Part 4

For, of course, he did love her. In less than two months he had begun to watch for her cash-ball with a trembling eagerness, to smooth out and stroke gently the bill her fingers had written, and to wrap it and its change up again with a careful tenderness that no one else's change and bill received. He had spoken to her half-a-dozen times in all; twice at the door on leaving--weather remarks, to which she had responded graciously; once or twice about bills that she had come to rectify at the desk, and once he had had the great good fortune to find and return a handkerchief she had dropped. Such a pretty, ridiculous atom of muslin it was, with a fanciful "Nellie" taking up one quarter, and some delicate scent lending such subtle fascination that it was a real wrench for the lad to take the handkerchief from his breast-pocket and proffer it to her.

So great a wrench, indeed, that he profferred his love, too, humbly, but fervently, and received a very wondering look from the grey eyes, a badly-concealed smile, a "Thank you" for the handkerchief, and a "No, thank you" for the love.

He had kissed her, though, and that was some consolation afterwards to his sore spirit, kissed her right upon the sweet, scarlet lips which had said "No" so decidedly, and then, bold no longer, had fled the shelter of the friendly packing-cases, and beaten a retreat to his desk aloft.

That was nearly a fortnight ago; not once since had she spoken to him, and to-day he was feeling desperate.

It had been a very busy morning, and he had found hardly a second to raise his eyes from his work. The one time he had looked down she had been busy with a customer--a girl prettily dressed and golden-headed like herself. That had been at about ten o'clock. Before twelve her cash-box, with the notch upon it that his penknife had made, rolled down its line, and he opened it as he had opened it twenty times that morning; but this time it bore his fate. With the bill was a little twisted note, on which "John Walters, private," was written, and the boy's very heart leaped at the sight. Down below, customers wearily waited for change, and anxiously watched for their own particular ball while the _deus ex machina_ read again and again, with eager eyes: "Please will you meet me at lunch-time in the Strand? Do, if you can. I am in trouble. You said you loved me." Then, as he began mechanically to manipulate the waiting balls, he looked down to the accustomed place of the little Duchess. She was pale, he saw, and her lips trembled oddly now and again. There was a frightened look in her grey eyes, and once or twice he thought he noticed a sparkle as of tears.

At lunch-time he actually tore through the shop and away down to the appointed place. She was there--still pale, still nervous and fluttering.

"Let us go to the Gardens. It's quieter," he said, putting a great restraint upon himself; then, when at last they were within the gates, "God bless you for this, Nellie."

"What?" said the girl, with uncertainty, but not looking at the plain, rugged face that was all aglow with love for her.

"For telling me about the worry--asking me to come. Oh, God bless you, Nellie! Now tell me."

She sat down on a seat and began to cry, quietly and miserably, till the boy was almost beside himself. At last, between the sobs, he learned her trouble, which was grave indeed. She and her sister had very much wanted to go to a certain ball, and, more than that, to have new dresses for it, of soft white Liberty silk, such as she cut off daily for fortunate customers. But her purse was empty, so, in their emergency, the sisters had hit upon a plan, questionable, indeed, but not dishonestly meant. The sister came to the silk counter and purchased thirty yards of silk, paying 15_s._ for it instead of £3 15_s._

"That was on account; I was only taking a little credit, like other customers," said the little Duchess, with a haughty movement of the head. "On Saturday I was going to make out a bill for an imaginary customer, and send the £3 up to the desk to you. Don't imagine I would really wrong the firm by a halfpenny."

"Oh, no," cried the boy eagerly; "it's all right."

"That's not all." The girl began to cry again, hopelessly, miserably. "I had no money to get the dresses made, and the next customer paid £2 10_s._, and--and--I only sent 10_s._ up to you--I wanted to make it just £5 I had borrowed. I thought I might borrow enough, as I was borrowing--don't forget, I would rather have died than have stolen the £5, Mr. Walters."

"Of course, of course, I understand," said the cash clerk, seeing it was a worse fix than he had imagined, but longing to take her in his arms and kiss away the tears.

"And then that horrid Mr. Greaves, who signed first in a hurry, asked for my book and took it for something, and then sent it up to the desk, and the figures are all confused, and the check-leaf isn't the same as I sent to you. I hadn't time to make it right, and when the books are compared to-night it will be noticed, and I shall get into trouble--and, oh, I am so miserable!" The little Duchess was sobbing pitifully.

He kissed her, this time in earnest; on the lips, the cheeks, the hair, the tear-wet eyes. He only recollected himself when a gardener's form, and especially his smile, obtruded themselves upon their notice, and they sat apart looking foolish until the two o'clock bells made them hurry back to the shop.

"I'll put everything right--don't you worry," he said; and she smiled relievedly and went to her counter.

