old ; he is quite young, in fact. He is the singer at the opera who has taken Riola's part. You know Riola, the great tenor, who is not expected to live." " What ! " almost shouted Bessie. " That splendid-looking man who did the * Prophet ' last night ? Paoletti, I think, was his name. Well, you have kept it dark. Your mother doesn't know a word about it ; she thinki it is that old German curiosity whose child you teach. Heavens ! what a piece of luck. I'm dying to know him. You must introduce me. What's his real name ? " " Men dith," said Sheba, " Paul Meredith. The old German is a friend who lives with him." She spoke coldly and constrainedly. Bessie's tone and words jarred on her ear, and on that sensitive reverence she had for the wonderful singer, whose advent had been the great event of her life. " Paul Meredith," echoed Bessie. " Well, only to think of your knowing him, and I've been crazy about the man ever since I heard him at the opera. You must get your mother to ask him here, and I'll come. I'd like to know what he is in private life. These public characters are sometimes awfully disappointing." Sheba rose from her chair. Her face looked cold and disturbed. " I don't think he would come here," she said. "Not come?" echoed Miss Saxton contemptuously. "You give him the chance, and see. If he refuses, ask your step-father to engage him to sing one evening. He's rich enough." " What's that about papa being rich enough ? " said a sharp little voice at her elbow. " I know he's rich — almost the richest man in all Sydney. He's going into Parliament soon." It was Miss Dolly, who had entered hanging on to Mrs. Levison, who had vainly endeavoured to keep her out of the drawing-room. Bessie looked at the little flounced, dressed-up figure. "Oh, it's you, is it ? " she said. (" Little horror ! " she added, beluw her breath. " Therell be no peace now%") " You've got a new dress on," began the little tormentor. " I don't think it's pretty, and it's cut awfully low ; it's worse than mamma's, and hers is bad enough. I am sure if you asked the gentlemen they'd say you were both very rude." " Dolly," interposed Mrs. Levison sharply, " be quiet. Ih w dare you say such things ? " "■ Sheba told me always to speak the truth," said the little in corrigible, " and so I am speaking it. Your dresses— u i { '^'^ EXCHANGED CONFIDENCES. iSl caching ler calls zement. Dung, in I's part, live." l-looking , was his n't know ty whose dying to lame r ierman is :rainedly. sensitive ,vent had think of ever since ;o ask him tivate life, inting." disturbed. " You step-father y id a sharp the richest " It was vison, who rr-room. re. "(^^. ,ed, below enter. "I worse than asked the liet. H'Av he little in » " I will send you out of the room If you don't hold your tongue,' said her step-mother. " I'll ask papa if I may come back," said Miss Dolly coolly, "and he's sure to let me. He's always good-tempered after a lot of wine." Bessie Saxton laughed outright, despite her vexation. Dolly was a little horror when her remarks became personal, but she really was awfully amusing. " If our dresses don't please you," she said, "what do you think of Sheba's ? " " Oh ! Sheba will never look like any one else," said the child. " She is like one of those pictures in the church windows — Vashti, isn't it, or Esther ? — one of them, I know. Papa says she is a great deal more Jewish-looking than I am, and she won't wear so well ; she is too dark. Why don't the gentlemen come in ? What a time they strCi I want to see the foreign count. What is he like ? He is rich ; oh ! so rich. Mamma said what an admirable thing it would be for Sheba, if only he would take a fancy to her." " Dolly ! " almost screamed Mrs. Levison. " Will you be quiet ! " Sheba turned her face, pale and proud enough now, to her mother. She did not say anything, but a sharp pang of humilia' tion rent her heart. So it was for this the feud had been patched up, the sceptre of peace extended. For this the affectionate note, the costly dress, had been sent to her. That she might find favour in the eyes of this rich stranger with the bold, watchful eyes ; might make a good impression on him, so far as appearances went ; be used as a bait to lure him to the house ! A sense of shame and disgubt came over her. She had thought her mother had been unhappy because of the differences between them ; she had felt such a thrill of tenderness and remorse as she had read her note, and all the time that mother had been speculating as to how this stranger would regard her, and looking upon him as a possible means for ridding herself of an encu.nbrance. Perhaps she judged her mother too harshly ; but in any case the revulsion of feeling was for the time intense, and overpowered every other consideration. She felt like a trapped bird, and all the old wild rebellious thoughts surged back in a dark, conimuous stream, and her brow grew dark and her eyes wrathful as the opening door revealed the figure of the new guest. " She — make an impression — no fear of that," muttered Bessies Sa.\ton as she watched that dark, gloomy face. " I know what -' '^iiA^ein^ 'iCfttnili.i.^uaksU >aFfte - tr< I 182 SHEBA.' P'renchmen are ; they like wit, verve^ brightness, chic. Upon my word I think I'll go in for him myself,- as he's so rich." She drew the lace tucker a little higher about her shapely shoulders, and fired a Parthian glance in the direction of Count Pharamond, who was standing some little distance off. Noel Hill had at once usurped Sheba, and she, nothing loth, had retreated with him to the farthest corner of the large room— effectually playing into her friend's hand, and vexing her mother excessively. The count, apparently disregarding Miss Saxton's overtures, dropped into a seat beside his hostess. " You will pardon me, madame," he said, " if I express my ad- miration for everything Australian, as displayed in your cnarming menage ; most of all, for your exquisite young daughter. I have never seen anythin.; like her — never." Mrs. LevisoTi coloured with gratified pride, under the thick coating of powder. Did he really mean it ? Was it possible that her plan was going to succeed ? She glanced across at Sheba — what a fool the girl was to occupy herself with a penniless curate, when here were fortune and rank honouring her by admiration. " You flatter her, count," she said in a fluttered voice. "She is, I suppose, different to your Parisian young ladies." " Different 1 " The count raised his eyebrows. " Ah ! that it was possible to express ho7e.> different. Those divine features, that exquisite mouth, that serene, unconscious grace — Ciel / and what a sensation she would make in a Parisian salon. Might one be pardoned for asking who is the gentleman by her side who seemed so friendly, if one might say as much without offence ? " " Oh," said Mrs. Levison, " that is only her old teacher — tutor, I may say. He has known her since she was a child." " A clergyman ? " the count insinuated gravely. " Yes, a clergyman," assented Mrs. Levison, gratified, if any- thing, that the count should seem a little uneasy. In the early stagv-s of a love affair, jealousy is a great help, in the lalter as great a hindrance. " Then," the count resumed^ " might he consider he had madame's gracious permission to call and still further pursue the too charming acquaintance of herself, and of her lovely dau'^hter?" Mrs. Levison's reply can be easily guessed. Having received it, Pharamond took himself off to Bessie Saxton's side, and ren- dered audacious by her ready encouragement, which she flattered herself was so chiCj whispered flatteries, compliments and insinua tions that brought the blood to her cheek, and for which her father A NEW IDEA. 183 pon my shapely f Count ;oel Hill ■etreated [fectually :essively. (vertures, 5c my ad- ciiarming . I have the thick • plan was 'hat a fool when here ice. "She der he bad [rther pursue her lovely ,/ing received lide, and ren- ,she Battered „ and insinua [ich her father would have kicked him out of the house had he heard them, or understood the veiled significance of French phrases. Mrs. Levison laid her head on her pillow that night with a sigh of content and relief. Providence had indeed been kind to iier. Her scheme seemed almost ridiculously easy of fulfilment. Oh ! what a triumph to mairy Sheba to such a husband ; and what an inexplicable, heavenly relief to think of her as married ! CHAPTER XXXII. A NEW IDEA. The next afternoon when Sheba came home, she found Count Phaiamond established in the drawing-room, entertaining and being entertained by her mother. The door was open, and she had looked in on passing, so there was no help but to enter and return the count's polite greeting. He thought she looked quite as handsome as on the previous night. Her face was flushed with rapid exercise and the cool wind ; her great eyes ^hone like stars beneath the dark velvet brim of her hat. There was something eager and glad about the expression of her face, for she had just parted from Meredith, who had met her and walked half-way home with her. They had discussed many things, chiefly music ; and he told her he should remain here with the company for at least two months more ; if, after then, he had to proceed to Queensland, he should leave the child with old Aliiller, so as not to interrupt his studies. " You are doing him so much good," he had added gratefully. " He is not so dull or old-fashioned as he used to be, and he talks of you so much. I think you have quite won his heart." As she shook hands with Count Pharamond those words were still ringing in her ears. She felt too happy to be distant and cold, as on the previous night, and though she avoided his eyes, and felt his compliments jar on her ear, she yet was gracious enough to satisfy her mother. In his way Count Pharamond was a brilliant and cultivated man, a man of the world and of society such as Sheba and her mother had never entered — the light, frothy, brilliant society of French salons, and London drawing-rooms, and clubs. Ho talked to them of celebrated people, of art, fashion, po!iti':s ; [talked well and brilliantly, but with a certain superficial polisli that Sheba's keen ear detected. I 184 •• SHEBA.** u 3- •' Still it was pleasant to hear of that great world from which the ocean separated her, and of people whose names were only familiar to her through newspaper gossip or the medium of their own works : Dickens, Thackeray, Lever, George Eliot ; these great names were rattled over by the glib tongue of Pharamond as i they were those of everyday personal acquaintances. He had anecdotes of each, amusing or interesting, as the case might be. But nothing interested Sheba so much as to hear of George Eliot, whose " Mill on the Floss " she had just been re- velling in, and of whose history she was entirely ignorant. She noted as she put her eager questions that her mother and the count exchanged looks, that Mrs. Levison seemed fidgety and uncomfortable, and that Pharamond himself began to fence with her simple, direct inquiries, and gradually changed the subject. However, he had contrived to make halfan-hour pass very quickly and pleasantly, and Sheba had almost forgotten her anta- gonism of the previous night. When her mother pressed him to come again, Sheba eagerly seconded the invitation. " And you must tell me more of my adored authoress," she cried enthusiastically. " I would sooner be Marian Evans than the Queen on her throne ! " " Ah ! " murmured the count, as he held the small warm hand for a moment in his own. " Ah, mademoiselle ! the faiths, the enthusiasms of youth. How I envy you them. They aie so beautiful — while they last." " I hope," said Sheba gravely, " mine will last always." Then he bowed low again, and the door closed on him, and Sheba tossed off her hat, and smoothed back the thick, heavy hair above her brow. Mrs. Levison looked at her with something of impatience and irritation in her glance. " I do wish, Sheba," she said, " that you had not such an un- fortunate knack of stumbling on questionable subjects for con- versation. I positively blushed when you would persist in talking of that — writer — to the count, and he was most uncomfortable. There has been quite a scandal about her in England. A woman who has no religion, who makes her intellect her God — believes in free love, and has gone to live with a man who has left his own wife and family tor her sake. 