A Striking Contrast

Front matter

BY CLARA MULHOLLAND AUTHOR OF " LITTLE MERRT-FACE AND HIS CROWN OF CONTENT" "THB MISER OF RINGBCOURT," "KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN" ETO. etc. DUBLIN M. H. GILL AND SON CONTENTS CnAP. »A0 I I. Sylvia's home ..... 7 ii. stlvia's escort . . . . .19 iii. on board the "cimbria" . . . .29 iv. a terrible night ..... 83 v. cast up by the sea ..... 48 vi. a cruel separation ..... £2 vii. a revelation ...... 58 viii. a voice from the wilderness . . .68 ix. on the track ..... 78 x. a bitter disappointment . . . .87 xi. anxious days ...... 107 xii. put to the test . . . 116 xiii. lord ashfield is much puzzled . . . 127 xiv. who is sylvia ?..... 138 xv. lady ashfield makes up her mind . . 163 xvi. lord ashfield makes a request . . . 164 xvii. madge loses her situation .... 177 xviii. dora's visitor ..... 185 xix. an unexpected meeting .... 201 xx. a sudden determination .... 217 i CONTENTS 6 CUAP.

PAOK XXI. MADGE IS PERSUADED TO BE SILENT . . .225 XXII. DORA IS TRIED BEYOND HER STRENGTH . .240 XXIII. LADY ASHFIELD CHANGES HER TACTICS . . 253 XXIV. AT BAY ....... 263 XXV. DO THEY SrEAK THE TRUTH ? . . . . 280 XXVI. SIR EUSTACE IS FORCED TO BELIEVE . . . 291 XXVII. 6YLVIA GIVES WAY TO DESPAIR . . . 301 XXVIII. WEDDING BELLS .....

Chapter I

sylvia's home The evening sun was setting ; the wide prairies, with their herds of cattle, the paddocks, and the peaks of the distant mountains, were bathed in its gold-red light. In the verandah of a small house in the Australian Bush sat a young man of five or six-and-twenty. He was tall and strongly built. His shoulders were broad ; his limbs long and muscular. He was not handsome ; but he was a gentleman ; and there was something very attractive in the earnest glance of his dark eyes, and the kindly expression of his sunburnt face. At his knee, her rosy mouth wreathed with happy smiles, her little fat hands clasping his, stood a baby girl with fair curling hair, and skin of lily whiteness. The young man looked at her with much affection, and pressed his lips to her chubby cheeks. " My darling !

" he said ; " it is nearly time for my eweet Sylvia to go to bed." The child pulled at his watch-chain, and stamped her little foot. " No, no ! " she cried. "Yes, yes. It is late. The calves and chickens are all in bed, and Sylvia must go too." But baby frowned. " No, no ; so', so'," she said imploringly. " Me want so', so'." " Then off you go," he answered, laughing. "Go and gather some flowers if you like. I am too lazy to stir. Run along and bring some to papa." Sylvia dropped the chain, and with a crow of delight toddled to the other side of the verandah, where the morning glories twined their graceful stems round the battered posts. Raising herself on tiptoe, she tried to reach the pretty blossoms. But they grew too high ; and as she stretched above her head, she lost her balance and rolled over on the floor.

She uttered a loud cry, and big tears hopped down her cheeks. " Poor little mite, you have indeed fallen low," cried her father, rushing forward and catching her in his arms. " But you must be plucky, dear, and not cry so easily. See, papa will give you the flowers. So dry your eyes, my pet." He gathered a few glories, and placed them in her hands. " Papa dea, papa dea, oh, oo dea," whispered Sylvia softly ; and, nestling up to him, she kissed and patted his face. He pressed her lovingly to his breast, and warmly returned her caress. " My little girl must be brave. It is not good to cry so easily." The child smiled through her tears. " Me dood now, wery dood." " That is right. And now, my pet really must go to bed. Anne ! " A door opened, and a neat-looking young woman entered the verandah.

" Yes, sir. ShaU I take Miss Sylvia ? " she asked. " It is past her usual bedtime." " Yes, take her, please. She is tired and sleepy. And when she is in bed, Anne, I should like to speak to you. I have something important to ask you." " Very well, sir. Come, Miss Sylvia." The child sprang into her arms, laughing and crowing with delight. "Night, night, papa," she cried, shaking her little hand. "Night, night." Her father kissed her again. " Good-night, darling ; and go to sleep quickly, for I want nurse." " I'll be back very soon, sU," replied Anne. " She's never long about going to sleep." As the baby disappeared, and the last sound of her merry prattle died away, the young man sighed heavily, and flung himself down upon a chair. " Poor darling ! it will he hard to part with her. She grows more engaging, more winning, every day.

