"ALMA.”

Wairarapa Standard, Volume XX, Issue 2026, 4 February 1887, Page 1 (Supplement)

"ALMA.”

novelist.

An Oki'V.nal Australian by HAlb'l.n STEPHEN, E.-q„ M.J'. Of NKW SOUTH WALKS. ■ ♦♦♦ ( I" 1!,,,n-r,!.) CH A PTE R X VII .—(Con tI s u En. Ten minutes later, Bart taunted whittle desired information. Tm-re was a later at the Post Utfice, f..r Mi-- Tied ear, and to for Professor Stephen Tr-ai. ear : ie;t, 11. Hi. had anticipated, the clerk r- : i-- 1 to hand them over without written atiti r-riry. That evening a -"i-mn council r.f war v.u,he!J m Sir Chari s North s -n, at which Burrow*, th,-eviie.e. the, ami S.ih Paikins were pre -ent by invitation.

CHAPTHU XVIII. ON Tilf. f VNKS "i Tile, V ,l.u.\ v.u.tn. For too bn,’ a timewy liav-b-.-n ■••. up- !!ul to neglect, i> v jar the most into-tm-; personage of our story. Uur little her".nr, Alma, ili-appeansl from view many chapters ago. and v.v arc certain tile reader must be anxious for news of her. The voyage in. iertale-n so suddenly, was V’-t not unpleasant to the little maid; for wa» she not bound to Australia, the home of a certain person, whom she had learned to regard as of the tir-t ii-niortance to her ? Then, too, tic y w* re blessed with fine w-atii.r, and favourable winds. The captain was a gentleman ; the -h.p was a fast American elipwr: and tin pa-M-iiavrs woe all eager fur a ghi.ip-o of the -(range. new world, to which they we;,- bound. I* ■■ of them left ri•.•re is behind, f"i all had mad- 1 up tin nr minds to return lew in a very '•■ ■.• mouths, with I -rt tines, utfi u the prolific .-oil of the in • !• rn 111 I'Prado. T.me 'ini n .t itang h- at .ly on their hands, tlames, in i-ie. dam-m.’. ruling, and drinking, pave ail hands pi,-my of occupation; ami Alma, an un •p’-n.-ti-ited ehild of the forest, found a new. and aiunge do'.ight, in the intimate companionship with gay young people, such as she had n v, r tint in the secluded German village, which had been her home for

many years. At hj r th-eights few back to her brother; but .-he and J >urt were accustomed to separation, and -he looked forward to returning to loin, at no wry distant date—perhaps accompanied by Mr. Harry LasevUes—a young gentleman with whom she was much more concerned, than with her brother.

When tile good ship came to an anchor in Hobson's Bay, amid .-uch a forest of masts w had, perhaps, never been seen before in the world, Alma iiad a snub, and a hearty shake of the hand I t aii ; and. as she tripped over the side, many a manly heart beat rapidly, lor the young lady had many lovers on board, although the nifi-t prudish of obi maids would not have dared to accuse her of flirtation.

Thev found lodgings in a quiet hotel in the out-ktrts of the town, and, far a time. Alma had enough to da t j marvl at the strange sights which met hj r ga/.e at every moment.

The Profe--jr was very busy. H c had present ’d Utters procured for him by his solicit>ri to the p dic-i authorities, and a vigorous search t:r Thomas Sumner was at once begun. H-: was uniformly kind to Alma, but constantly ab-cr.t from home, and she would have he r. very lonely, bad it not been fur the companionship of a young lady, who. with her father, happen.if to be staying at the came hotel. Not more successful was the Professor than were afterwar Is th e detectives and Sir Charles North, ft was c- rtain Sumner had be'en -sen in Melbourne a dav or two pnor to his arrival; but the fr.-ies-or utterly failed to gain any information a- to Ins subsequent movements.

Unc a IviMacc tliis gentleman po'-t-'.;d ovvr 11 ii rf. ,tl- iu the -eeirch he had b-xn Lmunam .n m-!t t j .'bum a piiotornplr of S'lmn- r, tak -i winl-t Ik »•..< in the employ of Freeman and Tr.t.bA ■. This photograph the Professor studied until he felt satisfied that he could not fail to recognise the man, should ho have the cod fortune to meet him. Alma had scarcely been more successful in her search—for she, tuo, was iu quest of some one. She did not propose to herself tc actually u n-V to Mr. Harry Lascelles, but she thought that if she could find out his address, she would experience little difficulty in letting him know of her arrival.