'J'hese are the simple facts, ami every one knows them. Men of course make a fuss over htr, because she is clever ; but no /ady would visit her, she lives quite] apart from society." " She ought to be glad of that and to write much better for it,' said Sheba. " I don't know what use society is to an author orj an artist, except to distract and bore them." A NEW IDEA. 185 ch the amiliar ;ir own e great id as i the case hear of been re- ther and Igety and ence with subject, pass very t her anta- ba eagerly ore of my uld sooner jvarm hand faiths, the hey ate so >» him, and , heavy hair 'mething o( I such an un- bcts for con- Lt in talking [comfortable. I A woman lod— believes I left his own lie facts, and luss over luV IheUvesquil^l I t t [better for it, an author oil "Perhaps," said Mrs. Levison tartly, "you don't see any use in morality either. One would think so to hear you talk. I can't think where you pick up your extraordinary ideas — unless that ( 'd curiosity whose child you teach, is entertaining you with some of his." " Mother," said the girl, suddenly growing very pale, " you never asked me whose child I am teaching ; you would not listen to anything I said on the subject, but you are wrong if you think it is the old German, Herr Mijller, who is my — my employer. The child I teach is the son of Mr. Paul Meredith, who sings at the opera." " I'm sure I don't care," snapped Mrs. Levison. " It doesn't make the fact of your teaching any better ; rather worse, if any- thing. You ought to be ashamed to go on with this foolish scheme, knowing how we disapprove of it. Hex is coming home next week on purpose to speak to you about it. I am in perfect terror lest Count Pharamond should hear of It. What would he think?" " It doesn't concern me what he or any one else thinks," said Sheba proudly. " You know my reasons for doing this. If you want to blame any one, blame your husband ; he has always disliked me and insulted me. This place has never been a home —never." " You are so headstrong, so ungrateful," lamented Mrs. Levi- son. " I'm sure you will break my heart yet." Sheba turned to her with a sudden impulse of tenderness. " Don't say that, mother," she pleaded j " I do love you, and I wish I could please you, but this marriage of yours has put a gulf between us ; nothing is as it was. Your husband dislikes me; Dolly persecutes me; and you — you think everything I do is wrong." The tears had brimmed into her eyes, her lips trembled. Mrs. Levison rose impatiently. "Oh! make me no scenes, for goodness' sake, child," she said. " You are too old to be punished for disobedience ; you must take your own way ; only I shall never be the same to you so long as you keep up this foolish idea of teaching. I consider you are degrading yourself and me." Then she left the room to avoid mrther controversy, and Sheba sank slowly down on the chair beside her, and leaning her head on her hands, sat for long gazing into the clear wood fire that burned on the hearth. The o d cry was sounding in her ears— the cry that had embittered her childhood and darkened her youth : "No one cares for me, no one wants me; oh! why was I ever boTJj?" !i j. i k :.:!■■ 1 11 It. II f^ 1 86 SHEBA." Therfe was not fjven a dumb creature now to rub its soft head against her knee, or speak out love with bright wistful eyes as Billy had been wont to do. They had all been offered up as a sacrifice to Mr. Levison's splendid house — that house where her coming or going gladdened no one — concerned no one — save she was needed for some selfish scheme. " They would be glad to be rid of me," she thought bitterly. " Dolly was quite right in what she said. This man must have been asked here for a purpose. They would like him to marry me, perhaps." She shuddered as she thought of the bold eyes, the smiling sensual lips. " Never," she told herself ; " I would sooner die." A voice at her ear startled her — a voice repeating her own words which unconsciously she had spoken aloud. " Sooner die than — what, Miss Sheba ? It is a terrible alter- native ! " She sprang to her feet blushing and confused. Beside her stood Noel Hill. "y<7«," she cried gladly. "Why, how did you come? I never heard you." " No, you were too deep in thought. The servant showed me in ; she said your mother was dressing, so I fear it is rather late for a conventional call. Still, I am glad to find you are visible." *' Sit down," said Sheba, drawing a chair near to the fire. " It is very cold this evening ; one of these dreadful southerly winds. You look tired ; where have you been ? " " Doing parish work," he said, taking the chair and watching the girl's graceful movements as she stirred the fire into a blaze and lit the lamp near by. "This is a very different place to West Shore," he went on presently, " and my rector is not very energetic, so a great deal devolves on me." " I know Mr. Ransom by repute, as well as personally through his services and sermons," said Sheba. " What a curious man he is to be in the Church." ** There are many curious men in the Church," said Noel Hill smiling, " and always will be," he added more seriously, " as long as such things as advowsons and gifts of livings exist. But tell me, what was disturbing you just now, and what would you rather die than do ? " " Marry a man I disliked, and could not respect," said Sheba, colouring warmly beneath the gaze of those clear, searching eye.^. " Marry 1" echoed Noel Hill, and his facj grew a shade paler. " Has anything been said to you about — about that ? " " Mother would only be too thankful if aiy eligible suitor would offer," said the girl bitterly. " I foresee many more battles A NEW IDEA. 187 t head ;yes as ip as a ere her avc she bitterly, ist have marry »ld eyes, 1 would epeating id. ole alter- eside her :ome ? I howed me rather late e visible." (( in store for me ; I am like a square peg in a round hole here ; I have never fitted my place and I never shall." The young clergyman looked at her somewhat sadly. " I was so in hopes that matters were better," he said. "Are you sure that you try to make the best of your position ; bring your will more into subjection to theirs ? " " Why should I do that ? " burst out Sheba impetuously. " I .am not a child any longer. I know right from wrong, and shams from reality, and this house is full of shams ; even my brother is quite changed : there is not a genuine feeling or impulse allowed. Every one tries to deceive some one else. Mother, Mr. Levi- son ; Mr. Levison, mother ; the child, her father and her step- mother both ; and the united family, the world at large, which they call society. I will no* do it ; I never have and I never shall. If I don't like these vulgar, purse-proud people who come here, why should I pretend I do ? They don't like me, I know. My mother says it is my fault, and perhaps it is ; but I find books more interesting than persons, and therefore I won't leave the library to waste my evenings listening to the scandals and gossip of a set of money-worshipping Jews. It makes me sick to hear them talk," she went on impetuously. " Mrs. Abrahams abusmg Mrs. Levi ; and Mrs. Levi criticizing Mrs. Moss, and fire. jrly winds. I watching to a blaze it place to s not very lly through )us man he Noel Hill ly, " as long But tell you rather Isald Sheba, lrchingeyef=. shade paler. liaible suitor more battles T^ I her dress, and her house, and her servants ; and each of them ■L^ ^M .1* *ii 9* 1.*. summing up their neighbours' incomes to a penny, and estimat- ing the success of their entertainments by the amount of money spent on them ; and this is the life I am expected to live." "It is hard," said Noel Hill thoughtfully. He was trying to grasp the fact that this girl had got beyond his teaching and authority ; that she was a woiaan now, with a woman's soul, and that life was getting harder for her than even he had ever feared it would be. " Very hard," he went on thoughtfully, " but still, they cannot force you to marry any one you do not care for. Is there — is there any one they specially wish you to accept ? ' " Oh ! " said Sheba blushing hotly, " I have only Dolly's word for that, and you know what s/ie is." " Yes," he said, laughing with a sudden sense of relief " I shall never forget the way in which she entertained me on the occasion of my first visit. It is a pity the child should be spoilt for the want of training." " She will never get that at home," said Sheba. " Her father indulges her in everything, and mother gives way because it makes things smooth ; she is a little demon for mischief-making, jand she repeats all she hears with any amount of exaggeration." " Indeed, I am afraid your home is far from pleasant," said i i88 •• SHEBA." rr * ^1 . Noel Hill slowly. " Let us hope, however, that things may mend. Are you still bent on teaching ? " "Yes," Sheba answered decidedly. "It is my one pleasure now. It does take me out of my life for a few hours at all events." " I have been thinking," he said, " of a plan which will give you occupation and relief too. You remember telling me long ago about your admiration for women authors ? Why don't you try to write ? Yqu have talent, keen perception of character, vivid imagination and great natural facility in the putting together of ideas and fancies. Think of it. I don't say that you will suc- ceed in doing anything very remarkable just at first, but I should strongly advise you to make the effort." " And then " said Sheba, rising and facing him with flushed cheeks and eager eyes. " Then," he said, as he also rose at sound of the dressing bell, " we might see about publishing. I have a friend who is junior partner in a large publishing firm in London ; if your book was worth any- thing he could tell me so ; in any case the scheme is worth a trial." " Worth it ! I should think so," cried the girl eagerly. " How good of you to think of it. I shall never be dull or lonely now." " Indeed, I hope so," said Noel Hill earnestly. " Your mind is too active, it must not be allowed to feed upon itself; give it employment and I think you will be less discontented, even if not positively happy." " Happy ! " said the girl with a long deep sigh. " Ah ! shall I ever be — that ? Sometimes I doubt it." The young man's heart gave a sudden swift throb as he met those dark passionate eyes. The thought that had sprung to life, echoed on and on long after he had left that girlish presence ; ** Would to Heaven I could make you so." CHAPTER XXXIIL A LITTLE DUST. Sheba went straight to her room as the door closed on Noel HilL She felt she must be alone to think out the magnitude of the idea | presented to her. The possibility of writing had often floated dimly through her i mind, but she had deemed herself, as yet, far too ignorant andi impetuous to do anything deserving the honour of authorship, or| publication. A LITTLE DUSl. 189 f gs may pleasure events." give you long ago you try ter, vivid gether of L will suc- I should th flushed 5 bell, "we ,or partner worth any- rthatrial." y. " How lely now." Your mind self; give it even if not Ah I shall 1 as he met |rung to life, esence : )n Noel Hill le of the idea through her lignorant and luthorship, ot It was no light thing to undertake, for nothing shallow or super firial would ever have contented her ; but she felt that her ignor- ance of the world, and of life, and the narrow limits of her own experience were all agauist her. Yet had not the Brontes lived out of the world, in a wild, lonely country district, and surrounded by all that was hard, unlovely and commonplace ? Had not her adored Marian Evans been only a farmer's daughter, and brought up in a dull Methodist circle ? Had not the great Charles Dickens himself begun life as a lawyer's clerk ? Yet each and all had burst the trammels of their surroundings, and made their mark. True, they had all possessed genius of no common order, and she — she was but a young ignor- ant, scarce-educated colonist ; still she felt she had it within her to dare and to achieve. She loved work, and was ready to plunge into it heart and soul. It promised her a rich feast of mental dissipation. It was the one thing that could atone for the empti- ness of home ; she might rise above it and its petty troubles, and make for herself a deeper, broader life, that would dwarf into in- significance the mere routine of duties and occupations such as most women lived for. All these thoughts swept like an impetuous tide through her mind, and for a time took no definite shape. But after a while a little chill crept over that first ardour of enthusiasm. How was she to begin? What form or shape was her work to take for itself? She pushed the heavy hair from her brow, which ached with feverish excitement and the strain of long thought. " I will ask Herr Miiller," she said to herself. " He is so clever. He will be able to advise me." Then she changed her dress, and went down into the library to read quietly till dinner was over, and after that went into the drawing-room, where a small coterie of Coiiens and Leveys were assembled, and, at her mother's request, sang and played for them, as she very rarely condescended to do. It was better than cards, she told herself, and she could think without being interrupted by the perpetual chatter respecting money and dress, or domestic news, which last always took the shape of a prospective, or just completed addition to the tribe of Israel, on the part of one or other of its fruitful vines. She slept but little that night ; and being too conscientious to neglect a duty for any personal interest, she gave her young cliarge his usual lessons before ever broaching the subject which filled her thoughts to Herr Miiller. " I wanted to consult you," she said at last, as little Paul trotted tb-H 190 "SHEBA." i *i ■ ! off to fetch his coat and cap for their usual walk, ** if you could spare me a few moments." The old man looked up from his music-copying. " Consult me ? but certainly, mein Frdulein. If you like, I will put on my hat, and we shall take our walks together." It was an odd thing about Franz Miiller, that when excited or interested on any subject, he could talk fluently and with scarcely any foreign idioms, but in ordinary fragmentary conversation his German nationality proclaimed itself at once. " Will you come with us ? " cried Sheba eagerly. " Oh ! that is kind of you ; I have been longing for a talk." " I thought," said the old rtian laughing, " that our last talk had frightened you. You want no more Buddhism I suppose, eh ? ' "Indeed," said Sheba indignantly, "I was not frightened. I would like to hear a great deal more on the subject. But, no, it was not of that I wished to speak." And she told him briefly, and as calmly as she could, the suggestion of Noel Hill, and her (JWn great longing to comply with it. He listened attentively and seriously, looking ever and again at the glowing eager face with its changeful expressions. What an ardent, eager, enthusiastic soul this was ! He sighed to think of what its future might be. He had known so many enthusiasts, so many gifted minds, and of them all none had passed through the world's furnace unscathed, few the better for the ordeal. "To write," he said thoughtfully; "well, I have considered often you might do that, and do it well. If you feel it within you, it must come out. Only I advise but one thing, never write un- less you have something to say that is worth saying. There is too much mediocrity in everything now-a-days. Every one wants to rush into print with their trash, or their errors, or their filth, as the case may be. Literature is a vast sewer into which the ignor- ant and the vile, as well as the scholar and the thinker, pour their several contributions, and the filter which might be of use in carrying those contributions to the mind of the public, viz.