That afternoon he did what all the other years of his life he had deemed it impossible for him to do. He made a neat alteration in his books so that the £5 in question would not be missed. To-morrow, he resolved, he would take £5 of his own and pay it into the account of the firm. The little Duchess should be his debtor, and run no more risks. But, alas, for the morrow!

Before he had fairly taken his seat in the morning--before Nellie had finished fastening at her neck the violets he had brought her--some words were said at his elbow, and he slowly became aware that he--surely it was a dream!--was being arrested for defalcations in his accounts. He learned that for some time past the firm had been aware of considerable discrepancies in the books, and had placed a detective-accountant in the office. Last night, for the first time, the man had discovered, as he thought, a clue, and had convinced the firm that in Walters he had found the offender.

The lad was ashen pale, horror stricken, as he realised how these things must go against him. He could not drag in the name of the little Duchess--even if he did, it would not avail him much; he certainly had altered his books, and to mention the girl's share would only be to have two of them brought to trial, and perhaps to gaol. The little Duchess in gaol! That hair catching the prison-yard sunshine! That slender form clad in the garments of shame! The boy drew a deep breath, gave one very wistful glance at the silk counter, and then walked straight to the manager's room, followed by the policeman.

"I took the £5 yesterday, and brought it back to-day. On my oath before God, sir, I have never misapplied one farthing of my moneys."

His voice trembled in its eagerness, the deep-set eyes gleamed, and the white lips worked.

"Your purpose, Walters?"

The manager looked hard, disbelieving.

"Direst need. Oh, believe me, sir, I have served you three years honestly as man can serve--yesterday I borrowed this money and brought it back this morning--don't ruin my whole life for that one act."

"Your pressing need yesterday?"

John drew a deep breath again.

"I--can't well tell you."

Then the heads of the firm came in, indignant at their misused trust, and they scorned his story. The defalcations amounted to almost £50 in all, and he had confessed to £5, which had been found upon him. Of course, he and no other was the offender, and they must teach their employés a lesson. So John walked down that long shop by the side of the official, his head very erect, his face pale, and his knees shaking; all his life he would remember the glances of pity, curiosity, and disdain that met him on every side. As he passed the silk counter, the little Duchess was measuring a great piece of rose-red, sheeny satin, that gleamed warm and beautiful beneath her hands. She was very white, and in her eyes was a look of abject horror and entreaty; his eyes reassured her, and he passed on and out of the door. All his life he would remember that rose-red satin and its brilliant, glancing lights.

After the trial everyone thought him fortunate to get only two years, and the little Duchess, who had grown thin and old-looking in the interval, breathed freely as she read the account in the papers, and saw that her name was not even mentioned in connection with the matter. He wrote to her a loving, boyish letter, and told her she must be true to him till he came out, and that then they would be married and go away where this could never be heard of.

It was no small thing he had done for her, he knew; and, as he was not more than human, he expected his reward. And the little Duchess had cried quietly over the letter, and for several days cut off silk and satin with a pensive, unhappy look that quite touched her customers--those few among them who realised that it was human flesh and blood at the other side of the yard measure.

* * * * *

Twenty months later the little Duchess was at the same counter measuring silk and satin for the stock-taking, when a note was brought to her in a writing she remembered too well.

"I got out to-day, Nellie. Come down to the Gardens in the lunch-time."

She hesitated when the time came, but he might come to the shop, and that would never do. So she put her hat on thoughtfully and set out for the Gardens.

He was awaiting her on the seat where, nearly two years ago, the gardener had smiled at them. He stood up as she came slowly towards him, and for a minute they gazed at each other without speaking.

She was in black, of course, but fresh and dainty-looking, with a bunch of white chiffon at her throat, little tan shoes on her feet, and her hair showing golden against the black of her lace hat.

For him, his face had altered and hardened; the once thick, curling hair was horribly short, his hands were rough and unsightly, his clothes hung awkwardly upon him, and his linen was doubtful.

"The little Duchess!" he said, dully; then he put out his hand, took her small gloved one, and looked at it curiously.

"I--I am glad you're out," she said, carefully looking away from him.

"Yes--we must be married now, Nellie; that's all I've had to think about all this awful time."

His face flushed a little and his eyes lightened.

"It's good not to see the walls," he added, looking round at the spring's brave show, then away to the blue sparkle in the bay and the glancing sails.

"We mustn't talk of that time, though, ever--eh, Nellie?"

"No," she said, regarding her brown shoes intently.

His eye noted the smooth roundness of her cheek, the delicate pink that came and went, the turn of the white neck.

"Aren't you going to kiss me, Nellie?" he said, slowly; and he drew her a little strangely and awkwardly to him.

Then she spoke.

"I knew it wouldn't be any use, and you'd never have any money or get a place after this. We couldn't be married on nothing, and it would only drag you down to have me, too. I'm not worthy of you."