Having just about as much idea of the extent of Australia as a savage has of that of the moon- vet still, perhaps, as much as have most Fugli-h ladies, even of the pre sent day—she had thought that she had only to ask to obtain an answer respecting the habitation of such an important personage as Mr. Harry Lascelles.

He bad told her, she remembered, that his father owned a station near Bathurst, which ahe assumed to be a species of suburb of Melbourne.

When she was undeceived, she indulged herself in the luxury of a good cry, and then ■ate down to think over the matter. Should ahe write to him, and address her letter to Bathorat ? She amid not do it. They had parted in anger ; and, besides, for aught she knew to the contrary, the letter might never leach his hands, after all. At this stage of the proceedings she took couniel ot ber friend Grace Harvey. That young lady had seen a good deal of the world, her father having once been a very 0 entertained on a large scale, and took ilia daughter about with him to many

country houses, and foreign wateringplaces. Grace was a tall, dark, hcanty ; with fla-h----inr black eyes, and that richness of comploi’on which is rarely seen save m ;ii-:-sunnv South. Site was clover and accomplished. and about as out of place in the Melbourne of that day as she would be in Abyssinia under the rf.'jime of the pr/sent king Though scarcely twenty years of a-,’--, she was womanly beyond her wars, ain't, in many respects, no more valuable a friend could have been found for our little Ainu. Grace, when the position had been duly explained to her, recommended patience, **He will turn up some day, dear," she said.

I have noticed that lovers always do turn up, and, sometimes, when least desired or expected.” “ But, Grace,” argued Alma, ■• wo quart-died dreadfully, you know; and I have m ver seen him since. I should so like to explain to him why we left in such a hurry.”

” Wait, ray dear. Be sure lie knows it was not your fault. You may rely upon it he does not blame you.” •■ I don’t know,” said Alma, with a rigb.

lie might think I was too proud to wri:c t ; him, or that I knew we were going, end concealed it from him. Dill” —with an imp it i. n.t stamn of the toot —“ I wish I w.w a men I "

“ If you wi re, I do not suppose you woui 1 be running niter Mr. Harry Lascelies. “Running after him? How can you say such rude thing-Gr.xo, I halo von !’’

•• No you don't, dear; but you know, if you were a man. you would be running after some sd.lv little Alma instead.”

••But I am not running after Harry Grace," grid Alma, still pettishly.

•• No, my dear, but you would like to. Now, don't be angry with me, but put on your bat, and come out for a walk. It is a sin to day indoors on such a lovely day.' 1 The girls strolled down to the Yarra—then a clear, sparkling stream—and wandered along i:s banks, picking wild flowers end ferns, and thoroughly enjoying themselves. Suddenly a man emerged fr-un a neighboring thicket, and advanc'd thu-ai Mindy towards them. He was far from a pleasant lyison to look at. He was the very itnporsouiiieation of •• rags.” His clothes were ragged, iiis hat was ragged, his hair, his eyes, nay even his hands, seemed to share the same peculiarity.

Alma saw him first, and screamed, as she seised (.race by tho arm. "Holdyour noise!" he exclaimed,in a voice as ragged as his dress. “I'm not going to hurt von—you little fool!"

\Vhat do yon want with us?" a»kcd Grace, boldly confronting him, whilst Alma shrank timidly behind her.

“ Ah, that's better! You’re the sort for my money, .Miss. As to what I want—l want everything 1 I've been as nigh starvation as mcr you saw a man, and I am desperate. Give me what money you have, and your jewellery. I never robbed before, but, when it comes to starvation, I'm d d if I’m going to be such a tool as to have any scruples. Come, I say—shell out 1” The girls hurriedly gave him what money they had, which, as may be imagined, was not much.

" Now the jewellery—quick 1 By the Lord, there's no time for fooling! Be smart, I say, or it will Ire worse for youl”

They hastily divested themselves of their watches and earrings, and then Grace asked if they might go.

“ What's that hanging to that ribbon ?" the man asked of Alma, paying no heed to Grace's question.

Now the atticle in question was a small gold locl.et, which had been given to her by Harry Lascelles, and Alma determined to risk anything rather than part with it, especially as it contained a portrait of the donor, and a lock of his hair.

“ I cannot give you this locket,” she said, with unexpect! •! lirmness. •• But you'll have to, my lady!” exclaimed the ruiiian, taking a step towards her. “ Come, hand it over, or i d take it myself."