^ press censorship, is rapidly becoming useless by reason of interests, bribes, ignorance, prejudice, and the like. You are very young, and of life you know nothing. Your soul is as clear as your eyes. The deceits and coquetries and pruriences of your sex are a sealed book as yet. There is a gospel of worldly wisdom, which is the very essence of selfishness, and you have never turned of it one leaf. Of what then would you write ? Of what is in your own pure soul ; great thoughts, impossible dreams such as poets love, You will sing to deaf ears, mein Frdulein. The world doesn't heed, and doesn't want to heed, and you will waste your brains,. '«! A UrrLE DUST. 'V ilt me ? my bat, :ited or scarcely ition his 3h! that talk had ;e, eh ? " tened. 1 Jut, no, it m briefly, i, and her id again at What an to think of lusiasts, so hrough the considered within you, ;r write un- 'here is too le wants to leir filth, as [h the ignor- •, pour their ' of use in :, viz., press )f interests, very young, Ls your eyes. , are a sealed [which is the ,ed of it one in your own s poets love. 'rorld doesnt your brains, and your health, and break your tender heart — for I think it is tender, though you seem so cold — and all for nothing." Sheba grew very pale. Her eyes, troubled and tear-fillcd, looked out at the vista of green fields and waving trees, and a sense of heavy desolation and despair oppressed her. ** You would not advise me to try ? " she said at last. His quick ear noticed the trembling of her voice, and he knew his words had hurt her, and felt sorry. " I never give advice," he said gently. " It is a thing people only ask for when their minds are made up what they shall do ; but frankly, of women's work I have not much opinion. They lack the patience, the steadiness, the studious thought, which mark the capacity of man's brains. True, there have been clever women, but then they lacked most feminine charms, and became notorious as much for personal eccentricity as for so-called genius. They have never done anything great in art, save as copyists ox executants. They lack creative power, or we should have had a female Beethoven or Michael Angelo by this time." "There has been Properzia of Bologna," suggested Sheba timidly. " One instance to quote against hundreds, my dear. Where is the female prototype of Praxiteles or Raffaelle, of Rubens or Angelico, Sophocles, Homer, Virgil, or to come to later days, Shakespeare, or Shelley, or Byron ? It cannot be found. It never will be found, even though we turow open our academies and colleges and art schools, as they begin to cry to us to do." " Still," persisted Sheba, " they have done something. They may do more with better training and education." He laughed grimly. " They will write sensational fiction, whose doubtful morality enlightens one sex and disgusts the tther. They will paint pretty feeble pictures of babies and animals and flowers, or dabble in sculpture with a due care for drapery and fringes and buttons ! That I grant you, more — I will say ten years hence." "You are not encouraging," said Sheba disappointedly. "Nay, I but speak in my plain, gruff, German fashion, 'I said before, if you feel it within you to write, do it, and do your best ; and do not haste too much, but give nothing forth to the world that has not on it the stamp of care and earnest thought. In any case work won't harm you. Perhaps it may be a safety valve." She laughed. The colour came back to her face and lips. " I mean to try" she said with a flash of the dark starry eyes. "And I will take your advice, I will not hurry over my work." " You will spoil your youth," grumbled the old man. " With- out pleasure and gaiety, the life of the young is like a spring flower I .:■ H ; il ™ '. 292 "SHEBA." that an early frost has frozen ere it is fully opened. Be content as you are ; you will be a beautiful woman one day. Men will love you. You may be a haj)py wife, with love in your heart and children at your breast. That is the best life for a woman. Nature meant it, and she is wiser than man, and kinder too, if we would but believe it." Sheba's face grew warm. She thought of love as her childish dreams had pictured it, Alas ! those dreams now looked so far away that she scarcely coulu realize them, as having played an important part in her life. "I think," she s?id gravely, "I shall not be a woman whom men will love. I do not wirh it." He smiled, his odd grim smile. "^ " That," he said, " is probably a reason why they will. But time will show." They walked on in silence for some moments. Presently he said : " Did any one suggest this to you, or was it a thought, a desire, cf your own ? " " I thought of it years ago," said Sheba colouring, " but it seemed to have gone out of my mind till a friend, the clergyman of whom I spoke to you, suggested it to me again." "Ah," said the old man, "what is he like, this clergyman; young, clever, or conventional ? " " I think," said Sheba, " he is very good. He is not a bit like a clergyman." " Not stiff, and solemn, and canting, eh ? " asked the German grimly. " No," she said readily, " far otherwise. He is very clever, I think, and I^ works very hard." The old man nodded. " Ask him," he said, with one of his odd smiles, " to explain to you the doctrine of the Trinity. Ask him, too, what priesthood has done for religion, save hamper and distort any purity or truth it once possessed." " Do you think," Sheba asked timidly, " that our clergy, the clergy of' the Reformed Church, are no better than the Roman Catholic priests ? " He laughed aloud, and his eyes flashed beneath their thick grey brows. "Do I believe t Oh, child, child, if I could make you see for one moment the mass of lies, follies and superstitions that embroider the priestly garment, whether white, or violet, or black ; whether the bishop's snowy surplice, or the cardinal's scarlet robe! What is underneath ? Man — a man mortal, erring, sinful as any A LIITLE DUST. "93 content lien will eart and woman. iT too, if ■ childish ed so far ilayed an lan whom But time esently he t, a desire, g, "but it clergyman clergyman ; a bit like le German ry clever, I one of bis •inity. Ask hamper and clergy, the the Roman their thick lake you see rstitions that )let, or black ; scarlet robe! sinful as any other. What has sanctified him ? why is he holy, and all the rest of mankind vile ? Because another anointed official has laid hands on him ! Five hundred years ago the world believed that the pillars of Hercules marked the western boundaries of the earth. There are antiquities of doctrine and faith just as absurd, for which so- called holy men fight tooth and nail to this very day. They would, if they could^ govern the whole human race by the rigid letter of ecclesiastical law. Fortunately they cannot. Their day has gone by. The cry of the age is progress — and progress no longer means submissive acquiescence in what has been laid down dogmatically in bygone years of superstition. The mind of man is struggling out of swaddling bands, and demands to walk alone on a path of knowledge commensurate with its wants. The voice of the pulpit alone holds it back, crying, * Refrain, oh, impious one ! Question not, seek not, doubt not. Thus far and no farther shall inquiry go ! ' . . . . The babe ig fed on milk, the child on faith ; but shall milk and faith diet the body and the mind of man ? True, there may be things which that mind and soul never shall know, but there is no reason why they should not segk to know. Yet the very class who should be able to instruct the earnest and the inves- tigating, is the class who have ever striven to keep them in dire ii^norancC; simply to »naintain a superiority on their own side. The world was created in six days, that is what every child is told, and generally believes. The fact of eating an apple was the introduction of sin, and the curse of the human race. The God of Heaven fought in a personal, bloodthirsty manner with the armies of men, and gloried in the tortures of the very beings He had created. The waters of a mighty sea rolled back in order to annihilate a foe whose hearts this same God expressly states He had purposely hardened. The sun stood still to please a Jewish priest, and give time for inordinate slaughter, and went back on a dial to establish the faith of a sick king. One inspired ruler writes his own death ; and a perpetually quoted prophet speaks with a personal knowledge of events that cover a period of two hundred or three hundred years. Some books of prophecy are in fact the work of several writers, nof of one. But the clergy, who are the professed students of the Bible, were the last to discover or acknowledge that. Heaven knows whom they were afraid of. Their own heads and chiefs most probably, who hold the prospects of advancement and the pomposity of office. Nothing must be altered, all must contfftue on the old safe cut-and-dry lines ; no corUroversy, no discussion, no argument ; blind belief and blinder submission ; God, so it seems to me, being represented i to men in i/uir own image now, just as He was in the old ignorant 13 ¥94 •• SHEBA." days, when it is written, * He talked and walked, and fought, and commanded, and punished, and avenged.' He loved and hated ; was jealous and angry, and. to all intents and purposes was a being very like those who professed to have almost personal acquaintance with Him." " If all you say is true," sighed Sheba miserably, " what ts there to believe ? It is hard to give up all faith in what one has learnt and accepted. In the light in which you look at the Bible and religion, nothing seems true or trustworthy." "You could find plenty that is both," he said, "if you had waited to study it for yourself, not learnt to read it by man's literal interpretation. Hard — well, it is hard, and no doubt I seem to you as a devil tempting. That is why we will teach Paul nothing. He shall at least have no foolish fables clinging to memory, when he is old enough to choose for himself." "I wish," said Sheba, "you knew Noel Hill. I wonder what he would say to your assertions." " Bring him to me," said the old German with a gruff laugh. " I should like it. I have fought many a battle with priests of all persuasions. They always had to beat a retreat. Mostly they take shelter under the wing of faith. What can't be explained up to a certain point must be received in faith ; the faith of a little child at his mother's knee who accepts * Cerentola ' and the * Giant Killer ' as real personages. Faith — Bah ! Was there ever so heavy a stone rolled at the gate of inquiry ? Faith ! where would the world be now if science had only been content with faith ? If Galileo had simply said, ' You must believe the earth goes round the sun because I — say so ; ' or Columbus, * Yon must believe there is another c«^ntinent, though I haven't found it ; ' or the discoverer of electric force, ' You must believe ther i is a mighty and wonderful current, which will bridge space and laugh at barriers of sea and land ; which is light and heat, and life and death ; but I can't s^oza you its power, or its use.' The mind of man is so constituted that it must be convinced of a thing before accepting it as truth ; but the mind of childhood is not so. Hence the reason why your clergy are so eager for the baptism of infants, the (to them) still more important rite of Confirmation, ere ever the young mind has really thought or considered the importance of what it professes. Once in the Church, they say * All is safe with y- ur future ' . . . . There are people who believe that the mere fact c a child being baptized means its salvation. I suppose it has never occurred to them to wonder what has becoijie of the souls of the unbaptized millions who lived before the rite was instituted; nun Ua h'c.t alles auf ! a people who accept a service with the •• WHAT LIFE MIGHT BE." «95 »t, and hated ; was a ersonal vhat is one has le Bible ^ou had I's literal seem to nothing. ,ry, when ider what ufF laugh, ests of all r they take ed up to a little chiid he 'Giant ;r so heavy would the faith? H Toes round ast believe it;' or the Ls a mighty d laugh at id life and 'he mind of hing before so. Hence n of infants, an, ere ever importance * All is safe hat the mere I suppose It e of the souls is instituted; 'ice with tbc thirty-nine articles, the Athanasian creed, and the commination curses would accept anything ! Wir lassen sie bleihen I " Sheba was silent and disturbed ; for some moments they walked on without speaking. Presently they came in sight of little Paul ; he was standing still, looking at something which he held in his hand. It was a butterfly. '* Look, Sheba," he cried as the girl paused beside him — he had from the first decided that the surname of his governess was far too long for daily use — " I've found such a lovely butterfly ! " He opened his hand. The insect lay there crushed and lifeless. His little face grew grave. " Oh ! " he said sorrowfully, " where is it ? What has become of it ? " " It is dead," said Sheba, " it was cruel of you to crush the poor thing in your little hot hand." " Won't it fly again ? ". he asked eagerly. " Won't it ever — ever fly again ? Is that why it's dead ? " " Yes," said the girl gently. " And where is what made it alive ? " he went on. " I haven't got that, have I ? There is only a little dust in my hand." " That is so, metn Ziedltng," said the old German, " you have solved th« secret of all ended life : a little dust, no more, no less ; just — a little dust." The child let the dead insect fall from his hand. His eyes looked wistfully up to the two faces above him. " And then " he said. , Sheba turned aside to hide the tears in her eyes. The old man looked troubled. " Nay, ask no questions," he said at last. " What matters when all is over ? Sleep, rest, or work that still goes on. We shall know soon enough." CHAPTER XXXIV. "what life might be.'