"Well, little Duchess," he said, softly, as she stopped and faltered; a slow smile crept over his face, and his deep-set eyes lighted up with tenderness.

Not worthy, his little Duchess!

Then the crimson rushed into her face, and she flung up her head defiantly.

"I married the new shop-walker, four months ago!"

_AUSTRALIA'S SPRINGTIME._

'Tis a bright September morning, and Australia's golden Spring Is awak'ning every flow'ret, and retouching every wing; Everywhere the yellow blossoms of the wattle are in view-- Even has the solemn gum tree taken on a lighter hue; And the earth is cover'd over with a vest of fresher green, And the clear cool air adds brightness to the beauty of the scene. Now the cockatoo's hoarse screaming, and the magpie's cheery call Sound in chorus to the music of the plashy waterfall. Overhead the deep, clear azure is just fleck'd with snowy clouds, And the green and crimson parrots fly around in chatt'ring crowds; Far away is all the bustle of the smoky, restless town, And the timid kangaroo upon the grass lies fearless down; Nature calmly lieth waiting, in her peaceful solitude, For the dawning of the morning bright with hopes of future good: Lies as she has lain for ages, by the white man's foot untrod, Like a glorious new creation, freshly from the hand of God.

'Tis Australia's golden Springtime, and the vision, fresh and green, Of the lonely, peaceful country, is a swiftly changing scene; First a few white tents embosom'd 'mid the thickly growing trees, And the sound of human labour floating on the passing breeze. First a village--then a city--with an everswelling tide Passing thro' its busy markets--stretching outwards far and wide; And while the growing nation overspreads the smiling land, Nature opens up her treasures with a free and lavish hand: O'er the verdant fields are roaming flocks and herds of sheep and kine-- Deep beneath the sunlit surface works the toiler in the mine-- Education and religion build their temples o'er the plain, And the iron horse moves swiftly past broad fields of golden grain, Where a plenteous harvest ripens to reward the toiler's care, And each honest, willing worker may obtain a rightful share. Blessed peace and glorious freedom banish far the warrior's sword-- Fancy seems to gaze enraptur'd on a Paradise restored!

'Tis the Springtime of Australia, and the dazzled eye may see Wondrous dreams of future greatness--of the glories yet to be: Visions--not of martial conquest--not of courage, blood and fire-- But of lands by noble actions growing greater, grander, higher! Of the wond'ring nations turning--gazing with expectant eyes, While oppress'd and toiling millions feel new hopes and thoughts arise In the march of human progress as Australia leads the van To the world's great Federation, and the "parliament of Man!" Such the triumphs--aye, and grander, that the coming days shall see If Australia but be faithful to her glorious destiny; With the smile of Heav'n upon her in the future, as the past, Sweeping back the threat'ning war-clouds that her sky may overcast-- Like a stately white-wing'd vessel she shall keep her steadfast way-- Peace, o'er all her wide dominions, ruling with unbroken sway; And her progress be continued till the wings of Time are furled-- Her glorious page the brightest in the history of the world!

W. L. LUMLEY.

_THE MAN THAT SAVED THE MATCH._

BY DAVID M'KEE WRIGHT.

(_By kind permission of the Author._)

Our church ain't reckoned very big, but then the township's small-- I've seen the time when there was seats and elbow-room for all. The women-fold would come, of course, but working chaps was rare; They'd rather loaf about and smoke, and take the Sunday air. But now there's hardly standing room, and you can fairly say There ain't a man we like as well as quiet Parson Grey.

We blokes was great for cricket once, we'd held our own so long, In all the townships round about our team was reckoned strong; And them that didn't use to play could barrack pretty fair, They liked the leather-hunting that they didn't have to share. A team from town was coming up to teach us how to play-- We meant to show what we could do upon that Christmas Day.

The stumps were pitched at two o'clock, but Lawson's face was grim (Lawson was Captain of the team, our crack we reckoned him), For Albert Wilson hadn't come, the safest bat of all, With no one there to take his place he counted on a fall. "Who could we get? There's no one here it's worth our while to play In place of Albert." At his side was standing Parson Grey.

"I used to wield the willow once," the Parson softly said; "If you have no one for the tail, you might take me instead." The Captain bit his fair moustache--he seemed inclined to swear; But answered sulkily enough, "All right, sir; I don't care. There's no one here is worth his salt with breaking balls to play." "I'll try and do my best for you," said quiet Parson Grey.

"His best," Bill Lawson said to me, "what's that, I'd like to know? To spoon an easy ball to point, and walk back sad and slow, Miss every catch that comes to him and fumble every ball, And lose his way about the field at every 'over' call. The blooming team can go below after this Christmas Day; I'm hanged if I'm to captain it when parsons start to play."

