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[Illustration: THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER
VOL. XX.—NO. 1010.] MAY 6, 1899. [PRICE ONE PENNY.]
SHEILA.
A STORY FOR GIRLS.
BY EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN, Author of “Greyfriars,” “Half-a-dozen
Sisters,” etc.
[Illustration: “‘CYRIL IS WORTH TEN OF HIM.’”]
_All rights reserved._]
CHAPTER V.
EFFIE’S HERO.
“I’ve just been telling Effie that we must do something to cheer her up
and put heart into her. She’s got the summer before her now, and she’s
getting stronger. We can’t let her shut herself up much longer. We must
get her out into the fresh air and sunshine, and make a new woman of
her.”
Cyril was the speaker, and he looked at Effie with a kindly smile.
She smiled back, and her cheek glowed. There was an animation and
brightness about her that Sheila had not seen before.
“I should like that,” she said eagerly, “but they will hardly let
me do anything. I’m always asking to do things; but I can never get
leave—hardly.”
“Then we’ll take French leave,” said Cyril gaily. “Look here, Effie;
suppose I dress up in a wig and spectacles, and play the part of a new
doctor, will you let me prescribe for you?”
She clapped her hands and laughed.
“I should think I would indeed! Oh, Cyril, do be doctor for a little
while and tell me what to do! You have such splendid ideas!”
“Well, my first idea would be to get you out on to horseback. You would
like it no end if you once got used to it, and it would be a capital
thing for you. Here’s Sheila with her horse to be a companion, and
I can always hire a decent hack from Lovejoy and take you out. Your
father would make nothing of getting you a little easy-paced cob,
gentle, and used to a lady; and there’s the park for you to take your
first rides in, till you have got your nerve and seat well assured. It
would be no end of a good thing for you; don’t you think so yourself?”
“Oh, yes, Cyril!” cried Effie eagerly, and Sheila’s eyes were shining,
for she saw that if Effie once took to riding, she would get her share
of her favourite exercise. “You know I used to have my pony, but when I
outgrew him they never got me another. Mother is nervous, and there was
so much trouble and illness in the house, and then I got ill myself.
But I’ll talk to father. I’ll get his leave, and you’ll choose me a
cob, won’t you, and teach me how to ride again? I hope I sha’n’t be
very stupid; but you know I do get rather nervous sometimes now; I
suppose it’s being ill. Things get on my mind and I can’t get them off;
but I should feel safe with you.”
“Oh, I’ll take care of you!” answered Cyril. “We shall just have to get
the doctor on our side and everything will be right, you’ll see.”
“I don’t care what the doctor says!” cried Effie. “I mean to do as I
like now. I’ve obeyed doctors quite long enough, and I’m not a bit
better for it. You shall be my doctor, Cyril. I shall obey you and defy
everybody else. Won’t it be fun? Do ask about a nice horse for me.
Father will give me anything I want, I know. And he thinks such a lot
of you, Cyril. If you’ll only be there to help me, he won’t mind what I
do.”
“And when once you can ride, there’ll be plenty of fun for us all in
the summer,” went on Cyril. “We can get up picnics and water-parties
and things like that; and when your birthday comes we might have a
regular _fête_ in the park, with sports or mild polo or steeplechase,
and you should show off your prowess. Perhaps by the autumn you might
be promoted to a hunter and ride to hounds. There’s some very good
country all round here, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t take your
place as the heiress of Cossart Place, which is what you are, Effie.
You ought to be quite a great lady in Isingford and its vicinity.”
When Cyril was gone, after spending an hour with the two girls and
leaving them quite roused up and full of pleasureable excitement, Effie
turned to Sheila and exclaimed eagerly—
“Isn’t he splendid!”
“He’s very kind and nice,” answered Sheila, “so different from the
rest. I don’t mean that they’re not all nice; but Cyril seems to belong
to a different world.”
“Yes, doesn’t he? That’s just how I feel. He’s always been so different
from the rest. The funny thing is, that father does not think half
as much of him as he does of North; but I never could care a bit for
North. Cyril is worth ten of him.”