* It is not to be supposed that such a mind and such teachings as those of Franz Miiller, could be without serious influence on such a nature as Sheba Ormatroyd's. She had been brought up to accept a narrow code of doctrine, restricted almost harshly from all inquiry or explanation, and until she knew Noel Hill the real truth or meaning of Christianity had been as much of a dead letter to her as it is, sad to say, to ninety-nine of every hundred children in Christian families. It is not their fault. What their 13— a k 196 "SHEBA. i! Pi 1 'I parents were taught, they teach again, sect for sect, each upholding its own petty creed as superior to all others, and scarcely ever troubling to look below the surface of such pharisaical forms as family prayers and regular church-going. As for the clergy, what do they know, individually, of the souls that are their ostensible charge ? What do they teach — or rather, what can they teach — beyond the stereotyped doctrines they, in their day, learned also from their parents' lips, and accepted in after life as infallible truth, to be disseminated and re-taught by themselves, with such additions or alterations as a little knowledge of Greek or Hebrew will permit ? They preach of sowing the seed, but they seldom inquire what harvest their teaching has garnered. They visit their parish and discuss religious subjects, condescendingly or deferentially, ac- cording to the social state ©f the parishioners. They eat, drink, and are merry, and they keep a watchful eye on the loaves and fishes, yet all the while inveigh against the vanity of worldly pleasures, and the deceitfulness of riches. For a class of men who invariably marry rich wives, or wives with relatives possessed of interest in the matter of advowsons, this is somewhat incon- sistent. They preach humility, yet who so bullies, and works the poor curate as that same humility-preaching rector ? They preach self sacrifice, and point the moral by asking for large offertories for charities, to which they personally contribute — prayers alone ; they demand church decoration and embellishment, which is only a glorification of their own special edifice. " Deny yourself a few dinners, an extra carriage-horse, and provide altar clotlis and put in a new painted window for me." This in plain words is the meaning of delicately-worded suggestions as to doing God honour, and proving the reality of Christian professions. Oh, for a fan to purge, and a whirlwind to sweep away the monstrous accumulation of hypocrisy and false teaching that shames the very name of Christianity. Oh, for voice bold enough, and heart brave enough, to speak out the truth, and nothing but the truth, in high places as in low ; in the palaces of the great, as in the cottages of the poor. Truth that should echo in the draw- ing-rooms of society's pampered herds as bravely as from the pulpit, which forms so safe a vantage-ground. Strip off my lady's satin and pearls, and my lord's robes of state ; the hall- room's dainty gossamer and fine broadcloth ; divest my lord cardinal of his scarlet 1 obes, and my lord archbishop of his lawn and lace, and cry aloud : Be men and women of one earnest, zealous faith — the faith that speaks a common humanity — a living, seeking, struggling soul, that no trappings can disguise^ and no luxury can •• WHAT LIFE MIGHT BE.' 197 lolding ly ever >rms as ry, what tensible teach — ned also nfallible ith such Hebrew lire what Irish and ially, ac- at, drink, )aves and f worldly ;s of men possessed lat incon- works the ley preach offertories ers alone; ;, which is ay yourself iltar clotlis lain words doing God is. ) away the aching that old enough, lothing but ;he great, as in the draw- is from the Dff my lady's , ball- room's cardinal of vn and lace, zealous faith ing, seeking, 10 luxury can satisfy. Unite, and solve into one common large-hearted brother- hood, that seeks for each and all, the best and the truest. Be no longer blind and deaf to all belief, save the narrow special creed which accident has made your own. Preach that love is the ful- filling of the law, and practise it individually ; not in a selfish spasmodic fashion here and there, but as if it were a truism taken into each life however humble, or however great, and in each faithfully performed. Brief is the day of ^uman life, and of the night that follows who shall speak with . ny certainty ? Who, whether saint, or prophet, or martyr, has come back to tell us of the Great Beyond? To tell us with such absolute conviction that we can face death unflinchingly, saying : " I know — and am not afraid." Does any one pause in life's busy march, to ask themselves : "Who am I ? Whence do I come? Whither im I going? I shall not always sleep and rise, eat and drink, dress and gossip, and slave for money, and weep over falsehood, and ,>ee the vanity of men's words, and of women's beauty, and the cruelty of death, and the sins and weariness of life ; not always — not perhaps for long, and then " Ah, then — that one little word holds all the wonder that nothing satisfies. Neither church-going, nor district-visiting, nor early celebrations, nor the voice of many preachers ; nay, sometimes not even the words of the Great Book itself, though in it there lies the grain of truth that men have heaped over with dust of doctrines, and well-nigh buried beneath mis-translations ; that has been used as a license from Heaven for all the malignity and fiendish brutality of persecution ; that has served Jew and Gentile, priest and prophet, sceptic and saint, visionary and infidel, men of all creeds, and men of none ; that, I say, has served each and all of these in turn, so wide is the margin of its teaching, so varied the utility of its contents. Then — chill as the touch of death's angel, weighty as the stone at the sepulchre, that little word bars the way to promised realms of bliss and vague dreams of celestial glory. Then — rise up and array yourselves, oh, misspent hours and wasted days ! oh, cold, hard Words, that lie heavy as lead on many a loving heart, and chill many a tender memory. Petty actions ; deeds that seemed ])ious and unselfish, but which we know now to have been vain- glories and full of foolish pride ! Rise up, arrays of family quar- rels, and cruel divisions ; bigoted faiths that in the name of a God of mercy showed neither mercy nor toleration to any dissenting soul ; harsh mandates that drove the erring and the weak to ruin or to death. Rise up, too, oh, half- uttered truths, more cruel than 198 «♦ SHEBA." I'm K' ' any lies ; and you, oh sin best-loved of powers of evil and surest weapon in the fearful armoury of hell, the piide that apes humility. One and all your seeds are scattered broadcast over an earth that was once as fair as we fain picture Heaven ; and one and all, you have your root in every life that lives, and rule with iron sceptre that blurred distorted image that once bore its Creator's stamp of perfection. To one and all the truth comes soon or late ; are there few or many to whom it comes with a cry sad as the sigh from Calvary. " Ye might, but ye would not ! " That is the secret of each heart ; there lies" the chance of better things breathed into the folded bud of each new life, to blossom beneath the sun of purity, or perish beneath the chill frosts of evil. " Ye might, but ye would not." Who that looks back on even a score of human years, but hears those words ring out the knell of many a sad mistake, many a heartless deed. Such a little thing could have prevented the mistake ; would have altered the deed. Such a little thing. But it is too late now. The error has borne its fatal fruit, the cruel act has perchance rolled a grave- stone of silence between sufferer and infiictor. For each comes but the unavailing plaint : " Ye might, and ye would not." Life has its duties, and we may not shirk their obligations any more than we may recklessly cast aside that life itself, be it ever so burdensome. Side by side with the days and years march the opportunities of each for good, or for evil. It is a solemn thought, but one too often lightly regarded. Science looks far into the future, it cannot stay to lift the beggar from his misery. Philosophy bends grey head and dim eyes ^ver the labours of thought ; it hears not the cry for bread at its door. Religion speaks vaguely of beatitude in a future state, of patience under trial in this; seldom does it go out of its priestly way to clothe the naked, and feed the hungry, or protect the orphan. It seems, indeed, as if each art and profession lived but for itself and its own petty triurr hs, while all the great ills of life and all its mistakes and necessities are left unheeded, as they always have been left, by the great majority. is it any wonder that selfishness takes deeper root, and evil flourishes rank and poisonous in congenial soil, despite a feeble remonstrance here and there ? To our shame, be it said, despite also the advance of culture and religion. The problem of virtue lies at the root of all moral problems, and it concerns those who profess religious opinions just as much as those who do not. But " how to be virtuous ? " asks man of his teachers. The Church bids him love God, and live only for His service. ui ' "WHAT LlJjE MIGHT BE." 199 surest mility. Lh that nd all, :h iron reator's few or Calvary. f better blossom rosts of back on out the h a little ered the ;rror has a grave- ;h comes >} ions any )e it ever Drtunities one too it cannot :nds grey s not the beatitude om does feed the ch art and hs, while [es are left majority. and evil a feeble id, despite n of virtue those who do not. Tis service. ;e Science and philosophy, worshipping their idol of " reason," say, "Virtue is the performance of such acts as shall benefit your fellow man." Rationalism teaches that " virtue is the avoidan :e of such things as are harmful, '"Hividually or collectively," so that a sin might be a virtue if the action of lying, or stealing, or murder were beneficial, instead of the reverse. Virtue is unselfishness, says one creed, yet selfishness is in itself a law of individual life — the life that has to be fed, and clothed, and cared for, and whose needs are too imperative to be gainsaid. If we come to define conscious existence, we find selfishness its very essence ; it is only harmful when carried to excess; and made the rule of each thought and action that fills the petty sphere of individual life. Virtue, again, presented as a scientific theory, is only attain- able by rising out of that same petty sphere of individual life, and surveying the whole race of mankind as a brotherhood and treating it as such. Yet if science only allows to that vast brotherhood its short span of human life, there is more of melan- choly than of hope in the prospect. It needs a wide faith and a deep hope to look beyond, and yet again beyond, and yet trust for the ultimate happiness of the erring souls that emanate from one source of universal life, and yet have almost lost all likeness to that source, and all kinship to that spirit. Virtue, or that semblance of goodness which we call virtue, is relative to the whole of the great human body, but it often fails to take root in the heart even though it sways the intellect. To do both, it must represent God's will to man's conscience, and impress his spiritual as well as his material condition. Then the importance of earth's " to-day " is no longer narrowed into mere material well-being, with nothing beyond but the grim gates of death. It is of little use to preach virtue and never practise it, to warn and not assist, to entreat others to beware of offences, yet live a life pointing a very different moral, and causing either directly or indirectly those very offences to exist. It has been said, that if every man who draws the breath of life would only do a little good to each fellow creature with whom friendship or kinship unites him in a common band of associations, he would be also doing an inestimable good for the great mass of humanity, and conferring a far greater benefit on such humanity than it receives in the aggregate from some sacrifice or martyrdom that has been impul- sive and irrational, even though it seems heroic. It doesn't seem a hard thing to do a /i///d good in each life ; something to help aiuiilier life whose fellowship brightens the dull prose of existence ; 20O "SHEBA.' but it is each life, not one here and there that must do it, ere the benefit is felt, or the effect acknowledged. 