Bill won the toss, we went in first. I might as well say here That I'm a weary kind of bat--to stick in for a year. I can't hit out--it ain't no use; it saddens me to think A bloke that bowled against us once has taken since to drink. He couldn't get my wicket, and his balls came in that way I batted through the innings without a run all day.

The fun began. By George! to think the way our stumps went down! Our boys was made the laughing-stock for them swell-blokes from town. I kept my end up--that was all, Lawson was bowled first ball, And six of them went strolling back without a run at all. Nine wickets down for fourteen runs was all our score that day When the last man came in to bat, and that was Parson Grey.

The bowler with the break from leg sent down a hardish ball, I thought to see the parson squirm and hear the wicket fall; It didn't happen, for he played a pretty forward stroke; I knew that moment he could bat, that quiet preaching bloke. And when a careless ball came down the boys began to roar, He drove it hard along the ground--we took and run a four.

Then it was "over," and of course mine was a maiden one, I broke the bowler's hearts that day for just a single run. The Parson played a dashing game, his cuts were clean and fine; I only wish that strokes like them could now and then be mine. He had a fifty to his name in just an hour's play, And then--well, then--I run him out, I own, that Christmas Day.

"By George," said Lawson, "who'd have thought that he could bat so well! I could have gone and drowned myself when Bryant's wicket fell; But, man, he must have been a bat when he was at his best, I'm glad that Wilson wasn't here, or any of the rest; Now, if our chaps are on the spot, and bowl as well to-day, We'll give them news to carry home how country clubs can play."

Our bowling always has been fair; we couldn't well complain; We got a wicket now and then--they didn't fall like rain; But runs were coming rather slow, and fifty was the score When the ninth man was given out--an honest "leg before." It was a single innings game, and plainly on the play It seemed the glory would be ours upon that Christmas Day.

Last man! The bowling crack came in--of course he couldn't bat, He could lash out and chance the stroke to show us what was what; Our hopes were down to freezing-point, twelve runs were to his score, To win the match he only had to hit another four. He swiped; we groaned to think that we were beaten after all; The stroke was high--a splendid catch--_the Parson held the ball_.

Then how we yelled, and yelled again; he'd fairly won the match-- The splendid batting that he showed, the more than splendid catch; Why, chaps, you'd hardly credit it, that almost every bloke Goes into church on Sunday now, and does without his smoke; And no one's likely to forget that sunny Christmas Day, When we were all surprised a bit at quiet Parson Grey.

_ODE FOR COMMONWEALTH DAY_

_1st JANUARY, 1901._

Awake! Arise! The wings of dawn Are beating at the gates of day, The morning star hath been withdrawn, The silver vapours melt away. Rise royally, O sun, and crown The shoreward billow, streaming white, The forelands, and the mountains brown, With crested light; Flood with soft beams the valleys wide, The mighty plains, the desert sand, Till the New Day hath won for bride This Austral land! Free-born of nations, virgin white, Not won by blood, nor ringed with steel. Thy throne is on a loftier height, Deep-rooted in the commonweal. O thou, for whom the strong have wrought, And poets sung with souls aflame, Born of long hope and patient thought, A mighty name-- We pledge thee faith that shall not swerve, Our land, our lady, breathing high The thought that makes it love to serve, And life to die!

Now are thy maidens linked in love, Who erst have striven for pride of place; Lifted all meaner thoughts above They greet thee, one in heart and race; She, in whose sunlit coves of peace The navies of the world may rest, And bear her wealth of snowy fleece Northward and west. And she, whose corn and rock-hewn gold Built that Queen City of the South, Where the lone billow swept of old Her harbour-mouth.

Come, too, thou Sun-maid, in whose veins For ever burns the tropic fire Whose cattle roam a thousand plains, Come, with thy gold and pearls for tire; And that sweet Harvester who twines The tender vine and binds the sheaf; And she, the Western Queen, who mines The desert reef; And thou, against whose flowery throne And orchards green the wave is hurled; Australia claims you; ye are one Before the world. Crown her--most worthy to be praised-- With eyes uplifted to the morn; For, on this day, a flag is raised, A triumph won, a nation born; And ye, vast armies of the dead, From mine and city, plain and sea, Who fought and dared, who toiled and bled That this might be, Draw round us in this hour of fate-- This golden harvest of thy hand-- With unseen lips, O consecrate And bless the land!

Eternal power, benign, supreme, Who weigh'st the nations upon earth; Without whose aid the empire-dream And pride of states is nothing worth, From shameless speech, and vengeful deed, From licence veiled in Freedom's name, From greed of gold, and scorn of creed, Guard Thou our fame! In stress of days that yet may be, When hope shall rest upon the sword, In welfare and adversity, Be with us, Lord!

GEORGE ESSEX EVANS.

_A DESPERATE ASSAULT._