"(trace! Jlc!p me, (trace!’’ screamed Alma, as she saw id- i and stretched toward* her, "Help! Help!” Grace interposed, but he threw her aside with such violence that she fell to the ground, mid. despite Alma's struggles, had just succeeded in wrenching the locket from her hands, when he received a blow under the car which stretched him senseless on the grass. The welcome help came from a young man who had rushed tip the bank on hearing Alma's cries, and arrived just in time to effect a io-ciie. Grace was the first to recover herself, for Alma was in such an hysterical condition that some minutes elapsed before she could realise what had happened. The young man thought he had never seen a more beautiful woman than this tall, darkeyed girl, wh 3 thanked him so graciously, yet warmly, lor the service he had rendered them.

" I was fishing in the river, when I heard a cry for help, and I should have been with you sooner had it not been for the steepness of the bank just here.” “You were in time, though,” said Grace, with a swact smile.

" Yes, but not a minute to spare. V.’hat shall 1 do with this ruffian ?” ho asked, spurning the body with his foot as he spoke. “ It would serve him right to roll him into the river, but I suppose we must not do that, eh ?”

•• Not exactly, I think," said Grace, with a smile. " Perhaps we had better let the poor vreteh go--he . aid he was starving, and that ne had never robbed before. Get us out tilings, pb-ase, and let him lie there." 'Die young man did as hc was desired, thon.-h ’ho muttered that hanging was too good fur a wretch who would assault such—. Grace could not catch the rest of the sentence, hut she guessed tolerably correctly that it was of a far from uncomplimentary nature. "Nu.v, sir," said she, “will you he kind enough to put this in the unfortunate creature's pocketTVc cannot let him starve, you know." As she said this, Grace handed the young man a five-shilling piece. ■■ Von are an angel!” he said, as hc slipped it into the thief's pocket. “Not quite,” said Grace, with a smile. “ But will you uot lot us know to whom we are indebted for this service.’”

“My, name is Bertie Lcracoi tc.” “ And mine is Grace Harvey, and this young lady is Alma Tredegar."

The young people soon made friends, and, as they walked into town, it was agreed that Bertie should pay them a visit on the following afternoon.

Bertie did i'"t keep tin appointment. On the morning of that day, In met Captain Shorter, ami it was not until he found himself in His bunk on board the Pride of the Ocean that he remembered the invitation.

Now, he had been so engrossed by tbs charms of Miss Grace Harvey, that he had paid little cr no attention to the other young lady, and hal forgotten her name as soon as be heard it. IHnce it came that he bad no suspicion that the Alma Tredegar who was the sister of his friend, Dart, was identical with the young lady whose rescue be bad so fortunately df-cted.

CHAPIEB XIX.

ONDSB CANVASS. «So we ate off to the diggings, Seth,” said Bertie Leraoorte to that young gentleman, on the morning after the cooncil-of-war in Sir Charles North's room.

" Yei,eirree, and aright good time we’re a-goin’ to hev, I cßlltilato,” replied Seth, who, in his new attire, looked what he was, an intelligent, handsome boy. “ Thct Sir. Charles Worth is jest the whitest man in Australia 1 a reel fine gentleman, ez hain’t got no style about him—and free, Lor bless yer, I o’uy wish thur was more like him.”

“Heia a good old fellow, indeed, and I hope we shall bo able to show him that we aro not ungrateful for hia kindm r 3. ’ “ Thet'a bo 1 Tnet's jest me I I'm cn it, I atnl guess it any injanscomes for lin' around our camp, 111 let Vm know they’re barkin' up the wrong tree.” “Thereare no Indiana in Australia, Sath,” said Bertie, much amused at the boy’s enthuaiam. “ Wish thur was then,” replied Seth. "But ef thur ain't no injnns, thur’s wua— thur’s mean whites. Talk about ycr injins, they ain’t haaf ao bed ez a crawlin’ skunk of a white man wot’a gene back rn hia kind, Pizen they ia, and no mistake.” This remark recalled lo Beitie’s memory the incident mentioned in the last chapter, and he at once acquired an intense desire to see the beautiful Grace Harvey before he left town,

According to what had cow become a custom to him, he opened hie mind to Seth, and asked that youth his opinion. “ You see,” be added, “ the must have Been the report of the trial, and I should not like her to believe me to be guilty.” Certainly not,” said Seth, with judicial gravity. “In course not. You re jest bound ter tell the yonng woman all about it. 'Spoae she’s shook on you, eh ?” Bertie felt inclined to be angry. The audacity of the boy in alluding to Miss Harvey as a young woman, almost, took away his breath. And then tho absurdity of supposing that such a divine creature could waste a thought upon him. Really it was too much. Nevertheless ho felt a strange glow in his heart as the possibility of such a thing happening at some future time occurred to him. Still ho felt it incumbent npon him to rebuke the lad, and make him understand that the lady was an altogether superior being, Ao. “ Wa-al,” returned Seth, in no wise abashed, “ef so be the young woman ain't shook on you, I’ll bet my bottom dollar you’re shook on her.” This was too much, and Bertie seized the young rullian by the collar, and fairly ran him out of the room.