1 )''l i : t If Some such thoughts as these ran riot in the mind of Sheba Ormatroyd for many days after that long discussion with Miiller ; all was chaos and disorder in her soul ; one faith had slipped away and there was no other to take its place. She dimly felt what life might be, and what religion might make of it, but she knew that it was, in reality, widely different. The helplessness and hopelessness of it all saddened and embittered her ; in no time of her life had she been in such terrible danger, and yet she was quite unconscious cf the fact. The old German himself never guessed what harm he had done ; with what a devastating blast his chill philosophies had blown over that untrained, yet fruitful mind-garden of the young girl for whom he had so kindly a friendship. She had asked, and he had answered. It did not occur to him to question results. He had read so much, and studied so deeply, and thought so earnestly, that his mind was like a huge rough giant, towering over the feeble pigmies of most intellects with which he came in contact. To one who had made himself familiar from youth up with such works as those of Kant, Schopenhauer, Strauss, Ranke, Gervinus, Hegel, Mosheim ; the doctrines of Luther and Calvin ; the history of ancient and modern religions, with all their terrible array of dogmas, and their debasing cruelties and persecutions, it was no wonder that a child's faith in what he termed the " nursery stories of Christianity " seemed weak and foolish, and of no account. Each mind has its own secret temple of worship ; perhaps the old German philosopher had his, though he would not acknow- ledge it, and worshipped there at the shrine of reason, with com- plete satisfaction to himself. The name of Christianity signified nothing to him but a narrow, hard creed, whose professors were bitter foes to any variance of opinion, or any deep and persistent inquiry. He had heard wranglings innumerable over the Bible, and discussions on the Fall, the Atonement, the Incarnation and the Resurrection, till the very words had grown hateful and robbed of anything like sacred meaning. Priests were ready to fight tooth and nail over some petty formula that invested them with temporary importance, while on the threshold of the Church stood shivering souls hungering for some food that should satisfy, and some hope that should comfort. Pffhaps Miiller had climbed so high that he looked down on SHEBA RECEIVES AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. 20I all denominations as one and the same thmg, and classed them together without troubling to search among the mass for any ex- ception. His life had been a stormy one, and priesthood had ever been held up to him as a bugbear and a tyrant ; it had destroyed family peace, and thrust at him on all sides with the sharp sword of malignant persecution, and he at last had trampled it under foot with the scorn and pride of youth, crying aloud: "Of you, and of your God I will have nothing." His passionate love for music and his own splendid gifts had alone saved him from utter heartlessness and hardness, and there was in him a certain nobility of character that made his friendship a gift worth bestowing, and showed that even hostility and injus- tice had not quite warped his mind. And it was in this man's path that fate had chosen to throw Sheba Ormatroyd at the most c: deal period of her life. CHAPTER XXXV. SHEBA RECEIVES AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. If Sheba had not been so much absorbed in these new ideas, and so much occupied in thinking out a plan for the book she had made up her mind to write, she might have observed a difference in the way she was treated at home — a certain curiosity and deference in her step-father's manner, and tolerance and friendly complacence in that of her mother ; but she did not notice the change, only she wondered sometimes that Maxime de Pharamond was so constant a visitor. He dined at least three times a week with the Levisons ; but as he generally devoted himself to Bessie Saxton, Sheba put her down as the attraction. One evening Hex put in an appearance, and Sheba received him with a little trepidation, remembering how irate he had been at the teaching episode. He had altered very much. He was taller now than Sheba herself, and had all the airs and conceits of young manhood, and many of its incipient vices. He treated his sister with a good-humoured condescension — told her she wasn't half bad-looking, but dowdy, and that she was a fool to work when she might live at her ease in luxury. More than this he had been forbidden to say. He remained at home a week, spending half his days in bed reading novels — the other half piaying billiards with Pharamond, who had struck up a great friendship with him, or lounging about the Sydney streets with a cigar in his mouth. '^1 n 202 "SHEBA.' I have said before that the Levisons only moved in very second-rate society, despite their wealth, and Mrs. Levison had never yet had the honour of an invitation to Government House. However, this desire of her heart seemed nowjjossible of achieve- ment, owing to Pharamond's interest. She had manoeuvred for it very skilfully, so she imagined, and with no idea that the astute Frenchman saw what she was angling for. One day the longed-for missive arrived, and " Mr. and Mrs. Levison and Miss Ormatroyd " were invited to one of those " omnium gatherum " receptions that were more of a conde- scension than a compliment. But Mrs. Levison was perfectly radiant, and when the count dropped in about five o'clock that same afternoon she received him with a welcome almost rapturous. He thought it was now time to open fire, and without much preamble explained to Mrs. Levison that it was customary in his country to ask the parents of a demoiselle for permission to marry her. He told her he was rich, and had large estates in the south of France, so that the question of dot was not important, though no doubt the rich Mr. Levison would not let his step-daughter come portionless to her husband. But the truth was, he loved Madlle. Ormatroyd — had loved her from the first — and now asked permission to address her, having explained, as in honour bound, his intentions. Mrs. Levison grew quite pale with emotion. "Really," she said, "my dear count, you honour me. Any mother could have but one reply to your generous proposal. I shall be too delighted to receive you here as a suitor for my daughter's hand ; but she — I fear she is so young, so indifferent to marriage. You must not be in too great a hurry to speak to her." The count smiled — a little oddly. " Perhaps," he said, " you, madame, would speak, and prepare her a little. I know how timid they are, these ingknues^ but no husband objects to innocence — at first." " Certainly, I will speak," said Mrs. Levison, colouring a little as she met those bold smiling eyes. " I am sure she will be deeply sensible of the honour you do her. It seems surprising that you should have chosen her for a wife when you must have seen so many beautiful women in London and Paris." " True," he said ; " but the women of society are too alike to please me, in style, as in morals. Now, your daughter — she is fresh, original, clever ; she will be beautiful too — ah, that without doubt ; and there is about her an air — proud, wild, untamable— a something altogether different from the ordinary demoiselle.^' r SHEBA RECEIVES AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. ao3 very I bad ouse. lieve- d for astute i Mrs. those conde- count iceived t much \j in his marry le south though laughter le loved .nd now 1 honour le. Any )0sal. I \x for my ifferent to to her." prepare , but no |ng a little le will be [surprising iust have alike to jr— she is iat without (tamable— " Good heavens ! " thought Mrs. Levison ; " what can the men see in Sheba ? There was Noel Hill, and now Count Pharamond. To me she has always appeared so stupid, and ugly and unin- teresting." Aloud she said, " Ah ! you are a lover, count, so one must excuse flattery ; but indeed you have made me most happy. My sweet child," she added with emotion ; " what a bright future lies before her." To assert this, Mrs. Levison's nature must have been singularly trustful, considering that she knew nothing at all of Pharamond's antecedents or character. Her husband had made his acquaintance merely through a business transaction, and for the rest they had but his own word. He might have been an adventurer, a criminal — anything ; yet she was prepared to fling her innocent young daughter into his arms without a question as to her own feelings on the subject. One hears a great deal about the beauty and unselfishness of maternity, but observation and experience lead one to think that maternity with marriageable daughters seldom presents a noble or self-denying aspect. The fact of an eligible suitor is invariably hailed • 'th alacrity — eligible, of course, applying to worldly goods and such unimportant details as position, or social dignity. The moral character is rarely passed under such microscopic scrutiny as the eligible ! Wealth hides a multitude of sins to the eyes of a prospective mother-in-law. Yet the world is full of the cant of the holiness of maternity. There rvre, plenty of women who pose to their off"spring as the most martyrized and unselfish of beings, simply because the office of maternity has involved a little pain, a little anxiety, and an amount of self-denial that is very often obligatory. If a woman marries she must undertake the drawbacks of the conjugal state,!as well as its triumphs, pleasures or advantages. If children are part and parcel of her new condition, she is only obeying a law of nature, and her doing so has nothing meritorious , about it. When the moral relationship steps in and the duties of child , and parent begin to assume a definite shape, then it is time enough jto talk of unselfishness ; and then, too, we find how few have really [Stood the crucial test. When Count Pharamond had bowed himself out that afternoon, [Mrs. Levison remained for a long time seated in the drawing- Iroom, taking counsel with herself as to how she would break the jnews to Sheba. She was a little bit afraid that the girl would not |be as elated as she herself felt. True, of late she had been much *'■ • >'*;3Jj^ .J 304 ••SHEBA" more amiable, and indeed had seemed to like Phnramond's society ; but then, as Mrs. Levison finished with a sigh, one never could count on Sheba — never know what whim or fancy would seize her. In the midst of her reflections the door opened and her daughter entered. Mrs. Levison looked up. *' Is that you, my dear ? " she said, with that needless questioning of what is self-evident, that helps modern conversation so largely. "Yes," said Sheba, coming into the half-dusk of the big splendid room ; ** you are alone — what a wonder." " I have had a visitor," said her mother urbanely ; " but he has just left. It was your devoted admirer, Count Pharamond." " My — devoted admirer ? " echoed Sheba, as she flung aside her hat and gloves. " Since when ? I thought he was Bessie's." "You were mistaken, then," said Mrs. Levison with uncon- cealed triumph, fancying that she had detected an encouraging jealousy in the girl's remark. " It is you whom he admires, and he has done so from the first." Sheba laughed carelessly. " He does me honour," she said ; " I can't say, however, that I appreciate his admiration — or return it." ** Now," thought Mrs. Levison, ** there she begins. It is really surprising how that girl manages to aggravate me, even when I am in the best of tempers." She tried to control herself. She felt that this was a case in which diplomacy would count for more than compulsion. She resolved to be diplomatic. " My dear child," she said blandly, "you are the most innocent and unworldly of creatures. I know that, but you are quite old enough to get a little worldly knowledge into your head — clever as it may be. Some day, I suppose you will do as all women do — when they get the chance — marry. Still, it doesn't do for a girl to wait too long, or to be too particular, and really in a country like this I am sure eligible husbands are most difficult to find. Therefore, I must tell you that a great honour has been paid me to-day, and to you, through me. I have, in fact, received an offer of marriage for you from Count de Pharamond." " Mother !" gasped Sheba, stepping back a pace and turning] white as death. " No doubt you are astonished," persisted Mrs. Levison. "It I is really quite incredible what he could have seen in you — a man who might have married into the best society in Europe, and thenj to choose a little unfashionable colonial. However, there is no! accounting for men's tastes. He has done everything quite en rim — quite as it is done in the best French society. He came to mej and laid his proposals before me, wishing to know whether approved his suit in the first instance." SHEBA RECEIVES AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. aos 3ciety ; :r could ize her. aughter stioning > largely. the big It he has nd." mg aside Bessie's." ;h uncon- couraging nires, and e said ; " 1 > return it." It is really even when rrself. She nt for more " My dear iocent and old enough |er as it may In do— when girl to wait itry li^^ ^^^* Therefore, to-day, and of marriage I and turning I Levison. ^' C you— a man lope, and then |er, there is no r quite ^« ^^6^" J e came to me low whether •* And what did you sar ? " asked Sbeba, recovering from her first astonishment, and feeling now rather amused than otherwise at her mother's complacent manner. "Say? What could I say? What would any right-feeling Christian mother say who had her child's welfare at heart ? I said I was deeply conscious of the honour, and would convey his offer 10 you." " And having done that," said Sheba brusquely, " you can tell him when he calls again that I am «c folly o' ' , j , sure yo"^"*'^", „o™ to thio« perfectly adores y""- ^^^j/te perfectly shameful now encouragement. 