The Empire Annual for Girls, 1911 Part 21

"I hate children--especially boys," she said sullenly when she spoke.

"Surely in eight years a doctor ought to be able to make enough to pay a housekeeper, if his wife can't look after his house."

"You don't understand how hard life is sometimes, or I think you would be readier to take up part of a burden that is dragging down a good and brave man."

"To live in an uncivilised country, where probably the people won't speak my own language----"

"Don't betray such absurd ignorance, Eva," replied Mrs. Trevor; "you must know that New Zealand is a British colony, inhabited mainly by our own people, who are as well educated and as well mannered as ourselves."

"And just when I was getting on so well with my singing! Mr. James said my voice would soon fill a concert hall, and all my hopes of writing and becoming a known author--everything dashed to the ground--every longing nipped in the bud! Oh! it is cruel, cruel!"

"I knew, dear child, that the blow would be severe; don't imagine that it will be easy for me to give you up. But knowing what lies before us, the thing to do is to prize every hour we are together, and then with courage go forward to meet the unknown future. The boys are growing up----"

"Hobbledehoys, you may be sure."

Mrs. Trevor smiled, but said nothing. "And in addition to them, there is the baby sister you have never seen."

"And never wish to," added Eva ungraciously.

"We shall have much to think of, and when once you have become used to the idea, I should strongly advise you to settle to some practical work that will help when you are forced to depend on yourself."

Eva did not reply. Mentally she was protesting or blankly refusing to give up her life of ease, of pleasures, and congenial study in exchange for the one offered her in the colony.

"Friends of your father are now home and expect to return in September; so, having arranged for you to accompany them, we must regard their arrangements as time limit. It is always best to know the worst, though, believe me, antic.i.p.ation is often worse than realisation."

The sword had fallen, cutting off, as Evelyne Riley was fully convinced, every possibility of happiness on earth so far as she was concerned.

Time seemed to fly on fairy wings; Mrs. Trevor made all necessary preparations, and before Evelyne realised that her farewell to England must be made, she stood on the deck of the outgoing steamer "Waimato" at the side of a stranger, waving her hand forlornly to the woman whose heart was sore at parting with one she had learned to look upon as her own child.

[Sidenote: In New Zealand]

Six weeks later, Eva landed at Wellington. The voyage had not interested her much, and she was glad to end it. She had read somewhere that it was usual to wear old clothes on board, but for landing to choose smart and becoming ones, and Eva had bestowed quite some thought on the subject.

Her dark serge lay at the bottom of her trunk, and for the important occasion she decided on her most cherished frock and the new hat, which in Richmond she had worn on high-days and holidays. Certainly she looked very attractive. Almost sixteen, tall and very fair, Eva was a beautiful girl, and as the eyes of Dr. Riley fell on her, he wondered in amazement at the change that had taken place in the pale, slight child he had left with his sister. Could this really be Evelyne? If so, how was she going to suit in the simple surroundings to which she was going? He gazed in dismay at the expensive clothes and fashionable style of one who soon would need to patch and darn, to bake and cook, run the house on practical lines, and care for children.

Somewhat nervous and much excited, Eva allowed herself to be kissed and caressed, asking after her mother in a constrained fashion, for, try as she would, she bore a grudge against one who was the cause of her changed life.

A shadow overcast the doctor's face as he replied, "Your dear mother will not welcome you at our home as we had hoped. She lies very ill in a hospital at present, awaiting a severe operation, the success of which may save her life--G.o.d grant it may--but the boys and Babs are wild with excitement and longing to see you. We ought to reach 'Aroha' before they are in bed. It is only nine o'clock, and we can go part of the way by train; then we shall have a long buggy drive through the bush."

That day Eva never forgot. Travelling with one who was practically a stranger to her and yet her nearest relative, the girl felt embarra.s.sed.

She wanted to hear about her future surroundings and ask questions about the children, but she found it hard to disguise her disappointment in having to leave her old home and to pretend enthusiasm about her brothers and sister; she feared that her father would read her thoughts and be hurt and offended, so relapsed into silence. Once they left the railway they said goodbye to civilisation, Eva felt positive.

The country was at its loveliest; the early summer brought a beauty of its own. Rains had washed every leaf and refreshed each growing thing.

Great trees, veritable giants, reared their heads proudly towards the sky, bushes were in full leaf, the ground on either side of the road was carpeted with thick moss that had grown for long years without being disturbed. From out of a cloudless sky the sun shone brilliantly, and the travellers gladly exchanged the high-road for the shelter of the bush. The day was undoubtedly hot, and Eva in her holiday raiment felt oppressed and weary before the carriage came in sight of the first houses that comprised the growing little township in which her father held an important position as medical man.