It will be a sad trial to send her away. But it must be done — it must be done." He sighed again. His head sank upon his breast, and he became lost in thought. George Atherstone was the only son of an English baronet, and heir to a fine old place and a considerable amount of property in Lancashire. But, unfortunately, the Atherstones had been fast-living, extravagant people, and when George's father succeeded to the title and estates, he found the latter heavily mortgaged, and yielding an income upon which it was impossible to live in anything like the style befitting his rank. For himself, he was not ambitious ; but he was anxious that his son should one day pay off all debts, and take his place amongst the well-to-do. By going into trade he believed he might accomplish this, and when George left college, lie told him his plans, and implored him to enter a merchant's office.

But the young man would not listen to his prayers. He was not anxious to make money. He could not bear the drudgery of the city. His tastes did not lie that way. He loved a free, roving life, and longed to see the world. His father was bitterly disappointed, and begged him to consider the matter well. But George was firm. So, finding him bent on following his own will, Sir Eustace gave him what money he could spare, and allowed him to go where he would. The sum was not large, but with it the young man was well pleased, and certain of turning it to good account in the distant land to which he was going. So he thanked his father warmly, said good-bye to his mother and friends, and sailed for Australia. On board ship he met Sylvia Kenyon, daughter of an Australian settler. She was just eighteen, with pale gold hair, a delicate complexion, and soft, appeal ing blue eyes.

She was an interesting companion, a sympathetic friend ; and in a few days George Ather stone grew to love her very dearly. Sylvia soon returned his affection with all the ardour of her fresh young nature ; and they became engaged. The marriage was solemnised some six weeks later at Melbourne, and the happy couple started at once for the Bush. The home to which George Atherstone carried his bride was pretty enough in its way, but lonely, and isolated from other habitations. The house was old, and had been patched and repaired on all sides. The roof was covered with sheets of bark, held down by large wooden girders. A huge vine spread its leafy branches over the walls, tenderly covering their naked ness and defects. A wide verandah ran along the whole front of the dwelling, and was thickly grown with gorgeous creepers.

Below this was a flower garden, its beds bright with many flowers. A row of broadleaved tropical plants surrounded the little enclosure, where some of the trees had been felled and stumped, whilst others had been spared for shade and effect. Then, beyond, as far as the eye could see, were vast prairies, with herds of cattle grazing quietly, or lying camped under the trees ; and a beautiful chain of blue-peaked mountains stretching away in the distance. Within the house there was but a small supply of anything like luxury. The walls were covered with illustrations from pictorial papers. The furniture was scanty, and of the poorest description. But when Sylvia hung up the white mosquito curtains, and spread about the many dainty objects she had brought with her from England ; when she filled her bowls with flowers, and the corners of her rooms with plants and ferns, the place improved rapidly, and very soon assumed a comfortable and homely aspect.

The first year of their married life passed quickly by. And in spite of many privations, and enforced isolation from their friends, the young people were extremely happy. George was hard-working and industrious. Sylvia had plenty of occupation, delighted in her house, and felt proud of her big, kind husband. The free country life suited them both ; they cared nothing for society, and had little to trouble or annoy them. But all too soon there came a change. Sylvia grew delicate. She longed for a female friend ; and as George was obliged to leave her by herself for hours together, while he looked after his sheep, or rode over his farm, she became lonely and discontented. Then young Atherstone and a neighbouring selector quarrelled about a piece of land that the latter wished to seize and make his own.

George was furious ; but as he had no money to buy the field, he was obliged to let it go. This incident caused much annoyance and irritation, and peace seemed banished from the homestead. Then baby Sylvia was born ; and for a time Atherstone forgot all outside worries in the joy of possessing his Uttle daughter. The happy mother was no longer lonely, and soon grew strong again. The quarrelsome selecter became friendly, and offered to give back the land at a moderate price. This pleased George, and he wrote home for money. The man promised to wait ; and everything , looked bright once more, when suddenly the young wife caught a fever, and after a short illness expired in her husband's arms. George was wild with grief, and for some time could not bear to look upon his child. But by degrees his heart warmed to the little creature ; and he soon came to love her with tenderness and devotion.