1 jggs coquette. "Thali" him over. Ihe ac ot a . ^^^^ g^^wmg «^"1«='-y„,^ „sked "Coquette " cried bheo encouraged him. vo not true, mother. I h»;^^S^\i„ take me m to ^«^.[:^\J '"- '" '"" '■Jhfr'armuciras you P^f '^T f ^t not o bla* threw us together as m ^^ ^ i am no BESSIE SAXTON HAS SUSPICIONS. 207 "Very well, Sheba," said her mother, drawing herself up and growing very white. " You have said enough. Things have come to a crisis between us, and I mean to decide once for all. I will fifli let you openly defy me under my own roof. I have been too indulgent hitherto, and t/iis is the result — direct disobedience. Well, it shall be put a stop to now — at once. You do not go out of this house without my permission. You do not give another lesson to this German's child, or leave my roof under any pretence whatever. As long as you are under ag2 you are under your parents' authority, and I mean to enforce that authority — you hear me ? " " Yes," said Sheba very quietly. " I hear you." "Then remember I am in earnest," said Mrs. Levison; "I will have no more of your obstinacy and self-will. I have been a great fool to put up with then^ so long. But I shall not do so for another day — another hour. Now go to your room and reflect on what I have said." Sheba moved coldly and silently away. At the door she paused, and holding the handle in her hand, she looked back to where that passionate angry figure stood in the centre of the large room. " Will you tell me one thing," she said in a restrained voice — a voice so unlike her own that her mother scarcely recognized it ; "when — am I of age ? " " When you are twenty-one," said Mrs. Levison ; " nearly three years hence." " Three years," echoed the girl. " Well, mother, hear me now in my turn. For those three years I will do your bidding in all things save — marriage. But the very day the last year expires, I will leave your roof and go out into the world and earn my own temper at (living — though I have to work like a galley-slave to do it ! " 3VPV much B " Oh no, you won't," said Mrs. Levison, with a cold slighting 1 Mlaugh. " I know what all that bombastic talk is worth. Long taking twice." ut then pardon- ord. 1 ^hen the e__-none ses, why, 1 or not." lan made y Then i to have are doing. 10 fortune I life of a )Ssession— possession, p live, even nk yourself elf-satisficd. repent it as X— 1 really ,man of me." « perhaps tion of nine \er owever m ^" will have Blefore the three years are up, my dear, you will be glad to marry ^^The count ■"iiy one — even Count Pharamond." fen him every now to throw Ket. "That 15 m Yon as dinner ; n but i-l ^A CHAPTER XXXVL BESSIE SAXTON HAS SUSPICIONS. Im not to \un 'Oh, you silly ! silly ! silly," cried Dolly, dancing to and fro kfore Sheba, as she sat in her own room that evening. " Oh, lou great big goose of geese ! Only to think of it — such a chance, . \\ 20S •• SHEBA. M A 'li ^i ! M such a splendid, glorious, magnificent chance ! Oh I if I were only seventeen. If I were sixteen even, I would marry that count myself." " Would to Heaven you could," said Sheba lifting her pale face and heavy eyes to the little restless figure before her. " You have about as much heart as he has." " Heart ! " scoffed Dolly. *' Phooh ! What does that matter- in marrying ? Papa says money is everything. Here you would have money and position — both. Why, he has great castles — chateaux he calls them, in France — and horses anc carriages and goes to court : he has told me all that and so has mamma, and to think* you won't marry him. Oh, you silly donkey of a Sheba ! " " I suppose I am an idiot according to your interpretation and mother's," said Sheba coldly. " You will make up for my de- ficiencies, however. There will be no difficulty in marrying you to any satyr or roue in the shape of a man, provided only he has the where ithal to satisfy your extravagance." " I don't know what you mean by satyr — or the French word," said Dolly. *• Was it French — it sounded like it ? But I am sure Count Pharamond is a very nice man — much nicer than most of the men who come here." "Oh," laughed Sheba, scornfully, "if it trasts " "Well," said Dolly, "as you look down on why don't you marry a Christian? Is he a comes to con the Jewish men, Christian — or a Roman Catholic though ? " Sheba laughed outright. " It is time some one looked after your education," she said ; then the word " education " brought back the memory of her mother's mandate respecting her own little pupil, and her brow clouded again and she wondered what she could possibly say to Paul Meredith for breaking her engagen^ent in this abrupt fashion. " I couldn't believe it when mamma told me," went on the little chatterer. "That he should want to marry you was wonderful enough — but that you should say no — no I You surely don't mean it, Sheba?" "Yes," said the girl frowning, "I do, and I don't wish to discuss the subject with you or any one. Now go away from ray| room. I have to write a letter." " It is more than stupid, it is shameful," persisted Dolly, moving I reluctantly away. " I could have been your bridesmaid — one of J them — of course you would have had six at least, and we could have worn white lace over blue satin. Blue and white are myl (;olouis, you know, ancl th«;n the cj^ke, and \\\% fjivpuis, and m III BESSIE SAXTON HA SUSPICIONS. ao9 I were X count ale face "You natter— )U would :astles— ages and a, and to Sheba 1 " ition and r my de- rying you ay he has ich word," But I am nicer than to con ;wish men, tian— or a "she said; lory of her id her brow ssibly say to •upt fashion. on the little IS wonderful y don't mean 3olly, moving naid-oneo and we couW white are my VQUis, an^ all the fun of a red wedding, and how jealous the Moss's would have been — and to think it's all spoilt just because you've said * No.' It is downright cruel of you ! " " No doubt," said Sheba with exasperation. " Marriage of course entails nothing but just the ceremony, and the fuss and finery of the day ; nothing more — no after life togelherl *' " Well — children — generally," said Dolly with a cunning little smile. " But you needn't think about them — just at first" "Dolly," cried Sheba growing scarht. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Whatever will your precocity end in ? " " Oh, a husband and an establishment of course," said the child grinning maliciously. " I've heard about nothing else since I was three years old. I shall be quite an heiress, you know, I shall be able to pick and choose — you can't afford to do that — your own mother says so. That's why every one will think you such a fool — even your friend Bessie Saxton. Take care jshe doesn't catch him. She would give her ears to do it, I know." " Are you going ? " asked Sheba wearily, as she sat down again on her chair and leaned her head on her hand. " You are always in a hurry to get rid of me," said the child. " And I'm sure I'm the only one in the house who cares for you at all. Oh, Sheba, do, do think over the count's offer. You will no longer be snubbed and badly treated ; you will be as grand a lady as the Governor General's wife — you could have diamonds as big as peas — much bigger than Mrs. Moss's. I know hers are only second-hand ; her husband got them from a client who had borrowed money at 50 per cent, I heard that from Sara Moss herself. Oh ! if I were only in your shoes, I'd dance for joy at the idea of such a chance. Mamma and papa can talk of nothing else. Do you know Bessie Saxton is coming to morrow — to stay ? Whatever will she say when she hears this ? " Sheba groaned in despair. It seemed as if nothing but main force would get rid of the irrepressible Dolly to-night " You don't seem at all happy as you are," she persisted, " so why don't you try another sort of life ? You are not bad-looking now — but it won't last, and then you'll find yourself an old maid." Sheba rose and seized the child by the arm. " Dolly," she said sternly, "you have said enough; now go. You don't understand my reasons, and I am not going to explain them. Leave the room at once." Sulky and abashed the child obeyed, and Sheba at last left to herself sat down to pen a few lines to Meredith in explanation of her broken engagement. The hot tears filled her eyes as she wrote. Her Ufe would seem so hard and dreary now without 14 :\ i 1 310 "SUEBA/ M W'i ) v ■ '■ ■* l i ■> ■ i 1 ■1 : occupation and without congenial companionship. And MuUer, the kind-hearted old German, what would he think of her changed resolves? Still her mother had spoken so firmly and definitely that the girl did not dream of disobeying her. Never did she remember being spoken to in such a manner since her early childhood, and she saw clearly enough that Mrs. Levison meant what she said. A great chill and fear seemed to touch her heart as she thought of what such tyranny would mean now. Isolation — silence — pain. The absence of a face she had grown to watch and long for as the day's one delight. The chance meeting of eyes, elo- quent in their very silence. But she wrote her letter all the same, and it was all the colder and more formal because of the pain that shadowed every word ; she wrote it and rang for a servant to post it, and then when it had actually gone, sat on there in her quiet little chamber, wondering what fresh ills Fate had in store for her. Meanwhile the story of her folly and obstinacy was being related to her step-father. It did not tend to increase his luke- warm affection for the girl, but it made him very furious with what he called her d d high-flown airs. He even went so far as to declare that if she persisted in refusing Pharamond's offer he would turn her out of his house, but his wife reminded him that in all probability that would just suit the refractory girl. "She is always talking about independence," added her mother. " The best way to break her spirit is to keep her here in complete subjection, and not allow her to do anything she wishes." " By Jove ! " said Mr. Levison suddenly, " I believe you're right. No doubt those new friends would encourage her in obstinacy. Very well — give her a taste of solitary confinement; perhaps that will take the nonsense out of her. Ah ! " and he turned proudly to Dolly, who was stuffing herself with raisins and bonbons from his plate, " what a pity you didn't bring her up as I have brought my daughter. No fear of her turning up her nose at a good offer for some romantic nonsense about love — eh, Dolly, my pet ? " " I should think not, papa," said Dolly. " I suppose," she added reflectively, " the count wouldn't wait for me ? You might ask him." Mr. Levison burst into such explosive mirth over the clever- ness of this remark, that his wife had left the table before he recovered either gravity, or breath. She betook herself to her own room, and thought and thought i till her head ached, of what she could do to make Sheba retract | her refusal to marry Count Pharamond. "Vi BESSIE SAXTON HAS SUSPICIONS. 