The style of house brought a curve of contempt to the girl's lips, but she offered no opinions. Suddenly, without a remark, her father checked the horses, as a small group came to a halt in the middle of the road and began waving their hats and shouting wildly.

"There's a welcome for you, Eva!"

"Who are they? I mean--how did those boys know I was coming?"

"They are your brothers, dear; jolly little chaps every one of them, even though they are a bunch of rough robins."

Eva shivered; her brothers--those raggety tags!

They presented a picturesque though unkempt appearance. Jack was eating a slice of bread and jam; d.i.c.k had Babs--somewhat in a soiled condition from watering the garden--on his back; Charlie, the incorrigible, with a tear in his knickers and a brimless hat on the back of his curly head, was leaping about like an excited kangaroo.

[Sidenote: "An Impossible Crowd!"]

The doctor held out his arms to the three-year-old little girl, who looked shyly at the pretty lady and then promptly hid her face. Eva's heart sank; she knew she ought to say or do something, but no words of tenderness came to her lips. The child might be attractive if clean, but it looked neglected, while the boys were what she described as "hobbledehoys." "An impossible crowd," she decided with a shudder, and yet her life was to be spent in their midst.

"Leave your sister in peace, you young rascals!" said the doctor; "she is tired. d.i.c.k, put on the kettle; Eva will be glad of some tea, I know.

Welcome home, dear daughter. Mother and I have longed for you so often, and my hopes run high now that you have come. I trust you will be a second mother to the boys and Babs."

"I will try," Eva replied in a low voice.

Her father noticed her depression, so wisely said little more, but going out to see a patient, left her to settle into her new surroundings in her own fashion.

Next morning Eva wakened early and looked out of her window, which was shaded by a climbing rose that trailed right across it. The house was boarded and shingled, one little piece of wood neatly overlapping the other; it was only two stories high, with deep eaves and a wide verandah all around it.

Breakfast once over, Eva made a tour of the rooms, ending up in the kitchen, accompanied, of course, by all the boys and Babs at her heels.

Uncertain what to do first, she was much astonished at a voice proceeding from the washhouse saying in familiar fashion, "Where on earth are you all?" There had been no knock at the door, no bell rung--what could it mean?

Standing unconcernedly in the middle of the room unrolling an ap.r.o.n stood a little woman of about forty years.

"Good day to you, Eva; hope you slept well after your journey. Come out of the pantry, Jack, or I'll be after you."

"May I ask whom I am talking to?" asked Eva icily, much resenting being addressed as "Eva."

"I am Mrs. Meadows, and thought I'd just run in and show you where things are. You'll feel kind of strange."

"Of course it will take some time to get used to things, but I think I should prefer doing it in my own way, thank you."

"Perhaps that would be best," replied Mrs. Meadows. "To-day is baking day; can you manage, do you think?"

"I suppose I can order from the baker?"

The woman smiled. "'Help yourself' is the motto of a young country, my dear; every one is her own cook and baker, too. Let me help you to-day, and by next week things will seem easier, and you will be settled and rested. Your mother is my friend; for her sake I'd like to stand by you.

Will you tidy the rooms while I see to the kitchen?"

Fairly beaten, Eva walked upstairs, hating the work, the house, and everything in general, and Mrs. Meadows, whom she considered forward, in particular.

The next three days were trials in many ways to the doctor's household, himself included. The meals were irregular, the food badly cooked, but the man patiently made allowances, and was silent. It was a break in the monotony of "sweep and cook and wash up" when Sunday arrived and the family went to church. The tiny building was nearly filled, and many eyes were turned on the newcomer. But she noticed no one. The old familiar hymns brought tears to her eyes, and her thoughts stole away from her keeping to the dear land beyond the seas. However, she rallied and joined heartily in the last hymn, her voice ringing out above all others.

When next she saw Mrs. Meadows the conversation turned to church and congregation. After telling her details she thought were interesting, Mrs. Meadows said, "You have a nice voice, Eva, but you mustn't strain it."

[Sidenote: Eva's Top Notes]

"Do you think I do?" she replied. "I was trained at the Guildhall School, and I suppose my master knew the limits of my voice. _He_ approved of my top notes. Perhaps you don't know what the Guildhall School is, though," she added insolently.

"On the contrary, my father was one of the professors until he died.