George Atherstone had, as we know, gone to Australia much against his father's will ; and every mail brought letters imploring him to return. But the young man was obstinate. The life in the Bush suited him best. He was happy, so was his wife. He would not go back to England. But after Sylvia's death everything was changed. The little house felt lonely. His home was not what it had been ; and he was strongly tempted to leave it all, and set sail for Europe. The temptation, however, did not last long. The idea of settling down to a humdrum life in London or Lancashire was most distasteful to him ; and he soon dismissed it from his mind. He would take change of air and scene in Australia. So there and then, he resolved to leave his present abode, and travel farther into the country. Then came another letter from his father.

" I am growing old, George," he wrote. " My wife, my children, are all dead — but you. Come home, my son — come home. I am rich now. My money troubles are at an end. I told you in my last letter that there was question of running a railway through the estate, at the bottom of tbe home park. This has been done, and the compensation given by the company is so large that I have been able to pay off all debts and mortgages. Then the railway coming so close has enhanced the value of my property. I have built new houses, for which I receive high rents promptly paid. So, my son, I wish you to come home. You may now Uve as you please — go where you choose. Society, the best London can supply, will receive you with open arms, and your father will welcome you gladly. For wealth has not brought the happiness I expected.

All my dear ones are gone. I long for something, some child of my own to love. And yet, from what you have written me so often, I fear even this will not tempt you from your life of freedom. Therefore I pray you — I implore — if you cannot, will not come yourself, send me your chUd. The Australian Bush is not a fitting place for a tender girl, the daughter of a family like ours. So if you cannot yet bear the trammels of civilisation, if you still prefer a roving existence to your home, send Uttle Sylvia to comfort and console me." When he first read this, George was indignant. " Part with my child ? No, never — that I could not do. Let her grow up without knowing me — without loving me ? — I could not — I could not. And to go home is impossible. I could not endure life in England. " Society !

Bah ! it would stifle me. I shall stay as I am. The freedom here suits me to perfection. For many years yet, Europe shall not see me, or Sylvia." But when he thought of his lonely father, of his anxiety to have some one to love and comfort him in his old age ; when he considered the difficulties of his own position, the many dangers he might encounter in the wilder regions of the Bush, he resolved to grant the latter part of the old man's request, and send his daughter home. " I cannot do better after all," he reflected. " My darling will be safe, well taken care of. Her presence will make up for my absence ; her affection atone for my neglect. Next year, perhaps, if all goes well, I may take a run over to London to see her." Accordingly, a letter was written and despatched to Sir Eustace Atherstone, announcing his grand daughter's speedy arrival.

But after this, things went on as before. George put off the evil hour, and lingered on amongst the flowers, his little one at his knee. The thought of parting with her was anguish, and he kept it away from him as long as possible. At last, he heard of an exploring party going far into the country, and he grew feverishly anxious to join it. Before he could do so, however, it was necessary to place his child in safe keeping. He could not take her with him, nor could he leave her alone in the Bush. He decided, therefore, to send her without further delay to England. But who was to take her ? He had so few friends. He knew of no one going to Europe. What was to be done ? Here was a dilemma that had not occurred to him before. And as poor little Sylvia fell in trying to reach the morning glories, he suddenly realised what a helpless atom she was.

" If Anne would go with her, all would be well," he said, as he gazed out over the thick short couch grass, green with summer thunderstorms. " I have watched her well, as she sat there, hour after hour, with my darling in her lap, or played with her round the verandah, and she has always seemed kind, watchful, and trustworthy. My dear wife loved her. Sylvia adores her. I feel I might trust her — if only she would go. But she may have friends who will refuse to part with her. She may " — - "You wished to speak to me, sir. Baby is asleep, so I came at once." George looked up at the speaker, and gravely noted every point of her form and face. The survey pleased him. She was exactly what he thought : strong and well-built, neither too old nor too young. She had a fresh, wholesome complexion, a kindly smile, and an affectionate, motherly expression.

" She will do I think ; and if she will only consent to go, I may safely trust my darling to her care," flashed quickly through his mind, as he bade the woman sit down. "Anne," he said gently, "you are very fond of little Sylvia, I believe ? " Anne's colour deepened ; her eyes grew bright. " Fond of her ? I love her as if she was my own, Mr. Atherstone. I loved her sweet mother, and on her deathbed she gave her to me, saying, ' Anne, you have been a faithful servant, be true to my child; never leave her — take care of her and love her.' I vowed to do it, and do it I will as long as I live." George looked at her gratefully. " Thank you. You are a good woman, and — and — your words, your manner, encourage me to ask you a favour." "A favour ? Oh, sir, it is granted before you ask it. There is nothing I would not do for you and Miss Sylvia."

