THE TURN OF THE TIDE.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 1520, 19 February 1886, Page 4

THE TURN OF THE TIDE.

She was stepping along in the pelting rain through the clay mud of a London suburb, worked up by the constant traffic into liquid slush. It was downright drenching rain, wetting to the skin every unfortunate pedestrian who happened to be out in it j yet she marched along, giving no heed to the solicitations of omnibus conductors or the beckoning of cab-drivers, with a smile on her lips, her head well up, and her feet Bet down to the rhythm of an old tune which had got into her biain somehow and helped her along wonderfully. Her feet, with their high instep and —alas—their well-worn chauxsure, moved musically to the swing of the time and rhe smiled and did not seem to notice that the rain was soaking through her unprotected skirts, and pouring like so many miniature water-spouts from every point of her drenched umbrella.

" She" was a young girl, of a tall, erect figure, well poisrd and balanced, with well made but rather shabby dress. She stepped along briskly in spite of the rain and wind and m;.d, until something hnpppned to one of her goloshes. She stooped to draw it farther on, when, unfortunately, the well-worn indiarubber gate way in a long hopeless rent. "And goloshes cannot be mended 1" she exclaimed, ruefully, as she held the article up and recognised the full extent of the misfortune. "It will not keep on—and my poor boot has a hole in the sole. Well, I shall get one wet foot, at all events." She threw the useless golosh into the road, and walked on not quite so lightly as before. She had still a good way to go, and her wet garments clung around her ; and not only the goloshless foot, but her other and better provided one was pretty well soaked by the time she reached her destination.

Here she was evidently expected. A face wm looking out anxiously from amongst the flower pota io the window of a little villa with " Apartm«nt|" ovsr th« door,

" Oh, Allace," cried the owner of the face, coming to the door and opening it, " how wet you mint be! Why didn't you take the omnibuip"

"JTor powerful and financial reasons, de »r." The other sighed. She was a young gir' too, smaller and slighter than the first, yet with a likeness which told of near relationship " You have not asked me my news," Allace said, as soon as the door was shut upon her. " I can't think of anything whilst jou are so wet, dear. And we have no fire. Tlip last scuttle of coal was quite burnt out, and you know " "Yes, I know," interposed Alhee, cheerfully—" we counted our sixpences and decided we could'nt atTord another. Never mind, Vera dear, wo are drawing neirto better days " ' Are we?"

" Yes, I have got the situation, T suppose t must say ; the word 'appointment' is affected, isn't it. Mrs Forlescue was graciously pleased to like my appearance ; and my reference was satisfactory. She rea'ly couldn't give me the salary I asked, beciu-c I hadn't been ' out' before—although she will cxp ct the same work from me; but she offered me forty pounds a year —and I took it, and she has got a birgain, Vera!" All n-o tried to laugh as she let her wet petticoats slip to the floir of the little bedroom, but the laugh wa« rather a failure.

Vera was holding the dry skirts sho "had prepared against he sister's coming ; and, a» she dropped them over the other's head she held her head away, and busi d herself with the hooks and eves.

" Yes, it is good news, Allace," she said speaking very slowly, to keep back the tears. " I—l am very glad. It—it i< just whit we wanted, isn't it ?"

Then Allace suddenly turrcd round, and caught her in her arm?, and I lit* two motherless, deso ate girls, who had ju-t received the ( sentence they dreaded most —the sentence of separation—hold each other tightly for a moment, with a struggling sob or two, but without a word. When they did speak, it was of something else—that subject was too tender for speech. " You have only one golosh, Allace!" Vera exclaimed, making the discovery as she brought her sister's dry slippers. " The other gave way, like a false friend, in my wor?t need," Allnce an wi red, smiling. "And my poor boot!' - —examining 1 it with a shake of the head. "Ah, Ye™, we shall have to come to common hoo's and shoes—the last thing we have held out against!" " But with forty pounds a year, Allace ?" " Forty pounds a year won't do everything, dear. Haven't we found out lately how money molts away P No, for the future we must give up French-made boots. After all, that is not much to give up"—after giving up each other, she thought, but she da-ed not say it.

" And your feet are wet through—and you take such bad colds!" exclaimed Yen. " I'll get you a cup of hot tea directly." She rang the bell as she spoke. it uppeared to her the easiest, thing in housekeeping to keep a kettle of water boiling —to have it boiling at (our o'clock in the afternoon, at all events—but Mrs Longford was one of those landladies who have a boiling kettle only at certain orthodox times and seasons; consequently the hot cup of tea could not be had—not until Allace, naturally susceptible of cold, was shivering in her dry clothes and past the benefit to be derived from it. Vera fidge'ed round the room, hovered near the belt—which she dared not ring a second time —and was half crying with anger and vexation, when the teapot appeared. Allace, meanwhile, talked on, to cover the long interval as much as possible. .Now that she had thrown aside her hat, it could bo seen how the lace matched the figure. There was firmness of character in the i-omewhat square chin, and the full, wellmodelled lips, and strength and decision in the clear, bright eyes, and in the set of the graceful neck. For the rest, it was an attractive face, with a clear, colourless complexion, relieved by ma?ses of dark hair, growing low behind the e irs and over the white temples ; soft dimples nestled in the orners of the mouth and showed when she smiled. She wa< smiling now, as she smoothed back her hair before the little black-bordered lookinggiuss over the fireplace.