911 ! NliiUer, .hanged ^finitely did she er early n meant ; thought iilence— and long eyes, elo- thc same, ; pain that : to post it, Jjuiet little )r her. was being e his luke- arious with went so far ^ond's offer ciinde_d him actory girl. ler mother, in complete xesy lieve you're rage her in onfinement ; ^ \ » and be ti raisins and dg her up as [ning up her 'ut love— en, ippose," she You mig"^ »r the clever- )le before he and thought I Sheba retract " She must and s/iail accept," she repeated with angry resolu- tion. ** I couldn't have the face to say ' No ' to a titled person- age — and she will be perfectly unbearable living on here for the next three years. Ohi why hadn't I a daughter like Bessie Saxton?" The next day Bessie Saxton herself arrived for that visit upon which she had determined, and for which she had almost asked. When she heard the news she was as furious as Mrs. Levison, but for a very different reason. She felt she had been duped and tricked by this man, and as she remembered some of his words and hints, the blood rushed in a hot tide of wrath and humiliation to her face. Being as unreasonable as a jealous woman proverbially is, she blamed Sheba in an equal degree, and though she pretended to ally herself with Mrs. Levison, she secretly determined that the girl should never Have the opportunity of changing her mind. " There musi be some one else," she thought. " I am sure of it, otherwise she would have jumped at such a chance. I shall find out before long, and then " Without finishing the reflection she went to Sheba. The girl was sitting at a small table covered with books and papers. She sprang to her feet with a cry of delight when she saw Bessie enter. " You have come, then ? " she said. " Oh, I am so glad. I suppose you know I am in disgrace as usual ? " "You are very unlucky," said Bessie, kissing her somewhat coldly. " What is this new folly I hear of ? " " They all want me to marry that odious Count Pharamond," said Sheba passionately, " and I won't — nothing will induce me to accept him." '* Let us talk it over," said Bessie composedly. " I don't see why you should call him odious. He is the only gentleman — barring Noel Hill — that I have ever met at your house ; and cer- tainly he is a very good match." " Oh ! " cried Sheba impatiently, " when shall I hear the last of his being a good match ? As if I cared for M^/ / " " Do you care for any one else ? " asked Bessie, looking at her [ search ingly. Sheba flushed scarlet, then grew as suddenly pale. " Care ? " she said. " I — no — of course not. I have never [even thought of such a thing." "Oh," said her friend coolly, "love doesn't always wait to be 14-2 1 ill ••SllEBA." : -1! i I- lii —thought of — before paying us a visit. Perhaps Noel Hill has found favour in your eyes." Sheba laughed outright. <**Noel Hill? He is just like a brother. I have never thought of him in any other way." "Wf^ll," said Bessie, "the question is, what's to be done? Your mother and Mr. Levison are simply furious. They mean to make you accept this man if it is possible." " It will never be possible," said Sheba calmly, * never. They may kill me if they like. I really often think I wouldn't mind if they did. I have always been unhappy — always — and no one cares for me here. They would be very glad if I was dead " " Oh, don't talk of anything so horrible," said Bessie with a little shiver. " Death indeed 1 Why, you hardly know what life is yet. But what are you going to do? Of course they can't force you to marry this man, but they can make life very unpleasant for you if you don't." " I know that," said Sheba mournfully. " Mother has for- bidden me to teach little Paul Meredith any longer, and I have had to write and explain that to his father. It is very cruel. It was the only pleasure I had." "An odd sort of pleasure, I should fancy," said Bessie. " But then you always were such an extraordinary girl." Then a sudden thought crossed her mind. " Perhaps it was the father who was the attraction. He is handsome enough certainly, and juat the type of man to attract a romantic girl like Sheba. She is such a fool — she couldn't keep a secret from me. .... I must find out." But for the present she only plied her with skilful hints and pretended sympathy, and Sheba even confided to her the resolve she had made to write, and in discussing ihat engrossing subject she had almost forgotten her new trouble, when a sharp knock came at the door, and a servant entered with a card : "Mr. Paul Meredith, if you pi le, to see Miss Ormatroyd." Sheba started to her feetj hei face growing as white as her dress. " Oh, Besfie," she gasped, " what am I to do ? What can I say ? " Bessie looked at her white face and great startled eyes. " I do believe " she said to herself. Then she laughed aloud. " Don't be so terrified," she said ; " go and tell him the facts as they stand. Your mother wants you to marry this French count, and because you won't, rhe refuses to let you Ho anything you yourself wish." " Shall I tell him—that ? " faltered Sheba, growing red and pale with emotion. " Won't he think it very odd ? " A CRISIS. aij ill has like a done? y mean They I't mind i no one ad—" e with a )W what irse they life very has for- d I have cruel. It ie. "But aps it was tie enough ic girl like from me. hints and the resolve ing subject harp knock matroyd." rhite as her do? What d eyes. "J ighed aloud. the facts as 'rench count, anything you iring red and ** Not in the least, I imagine," said her friend dryly. " And you know you have a predilection for speaking the truth." Sheba moved toward^ the door in a shy, absorbed fashion, and Bessie's cold blue eyes studied her intently. "I am sure I am right,' she said to hersel/. "She will tell him exactly how matters are, and then — well, then I suppose there will be a crisis 1 " CHAPTER XXXVIL A CRISIS. With trembHn<» finsjers Shoha turned the handle of the drawing- room door and found herseU in the preseiice of Paul Meredith. He came towards her quickly and held out his hand. " Miss Ormatroyd," he said, " what is the meaning of all this ? Your note was such a surprise to me ; I felt I must have an explanation. They told me your mother was out, so I asked for you. I — I really could not understand what you meant by saying you could not come any more to my house. It is as if — as if — you had not been treated with proper respect, or considera- tion there." " Oh, no, no," cried Sheba impetuously. " Pray do not think that. I must have expressed myself very badly, but I was so distressed — so unhappy " He saw she was trembling violently, ^,nd still holding her hand he led her to a chair. " Look upon me as a friend," he said, " and tell me all that has happened. Am I to blame ? " " No," cried Sheba, liushing hotly, " it is not you ; it is — myself. They never wished me to teach — still my mother did not absolutely forbid it — but now " " Yes ? " he said inquiringly as she paused. She lifted her great sorrowful eyes to his, and that look went to his heart, it was so pathetic and so patient. " I don't know if I oughj to tell you," she stammered, her colour changing with every word. " They wish me to — marry." " Marry 1 " he started as he echoed the word, and looked at her again with soft and troubled eyes. " Marry," Sheba continued, " some one I don't like — and because I refused they have forbidden me to do anything that will take me away from home ; that is all. I did not like to tell you when I wrote." "I should think not," he said, his face growing dark with f 314 "SHEBA." '•» i i'l^ ' t '-■ i. ; . '■'■ ■ r I I '■■ 1 ■'j :i i ■ 1 •f ■A 1 IB anger. "What an infamous thing ! And who is the individual whose suit is so favoured ? " *' A French count who visits here. The Count de Pharamond, " said Sheba, colouring shyly. " Good heavens ! " he cried passionately. " That blackguard ! " Sheba looked up in surprise. " Is he a bad man ? " she asked simply. " I felt it — but I could not say why." " Yes," answered Meredith curtly. " He is bad — thoroughly bad — but report says he is enormously rich. I suppose that gilds even his sins in the eyes of your parents. Have you known him long ? " " No," cried Sheba ; " only a few weeks " *' And have you refused — decidedly refused to marry him ? " asked Meredith. " Yes," she said quickly. " But he spoke to my mother, not to me, and I don't think she has told him that I said — na" " But," he said, " it seems very preposterous that for this reason you are not to fulfil your engagement. I left Paul crying his eyes out. Nothing would satir.fy him but that I should come here and speak to you myself. It is very unfortunate," he added, " for I am leaving Sydney soon and I felt so happy in thinking you would be with him, and prevent his missing me. Perhaps if I were to speak to your mother " " I am afraid," Sheba said sorrowfully, " it would be no use. I did not know that I had no right to make any engagement with- out their sanction. They seemed glad enough to get rid of me just at that time." He walked up and down the long room — his brows knit — his face dark with anger. "You are not happy — here?" he said abruptly. " No," she said, the tears gathering in her eyes. " Most un- happy." " I thought so — I felt it," Tie went on, speaking stormily and yet with deep feeling. "I never said much to you, but I could read your face and I knew your life, young as it was, had known troubles ; so has mine, as I told you when we met again. Perhaps I should not speak, perhaps I am saying too much, but if it lay in my power — if I could make you happy " " You," she cried — and startled and confused and vaguely glad she sprang to her feet, and gazed at his troubled face and kindling eyes. " I " — he said very low, " I never thought to say it again to living woman. I set myself against you — I avoided you as you ^ know — but — well, fate is too strong for me I suppose — I love you, A CRISIS. 215 ividual mond," ruard 1 " le asked Droughly ose thai ,u known ry him ? " other, not -na" t for this >aul crying ould come he added, m thinking Perhaps it 5 no use. 1 ement with- t rid of me vs knit— his .^» he sjdd " Most un- stormily and to you, bu^ ng as it was, /hen we met _ saying too happy-7 . vaguely glad )led face and ly it again to .dyou as you ._-! love you. Sheba. Will you trust me ? Will you share my wandering life and end all this unha'ppiness and tyranny? I think I could make you happy .... if you would let me." Sheba had listened like one in a dream. It seemed as if she was in a dream — standini:^ there in the big shadowy room with its closed shutters and faintly perfumed air — standing there and hearing such words from this her heio— the one man, who all unknown to herself, had peopled her fancies and lived in her memory since the first hour his eyes had met her own. Her heart throbbed so fiercely it nearly suffocated her. The light and the shadows seemed to swim hazily before her sight. " You cannot mean it," she cried faintly. " It is out of pity you speak. I- — I should not have told you about this — r-" She sank down in her chair and hid her face in her hands. A stifled sob escaped her. It seemed as if the last drop had 'filled her cup of shame and perplexity He came near, and stooping touched her hands with his lips. " Do not weep," he said ; " I would not pain you for all the world. Is it so hard to believe I love you ? If a man like Count Phara- mond has been subjugated, that might teach you your power." Her hands were drawn into his — her eyes, still humid with tears, looked back at his own. She seemed to realize at last that he spoke truly, and her whole nature yielded to the passionate and enthralling force of awakened feeling. "Oh," she cried brokenly, "I am not worthy of your love; you are so great, so famous — and I " "Indeed, I am but a graceless singer," he said, and drew her gently to his heart, and touched almost with reverence the tremb- ling mobile lips, " but you will be to me inspiration — glory — life." "I — -oh no," she murmured, trembling greatly at the strangeness of that first embrace, which made her heart throb like a bird in the hand of its captor. "If — you love me," he said, "and I think you do " "Yes," she said simply. "I did not know — I hardly dared to [think — but I know now." " That is well," he said, drawing a long deep breath. " And I after confessing it you need not worry yourself any more ; I will [fight your battles for you " He raised her head, and looked long and earnestly into those [great, deep wonderful eyes. What wells of truth and tenderness [and purity they were. As they thus stood oblivious to all else, tranced in that half [embrace, the door opened and Mrs. Levison swept in. r :i 2l6 "SHEBA." I -'i. As a matter of history, it has not yet been recorded that the sight of one's daughter enacting on her own responsibility the rdle of the female character in that celebrated picture of " The Huguenot," has ever been greeted with special cordiality. Mrs. Levison was not destined to prove an exception to the rule; perhaps, however, she found — as other mothers before and after her time have found — that the other character in the affecting tableau was just the very last person she would have desired to see in it. Bristling and irate, she darted a vengeful glance at Meredith and then at Sheba, and said icily : " Pray may I ask who is this — ^gentleman ? ** Feeling he was in a false position, Paul stammered feebly that he had called to inquire Miss Ormatroyd's reason for breaking her engagement. "For the rest," he added, gaining courage at sight of Sheba's terror, "I am quite ready to give you an explanation of .... of what must seem a little — extra- ordinary " " Extraordinary ! " cried Mrs. Levison, her face growing red and furious at the coolness and audacity of this stranger; "I should think it was — extraordinary." " Perhaps," he said, " when I tell you that I love your daughter, and that she does me the honour to return that love, you will allow that " " Allow ! Love ! What preposterous nonsense ! I — I don't understand how you dare speak of such things — you, a total stranger." " Pardon me. I am not a stranger to iyour daughter, and I am endeavouring to explain " "I don't want any explanations," interrupted Mrs. Levison passionately, "and I have nothing to say to you on such a sub- ject except that I have other views for my daughter. Even if I had not, I should not listen to a person who takes advantage of a girl's unprotected position to make clandestine love to her, unknown to her rightful guardians." " Mother 1 " cried Sheba, her eyes flashing indignantly, " do not | accuse Mr. Meredith of dishonourable conduct. He never spoke i one word to me that all the world might not have heard, and I never even guessed that he did me the honour of caring for J me, till a few moments ago." " Honour ! " sneered Mrs. Levison furiously. "Fine honour!! But I am not here to discuss the matter. . Leave the roomj instantly, Sheba — instantly," stamping her foot us the girl gavel no sign of attention. " As for this presumptuous individual, 11 y-i I « A CRISIS. ai7 at the Lty the it The to the jre and ffecting