" Then will you he ready to undertake a long journey to please me ? Will you leave your friends in Australia, and go to England by the next steamer from Melbourne ? " Anne startled and turned pale. " To England ? Oh, Mr. Atherstone, that is a long, long way ; and what would my little pet do with out me ? " " I do not mean you to go alone. Sylvia shall go with you." " Sylvia go with me ? Would you — oh, sir, would you part with your child ? " " Yes, Anne, I must. But only for a time. My father is lonely, and implores me to send her to him. I am going away from here — far up country — and I cannot take baby with me. So I have resolved to send her home. Will you go with her ? If you do, your wages shall be doubled. I will bind my father to keep you with my child, always. No matter what turns up, he must not part with you or dismiss you from his service.

Will these conditions suit you ? Will you take charge of Baby Sylvia ? " Anne turned her head aside. Tears gathered in her eyes, and her lips trembled with emotion. " My dear master," she stammered presently, " you are too good. Even if I did not love the child as dearly as I do, I would feel bound to accept your generous offer, for I have a sick mother dependent on me for her entire support, and I am anxious to earn all the money I can." " Then you will take my child to England ? " " Indeed, I will. When and how you please. And believe me, sir, my whole life and strength will be devoted to her, not because of your generosity, but because I love her, the treasure confided to me by my dying mistress." George grasped her hand and shook it warmly. " Thank you, Anne — thank you. You are indeed a good and faithful servant."

"I trust I am, sir," she said earnestly. "And if ever I seem to fail in my duty to you or your child, it wUl not be my fault. I shall never do so of my own free will." " I believe you. I have full confidence in you. " Thank you, sir." And Anne curtseyed and withdrew.

Chapter II

sylvia's escort Ox a hot summer day, about a week later, George Atherstone strolled leisurely down Bourke Street. He, Baby Sylvia, and Anne, the faithful nurse, had arrived in Melbourne the evening before. Atherstone had not visited the metropolis of Victoria since the happy day of his marriage ; and he felt sad and lonely as he wended his way through the busy streets, and recognised the various points of interest, that he had seen for the first time, in company with his beloved Sylvia. He gazed at the imposing piles of masonry, churches, institutes, and warehouses, and wondered at the groups of humble little shops devoted to the sale of fruit, toys, and siigar-plums, that intervene, and are all that remain of the early shanty days of Melbourne. He admired the lofty dome of Messrs. Goldsborough and Co.'s wool palace, and then thought joyfully that very soon he should leave all this glare and magnificence, this push and bustle, to return to the delightful solitude of the Bush.

As he turned down Collins Street on his way to his hotel, he heard a quick step close behind, and someone is called him by his name. He looked ronnd in surprise; for in all this busy crowd he did not expect to meet a single acquaintance. An elderly man with a careworn face, thin and shrunken in form and figure, approached him eagerly, and held out his hand. " My dear Atherstone, I am glad to see you. You look remarkably well." " NeU ! Can it really be you ? " " Yes, I do not wonder at your not knowing me. I am much changed, Atherstone." " Changed ! I should just think you were. What have you been doing to yourself ? " " Nothing. But the fates have been against me. Everything has gone wrong with me. I have sold my house and land, and am going back to England." "Is that wise?" " I am not sure that it is.

But my wife is eager to go." " Your wife — is she in Melbourne ? " "Yes. She and my two children are at a small hotel just out of Bourke Street. We sail for England to-morrow." " My dear Neil," cried George, " I am glad. I was longing to meet a friend going in the Cimbria." " Are you coming, then ? " " No. I do not care to return to Europe at present. But I am sending my little girl home to my father." " My poor fellow, have you then lost your prettv wife ? " " Yes, she is dead. My darling died last year ; " and his voice grew low and husky. " She is a terrible loss to me and the little one." " I am sure of it. I feel for you extremely," said NeU ; " and if there is anything that my wife and I can do, pray tell us, and we shall be delighted to do it." " Thank you, you are very kind. There is not much to be done.

But if Mrs. Neil would look after baby a little " — "My dear fellow, of course she will, with the greatest pleasure. What sort of person is your nurse ? " "A most estimable person, and I can trust her thoroughly. But it would be a great happiness for me to know, that during the voyage my darling had a lady to be kind to her, and Uttle friends to play with." " Of course ; and we shall take splendid care of her. My Madge is like a second mother to her small sister Dora. She will be the same to your child. How old is she ? " " Two years and a month or so." " Just Dora's age. They'll be companions for each other." George laughed. " They'll probably pull each other's hair. Is Madge much older ? " " Oh yes ; Madge is twelve. The wisest Uttle woman in the world ! Her mother would trust her over the whole universe with little Dora.