'• Mrs Furtescue took notes without any disguise," said she. " I fancy she thought me too good-looking for a governe-s ; slie looked me well over, hoped I was not dressy——" " Uh, Allace,' cried Vera, indignantly, " she treated you like a housemaid !" " Kather," returned Allace. " Bat the children were nice ; 1 saw them. I think one could get fond of them ; and, as Mrs Fortescue proposes to a-k me only occasion illy into the drawing-room, I shall not see much of lier."

" Allace, can you bear it ?" Vera came and laid her head down on the shoulder of her braver and stronger sister. " Yes, I can," answered Allace, turning rnind to pre-s ner lips upon the soft c'ieek near tliem. " Think, darling—forty pounds n year, and we have come to almost our last forty pence! And after this 1 shall have been ' out' before, you know, and I shall be able to ask the eighty guineas we talked of; and that will be enough for both of us. And in the meantime Mrs Longford will give you credit until I get the first payment. And 1 am to have every Saturday afternoon to my* Self | and we can be together then, aud—" She stopped short, for the poor little compensations she was trying to make so much of suddonly showed so forlornly inadequate, and the terrible separation loomed up so black and desperate, that she could not go on. " Ves, Allace," said Vera, very softly and mtekly, in the pause. She hardly knew what she was easing, but she thought Allace expected her to say something. " Here comes the tea,'' said Allace neit, drawing up to the table with a great show of alacrity. " How welcome it is 1' •' It r s not very strong," apologised Yera. " I had to leave a little fjr breikfast." " But its hot —and that s the great thing," rejoined her sister, '* >'ow, Vera"—as she emptied her cup and shook it—" we'll try old nur.-e's trick—don't } ou remember? long ago. We'll tell our fortunes in the tei-grounds: the first shall be mine. Let us see. Ah, there's trouble here, ciose at haul. Well, we've had the troub'e, haven't we, dear? And there's a long, steep path—l rather like climbing—and a d.rk gentleman, as nurse used to say ; and 1 believe it all comes in the end—nurse's fortunes always did. Now for yours, lloie's a letter, and a great crowd, and something big—rurse would have called it a church rteeple, and said it betokened a wedding—you are to marry and restore our fortunes, Vera.' Kat—tat—sounded the postman's knock at the door.

" There's the letter, alr.ady, I declare !" cried Allace, starting up, and opening the rco:n-door just as an envelope fluttered through the opening marked " Letters" down on to the of tue little passage. "For you or for me F I don't know which. It is addretsed 1 Miss JJrummond,' but out advertisement correspondents don't make any distinction of Christian names. Shall I open it P 'Douglas, 1 " —turning to the signature —" Do jou kuow it? tit-p, let us read it."

" • 3, Berkeley Square, Tuesday morning, "'JMy dear Miss Drummond, —The lady whpm 1 had engaged as governed be jig un*

able to come to me, I have turned to you as the next on my list, and, if you are still disengngeH, I shall be glad if you can take her place at once. We start for the Continent on fhurtday' (" This is Tue»dny" commented \llace), 'so that it will bp better for you to join us here, if possible, to-morrow. I must apologise for giving jou such short notice, but I have already explained the reason. I believe all details of salary, duti -s, etc., were gone into at our last interview, so that I need not repeat them, and am, in haste, "' Yours sincerely, "♦Kathehine L. Douglas.

'"lf you should be unable to take the post, will you kindly telegraph to me at once ? ' " Vera had been flushing and paling as Allace read

" Tt is for me, Allace," said she, clasping lipr hands. " Don't you remember the lady I went to see a fortnight ago in answer to her advertisement ? SI e was very nice." "It is a nice letter," responded Allace—- " not at all in the Fortescue style." " Site i her governess was always C)ns:derod one of the fami'y," said Vera, "and she seemed to think me too young. You know I was so disappointed at the time. They go abroad fur three every year." "It at t! e harpiest moment!' crl'd Allace. "Just reach me that shawl, Vera," —-hivering. " No, I am only a little chilly. You shall give me another cup of tea, and then we will count our money ajain—we are always counting muney, lik j the couple of misers in the Du'ch picture—and pack up our belongings. "It doesn't seem half so bfid," she exclaimed, letting the involuntary admission paps, " now that you are going too. It went to my heart to leave you here alone."