sired to lereditu d feebly ason for [^ gaining f to give le— extra- owing red anger; "1 ,r daughter, re, you will I^I don't ou, a total rhter, and I [rs. Levison such a sub- Even if 1 advantage of I [love to her, ntly/'do'^,°^ U never spoke fe heard, and of caring foi j Fine honour' lave the room ■ the girl gave Is individual,! will send Mr. Levison to him with an answer. I have given my opinion ; and, now, sir, I must ask you to leave the house." She waved her arm towards the door, but Meredith only advanced to Sheba and took both her hands in his. "One moment, madam," he said proudly. "You Ihave insulted me most grossly, but for that I care little. I must tell you, however, that I consider my love for your daughter and l^ers for me gives me a right to protect her from the unkindness and tyranny she experiences at home. Whenever she chooses to leave that home and seek my protection, I shall be ready to receive her. I will make her my wife to-morrow if she will only say the word." *' She will not dare to say the word, as you call it," cried Mrs. Levison, trembling now with passion and baffled ambition. '' Bad and bold as her conduct is, I yet trust she has not qui/g forgotten the duty and obedience she owes me. As long as she is under age she shall remain under my roof, and she cannot marry without my consent." Paul Meredith smiled. " I think," he said, " you are speak- ing somewhat foolishly. She is over sixteen, and quite of an age to marry with, or without your consent. I am sorry to have to speak so plainly, but you have brought it on yourself, and I fail to see why you should insult me, without waiting to hear who, or what I am. If I gave up my profession to-morrow and went back to England, I should be entitled to a position equal to that of this not very reputable French count whose suit you favour." " If you were a prince of the blood it would make no difference to my determination," said Mrs. Levison loftily. " I consider you have behaved as no gentleman would ever have done, and, as I said before, I have other views for my daughter." He bowed coldly and looked once more at the trembling, white-faced girl by his side. " Courage, my dearest," he said softly. " Remember I shall be true to you, come what may ; and now, as it seems useless to prolong this unpleasant interview, I will say good-evening." He took up his hat, gave one long pressure to Sheba's hand, bowed ceremoniously to her mother, and left the room. As the door closed Mrs. Levison turned on Sheba like a tigress. She was in far too great a past ion to weigh her speech, or care l*hat terms of wrath and opprobrium ohe showered on the girl. Her coarse, cruel words tore off every illusion that had iheltered and made beautiful this idyl of her love. She heard ler conduct described as immodest, indelicate, hypocritical, false, I 3l8 "SHEJ^A." 'K1 vile, treacherous, every epithet indeed that passion and injustice could frame into utterance. Many as had been the painful scenes between her mother and herself, there had never been a scene like this. For Sheba was determined to be true to her own heart, and her mother was equally determined she should not. Like most tyrannical people, Mrs. Levison could not stand opposition. It made her cruel, vindictive and irrational. She stormed and raved, and grew more and more wrathful every moment, while Sheba only stood there mute and still, but with that resolute look on her white face that her mother knew of old, and which made her inwardly ashamed of her undignified anger, and vaguely conscious that it was as the sea's futile waves dashing against the immovability of a rock. " Now listen — once for all," she said when she had fairly exhausted her vocabulary of abuse. " I have made up my mind that you s/ia// marry Pharamond, and no one else, so the sooner you give up this romantic nonsense the better. Go to your room, and don't leave it until you are prepared to obey my wishes. If you come to your senses I will perhaps endeavour to forgive your undutiful conduct. For the present I would rather not see your face at all. I am ashamed even to think a daughter of mine, brought up as you have been brought up, should be guilty of such a low, miserable intrigue as this Ihat I have discovered. I shall have poor little Dolly contaminated next." The bathos of that conclusion made Sheba laugh, despite her distress and perplexity. "You had better keep her from me, then," she said as she prepared to leave the room. " And if your forgiveness depends on my marrying Pharamond, I am afraid it will be a long time before it is required." " I say you s/m/l marry him," said Mrs. Levison fiercely, stamping her foot ns she spoke. " And I," said Sheba resolutely and quietly, " say I shall not Nothing will induce jne to do so — nothing I " Mrs. Levison's face grew ashy and haggard. She was far more bent on this match now than she had been before, partly because she hated to find herself worsted in any combat, and partly because she really considered that a marriage with an opera singer, "a puppet of the stage," as she termed Meredith, would be an ever- lasting disgrace. She was terribly obstinate and prejudiced inj some things, and no amount of argument could convince her that i a gentleman could ever make music, or acting his profession, when there were honourable, lucrative posts, such as clerkships inj A CRISIS. 919 justice er and ba was ler was people, r cruel, id grew y Stood l\ite face inwardly IS that It ability of lad fairly my mind he sooner to your ny wishes. to forgive ler not see jr of mine, ity of such d. 1 shall despite her ^on fiercely, I shall not. ^as far more -artly because fartly because Ira singer, a t be an ever- Lrejudicedin Vince her that [fession, Nvhen I clerkships m merchants' offices ar J banks, to be had almost for the asking. Dcliglited as she would have l)ccn to see Sheba married, she yet had not the slightest intention of allowing her to marry any one like Meredith, and with the proposal of Count Pharamontl still ringing in her ears, she could not even M/V//& calmly of her daughter's audacious suitor. She threw herself, exhausted and weakly crying, on a couch as the door closed on Sheba. How she pitied herself for the mis- fortune of possessing such a dauj^hter. Why could she not be as other girls, even as Bessie Saxton ? Just then the door opened again, and Bessie put her head in. " Gracious I " she cried. " What /las hapi)ened ? Sheba passed me just now like a tornado, and has locked herself into her room, and now you — my dear Mrs. Levison, pray tell me what is the matter ? " And between her sobs and bursts of rage Mrs. L'^.vison told her. Bessie listened quite silently, but her eyes sparkled with malice and her heart beat high with triumph. When Mrs. Levison ceased and withdrew her handkerchief, she gazed appealingly at the girl's impassive face. " Oh, my dear," she moaned, "can't you help me? Is there nothing you could advise ? " For a moment Bessie was silent. Then she said in a low, hard voice, " If you are resolved on this marriage, there is but one thing to do — desperate cases, desperate remedies, you know. I — I hardly like to suggest anything. I know how obstinate Sheba is. Ar^fuments and persuasions are simply wasted on her." "You are right," groaned Mrs. Levison. " Ah, if Providence had only blessed me with a daughter like you ! But what is the suggestion, my dear? I would do anything — anythingio prevent her marrying this singer." " Well," said Bessie, a little nervously and lowering her ^''oice, "it is simply this : you must get Pharamond to — comproiri^t — her in some way. Then she will be obliged to marry him." Mrs. Levison stared at her. " What do you mean ? " she asked, somewhat startled at the boldness of the suggestion. " It is the only thing to do," said the girl hurriedly, " and it is easily managed. I have read about it in French novels, and a hint would be enough for Pharamond. I could manage it if you wish. Of course only for your sake. I can't bear to see you so unhappy." " And how is it to be done ? " asked Mrs. Levison curiously. "Simply enough. Give one of your large dinner-parties, and arrange that the count shall stay a few days here. That is all." ; vi 3 ." -jr i»'.: '■:U 2ao ••SHEBA." " But," stammered Mrs. Levison, " my husband will think it odd. We have never asked him to stay before .... and — he might refuse." The girl rose and shrugged her handsome shoulders with a gesture of indifference. " He will not refuse," she said, and a faint colour stained her clear pale skin. "And I thought you asked my advice." " Yes," said Mrs. Levison almost humbly, ** I did — but- t€ If you can suggest anything else, do so," said Bessie coldly. " I know Sheba better than you do. She will never marry this man unless — circumstances force her to do so." " And you think," said Mrs. Levison, " that you can arrange the — circumstances ? I should not like any scandal, you know." "There will be none," said Bessie, with an odd hard smile. "I have read my little plot in a French novel. It is as simple as it is effectual. You can trust me, Mrs. Levison." " Ah ! " sighed that lady with her ever recurring regret, " so clever — so pretty. Tf on/y you had been my daughter instead of Sheba 1" CHAPTER XXXVIIL PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT. " GoTT tm Htmmel ! " cried old M tiller, staring aghast at an agitated figure pacing to and fro their qniet sitting-room. " What say you ? Marry her — marry Sheba Ormatroyd ! You,' the woman- hater — the anchorite ! Was ist denn mit ihr ? " " What can I do ? " said Meredith, dragging a chair up to the table, and gazing moodily at his friend's face. " I love the girl — more than words can say. I have avoided her, as you know, because .... because I feared my strength .... It was no use- she is wretched. Her life will be ruined if she stays with those people-— and the mother .... Heavens 1 if you had heard her— and they seem determined to force her into the arms of this French libertine. I know enough of him. As I told you, he is behind the scenes nearly every ni^T;ht — and I know for a fact he has ruined that pretty little Coralie Grey, the dancer. Faugh — it is sacrilege to think of Sheba even in his presence." " And so, " said Miiller gravely, " you — love — each other. I am surprised, and yet I always thought the girl looked upon you as a sort of hero. She is very romantic, you know — but she is so young. Are you sure, Ueder Freund^ that you can trust her?, J^eiw^iuber your first lesson. a PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT. •ai t odd. migbt with a ed her coldly, irry this arrange know." mile. "I iple as it gret, " so instead of last at an " What the woman- up to the )ve the girl you know, as no use— with those leard her-- this French s behind the s ruined that sacrilege to other. lam upon you as 3Ut she IS so n trust her? **I do," said the young man growing very pale and with a hardening of the lips that made his face look strangely stern. " I remembered it so long that I have scarcely even spoken to Sheba Ormatroyd when she has been here. It was hard enough, some- times. Those beautiful eloquent eyes used to gaze at me so innocentlv and beseechingly." "But,*' said Miiller, lighting his big pipe as was his wont in any case of discussion, " there are complications — you remember you told me your story. Is it safe, think you, to marry without proof that you are free ? " " I have the best proof — his word," answered Meredith moodily. " Besides, she deserted me. She has no longer a claim." " True," said the old German. " But if Sheba knew — would she marry you ? that is the question. Women are so odd, you know, such sticklers for ceremony. And if anything should chance hereafter " "How could it? What nonsense you talk," exclaimed the young man impatiently. " Even if — she — were not dead as that ruffian swore, she has no legal right or claim on me, and I am not the sort of man to play the deceiver. I love Sheba Ormatroyd as I never thought to love living woman, and I would be true to her with or without legal compulsion — that I swear." " Oh," said Miiller indifferently, " as for forms and ceremonies, you know what I think of them ! No man ought to marry if he cannot of himself be true to the woman he loves. Feeling that is absolutely certain, he needs not the mummery of a priest's words to make the union holy. But that is all very well, only would Sheba think so ? " " We can be married by a registrar," said Meredith. " There is no need for the religious ceremony at all, and no likelihood of it," he added bitterly, " for it will certainly be a case of running off with her. That mother of hers will never consenf. You ought to have heard her abuse me and my position, Miiller ; it would have dope your heart good ; she looks upon music as a disgrace, it appears, and I am a sort of licensed mountebank, dressed up to sing and act at so much a night. There is a new view of your adored art for you ! " " Phooh ! " said the old man contemptuously, " does the prating of fools make any difference to the laws of existence? Why waste breath in combating the ignorance of a small section of humanity ? You ought to know better than to care for such pin- pricks." " It is not that I — care," said Meredith ; " I am too proud and too fond of my art to heed what such people as these Levisons > ' 222 "SlIEBA." I^S \':i V i i ■.'<»■' Pro say ; only it surprised me somewhat to see one light in which it is viewed." Then he rose and began his pacing of the room. " What is to be