Then he proceeded to array himself in his newest garments, end otherwise adorn himself to the best of his ability. That done, he started out to pay his longpromised visit to Miss Harvey. Arrived at the hotel, he found that the Harveys had left some tew weeks previously, and had betaken themselves, the landlord believed, to Canvass Town. A search through tho wilderness of tents, which formed that unique settlement, was a task before which a man might be fairly justified in recoiling; but Bertie Leracorte set out on his quest with as much nonchalance as if the labor were a mere trifie. Strange to say, ho was successful beyond bis hopes ; for almost the first person whom he accosted was able to furnish the required information. He found the Harveys located in a quiet street, (if it may be so called) which was principally occupied by a class superior to the ordinary residents of Canvass Town. Their abode was a square tent, on the front of which was suspended a placard, setting forth that instructions in music and foreign languages were obtainable within.

Bertie sighed aa ho read this ominous notice. It epoke to him of failure, and shattered hopes; for he knew that the daughter would never have been permitted to undertake the drudgery of tuition, had not the father utterly failed to earn their livlihood. The dap of the tent was down, and, seeing no other means of making his presence known, he called out: "May I come in, Miss Harvey ?” That young lady speedily made her appearance in answer to the summons, and blushed with what seemed very much like delight when she beheld the young man. “You, Mr. Leracorte 7" she exclaimed. “I am so glad. Please step inside.” Bertie pressed her little hand, with as much fervor as be dared, and followed her inside. He found himself in a miniature drawing-room. The earthen door was concealed by a square of carpet: there was a little table covered with books and ornaments-, a ucretaire stood in one corner, Hanked by a cottage piano, and there was then still room left for a couch, and one or two | chairs. I “You see wo are not so badly lodged, after ! all," said Grace, as she took her seat on the ' couch, whilst Bertie was audacious enough to \ place himself by her side. | “ It is quite a charming little bower,” he , said, with an admiring gaze, not at the room, j or at the furniture, but right into the lady’s eyes. | "Wehave two bedrooms, and a kitchen, in ;

which to take oar meals. 1 am the cook. | Oh t you should have seen what a mess of it | I made at drat. Poor papa was in despair, I for be actually had nothing to eat for the drst few days; but I have been taking lessons, and now I dattor myself I can grill a steak, or boil a potato, as well as any- 1 body.” Bertie thought he would rather oat steak and potato, cooked by those fair hands, than , partake cl the the moat luxurious repast the 1 Uaixon Doric could afford; but ho did not say so. If ho had been an Iruhman, or a Fienchmau, he would never have missed such an opportunity ; but, being an Englishman, he was as unable to make a complimentary . speech in a graceful manner as are most of | his nation. ! Ho was, however, spared the necessity for I speech by the entry of an old gentle- : man, who was introduced to him as Mr. !

Harvey. | The father of the beautif-'il Grace was a j bent, wizened old man, with snowy hair, 1 dull eyes, and a q tcielous exprsa-ioa of I countenance. lie remembered the service Bertie had rendered his daughter, and i thanked him—it must be oontcEaed in a very | perfunctory manner. ! “ I supnosc, sir,” said Bertie, “ you rend I the account ot my trial yesterday ?" 1 “ Yee,” replied Mr. Harvey, “and I need scarcely say I was glad to heat of your acquittal.” ! “ I thought you would not believe mo to be ! guilty of such a crime.” | “Believe yon to be guilty 1” exclaimed Grace with vivacity. “ Why, I knew you were innocent, and so did papa, did you not, dear?" i “ Yes, my dear,” replied the old gentle- j man. “ I know enough of the world to be ' awr.re that gentlemen who are contemplating such a crime us that of which Mr. Leraoorte was accused, would not spend their time in fiahing in the river, or rescuing young ladies from people in their own line of bust- ■

ness.” i " You cannot tell how deeply gratified I am 1 to find that here, at least, I have not been misunderstood,” said Bertie. "One of my | greatest sorrows, as I lay in prison, was the 1 thought that my innocence might appear doudtful to Mias—that is to say to you and your daughter." “ Very likely," said the old gentleman, drily. lie had noticed the slip, and drew hie conclusions therefrom, with rather mote shrewdness than ia displayed by fathers in general. After some irrelevant conversation, Bertie i asked what bad become of the young lady who was wdh Miss Harry on the memorable ' occasion of their litai meeting i” (7i> he conti,nail,)