Come along and see them. My wife will be pleased to have a talk with you. But she'll be deeply grieved to hear of Mrs. Atherstone's death. Dear me ! She was a winsome creature. Well, well, my dear fellow," con tinued Mr. Neil, sighing, " there are many things worse than death. It has been a trial, a great trial, to you to lose your darling wife. But believe me, I have suffered terribly in seeing mine, the beautiful girl I loved, grow thin and pale, lose her health and spirits, and all because of my misfortunes and bad luck." George grasped his hand and shook it warmly. " I am sorry you had so much trouble, very sorry. But I trust you may do better in England. I'll give you a letter to my father. For my sake he will find something for you to do. He is in want of an agent, I know, and he will surely give you a trial at my request.

It is a good post, and would suit you admirably." " God bless you, Atherstone ! Your words fill me with hope. It was a wonderful chance my meeting you to-day." " It was. But a still greater that you should be going home in the same steamer as my Sylvia. Your fate is in her hands. She will plead for you with her grandfather. Kindness to her will be a powerful passport to his favour." " Then my life will be a brighter one than I ever hoped for; for there is nothing that can be done for your child that I shall not do. But here we are at our hotel. I hope you don't object to stairs, for we have to mount a good many. I'll lead the way." The staircase was narrow and steep ; and the room into which the two gentlemen walked unannounced, was small and dark. The blinds were drawn down to keep out the sun, and so close was the day, that the white mosquito curtains were undisturbed by the breeze, although all the windows were wide open.

Trunks of every shape and size were ranged round the walls, and the chairs and sofas were strewn with gar ments large and small. There was no one visible. But suddenly, from behind a tall screen, there rose the sweet, fresh voice of a child, singing a pretty lullaby — " Oh, hush thee, my baby ! Thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady, Both gentle and bright." " There, that's my Madge," whispered Mr. NeU. " Just peep round, and see how she is taking care of her sister." George did as desired, and was charmed with the picture that he saw before him. On a low seat, her long, well-shaped legs and neatly shod feet stretched out before her on the floor, sat Madge. She wore a white cotton frock, with short sleeves and low neck. Her brown hair, which was thick and wavy, was tossed back from her face without comb or ribbon to confine it, and hung loosely over her shoulders.

Ou her knee, her eyes closed, but her Ups smiling, lay a beautiful child of about two years old. " Go to sleep, darling ; my Dora must go to sleep," cried Madge, interrupting her song to remonstrate with little wideawake. " Poor Sissy has work to do. So you must go to sleep." The baby laughed and pulled her sister's hair. Madge hugged her to her breast and covered her with kisses. " You see," said Mr. NeU, " Madge has the temper of an angel. No matter how that child torments her, she is always kind. She has a heart of gold, and a wise little head of her own." Before George had time to answer, the baby caught sight of her father, and, struggling off her sister's knee, ran forward to meet him. " Naughty Dora, not to go to sleep," he cried, tossing her in the air. " Madge ought to whip you." Madge gave a groan of horror, and sprang to her feet.

" Oh, father, what an idea ! I wouldn't touch the darling for the world." " I should think not," he answered gaily. " I know you love our pet too dearly for that. But you must not spoil her." " You are more likely to do that, father," said Madge gravely. " Perhaps so. But it would not be wonderful if we all spoiled her. Isn't she a beauty, Atherstone ? " " She certainly is," said George warmly. " I don't think I ever saw such a pretty child." " What ? Not even your own ? " "Not even my own. Sylvia is fair and dainty looking. But this child is a beautiful little creature." " So she is," cried the delighted father ; " and we are all very proud of her. Aren't we, Madge ? " " I am quite sure you are," said Atherstone ; " and I hear you are a first-rate little mother in your way, Miss Madge. Now my poor baby is going to England in the same steamer with you.

Will you be good to her ? She is a lonely bairn, and will have neither father nor mother to look after her." Madge raised her large grey eyes to his face, and, looking at him earnestly, said — " I will be kind to her. She shall be another little sister. But are you not afraid to send her away from you ? " " Afraid ? Oh no. There is nothing to fear." " Now, Madge, don't make us nervous," cried her father. " The fact is, Atherstone, with all her wisdom, my little girl is a bit of a coward. She hates the sea." Madge shivered slightly. " I don't like long journeys," she said. " And I don't want to go to England. I like Australia best." " So do I," answered George. " But I suppose your father has good reasons for going." The child clasped her hands tightly together ; and as Mr. Neil moved away to the window with Dora, she whispered sadlyr — " He thinks he'll get work to do, and earn money there.