" But, Allace, that dreadful Mrs Fortescue!"

" Well, never mind her. I think I can ' fit' upon her if necessary," answi red Allace, drawing up her proud neck for a moment, but laughing the next. " Seriously, dear, I think Mrs Fortvseue will be good forme—you know I reed something or somebody to struggle with, to keep my superabundant energy in check. I am not afraid of Mrs Foitescue. And there will be the holidays—we are both to stand out for that—and we will go away to some sweet little country plnc.> together. An J then there's your fortune in the t a oun, you know. You are to get married ; a> d the crowd must mean riches. You are to be rich, my dear, and ali our troubles are to come to an end."

" Why is it not you who are to marry, Alla'-e?" •

"I? Oh, no. I sras not birn for matrimony ; I was born to be a strong-minded spinster—that is my destiny, dear. I hare none of the softer and tenderer attributes. I don't believe I could fall iu love if I tried—ana I am not going to try; most certainly. It's not my line, but it is yours." " I hope not," returned Vera; "It might interfere with Mrs Douglas, you know." "I wonder," said; Allace, reflectively, what made us drift in o that subject, of all others, like a couple of school girls? It is not like us, Vera, is it ? Our live* have been so hard and grim of late"—with a sigh—- " that we have had enough to do to wrestle with present realities. I feel as if we had come to a turning-point now," she aided, drawing her shawl closer about her. u Now for the purse, Vera." They counted out the small store, dividing it in o two heaps, turning out pockets for stray halfpence, and making the beit they couli of the poor total.

" When things come to the worst, they mend," said Allnce, brightly. " Our fortunes are at the lowest ebb, Vera. That teacanister could not very easily have replenished, and, as for another scuttle of coal Well as it is May, we ought not to have wanted it. Here is the rent—it is due tomorrow—and here are five shillings for your journey into town and fiveshdlings more for pocket money, and the same tor me."

" And your bo'.ts, Allace ?" " Mrs Longford will get the hole patched, and 1 can go ou for a little while."

Take my five shillings and get another pair, I have Si'en some for ten shillings—do AlUce. My railway and cab will not cost so mujh as you calculate. I shall have enough over to go on with." " Not a bit of it," replied Allace. " I shall like my patched good boots better than the common fen-shilling ones j so make your mind q ute easy, darling. Now for the picking j we had better do yours first.

By the time Vera's trunk was ready, the last candle was burnt down to the eo *ket, and the two girls had to go to bed in the dark. There they lay close in each others arms, talking, in the darkness, of things they had not ventured to bring forth in the light. it was a story often told in the wo-ld. The liberal, open-handed, careless father, rector of a large country parish, had lived up to every penny of his income—Day, beyond it, giving to all who needed help with lavish generosity, sparing no indulgence either to himself or to his uioth< rless daughters. Then death had come suddenly, and, when the girls had recovered from the first shock of grief, and the family solicitor had wound up the alfairs of the estate, tluy found themselves with little more than fitty pounda in all the world. Friends they had, or thought they had, but no near relative—only an uncle away in India, *ho u they had never seen, and from whom their father had not heard for ten vears Ihe friends offered plenty of sympathy and advice, the burden of the last being always to write to their uuclej but the two girls were not long in discovering how much such friendship had been owing to the hospitable home now clo>ed on t Jem for over. Proud in their adversity, they hid themselves in the homely little lodging near London, intent on seeking and tinding their fortunes in the great city. They began with high hope and courage, which ebbed and faded as the fifty pounds dwinil- d away, and only Allace's indomitable spirit upheld the pair through bitter failure and disappointment. " It's like the night before we left the dear old Rectory, Allace," said Vera, mournfully, as she laid her cheek a,' unst her sister's. " No," arswered Allace— *" oh, no P Then we were closing a chapter of our lives—the best chapter so far as we have gone ; now we are beginning a new one. And there has been so much between that any change seems for the better, doesn't it dear P'

" I don't know," replied Vera, sadly j but you know I always was a coward, Allace—not like you. lam afraid of everything new, and —oh, darling lam afraid to be without you 1 It has been hard, but we hue be n together." A;lace held her in a tighter clusp. " And we will be together again," she declared, bruVely. " ThU i 9 only for a short time; you know the first part of your fortune —the letier—has com ' true, and the rest is coming. Go to sleep and dream of it, dear." "But Allace lay awake herself, tossing wearily on her unrestful couch, with Vera's calm sleeping face be«ide her, until Mrs Longford's morning knock sounded on the door. • • • • •

" It's of no u»e, Yera, I can't do it," exclaimed Allace, letting her head fall back hopelessy on the pillow after the third futile attempt to rise and die*s herself. " Allicc, juu are ill—you are vey ill?" cried Yera, aghast. {Tq it continued)