“He has been brought up so differently—has been to public school and
college. I like University men; they are quite different from others. I
can’t bear that Oscar shouldn’t finish his course there; but still, he
always will have the air of an Oxford man everywhere!”
Sheila spoke with sisterly pride, but Effie was not listening. Her
thoughts had gone off on their own tack. Presently she asked with a
would-be air of carelessness—
“Did Cyril ever talk about me to you, those days you were in River
Street?”
Sheila paused and hesitated. Cyril had sometimes spoken of Effie, but
always in a rather slighting fashion, not unkindly exactly, but as
though he held her in rather small estimation. If Sheila had not hurt
Effie’s feelings once already to-day, she might have answered with more
truth than diplomacy, but she had had a lesson and was too good-natured
to give pain willingly, so she replied after a moment’s pause—
“Yes, he talked about you several times. He is fond of coming here, I
think. He likes the house and the park and garden. Are you and he great
friends, Effie? I thought you seemed to be.”
“Yes, I think we are,” answered Effie with a pleased and conscious
smile. “You see, Raby and Ray aren’t a bit intellectual, they don’t
care to read or talk about books, and Cyril is so clever. He reads to
me sometimes and lends me books, and we talk about them afterwards. I
have a lot of time for thinking about things. Cyril thinks a great deal
too. I suppose that’s why he likes coming. Do you think he thinks me
clever, Sheila?”
“I don’t know. He did not say.”
“I don’t call myself clever,” went on Effie, “but I think in my own
way; I don’t go by what other people tell me. I like to have my own
ideas about things. One ought to be original, don’t you think? Mother
often says I have such an original mind. I think perhaps I shall write
some day when I am stronger. I have done a few things. Cyril saw one
or two. I think he was rather anxious for me to go on. Perhaps I’ll
show them to you some day. I took a prize once at an essay competition;
Cyril helped me. He was very proud when I got the prize.”
Effie was quite happy now, fairly launched upon her favourite topic.
Sheila listened and tried to be sympathetic, but wished that Cyril had
stayed longer. His conversation was more interesting a good deal than
Effie’s. Presently there was rather a long silence between the girls,
and then Effie asked suddenly—
“Sheila, do you think there’s any harm in cousins marrying?”
“I don’t know,” answered Sheila, waking from her day-dream. “Why should
there be? Don’t they often do it?”
“Yes, very often; but some people don’t like it. I never quite know
why. I can’t see why they shouldn’t.”
Sheila turned a glance rather full of interest upon Effie.
“Does Cyril want to marry you?” she asked, with the outspoken candour
of girlhood.
Effie’s face flamed, but there was a lurking smile in her eyes. She
looked down and twisted her hands together.
“I don’t know. He has never said so. Did you think that yourself,
Sheila?”
It had not entered Sheila’s head till Effie’s own words had suggested
it; but certainly Cyril had paid a good deal of attention to Effie, and
had seemed anxious to see more of her.
“I’ve never seen people in love,” she answered; “I don’t know what
they do, or how they look. Do you think you would like to marry Cyril,
Effie?”
Effie blushed, but looked up with a sparkle of defiance in her eyes.
“He’ll have to fall in love with me first, and then I’ll perhaps think
about it. You don’t suppose I’m going to care for anybody in that way
if he doesn’t care for me? I’m the heiress of Cossart Place—you heard
Cyril say so himself. I believe I shall have a very big fortune some
day. You don’t suppose I’m going to be had just for the asking—not even
by Cyril!”
Sheila held her peace; her ideas about love and marriage were very
elementary and immature, but she did not see that what persons had
could make very much difference. It was whether they cared for each
other, she thought.
The following weeks were rather amusing ones for Sheila and Effie.
Cyril had taken up in earnest his plan for getting Effie to ride again;
and Mr. Cossart had been talked over when he found that the doctor
approved and that Effie’s heart was set upon it.
Cyril was the master of the ceremonies throughout. He first hired for
her a trained circus pony, who would obey at a word, and who carried
Effie patiently round and round the sweep of the drive till she had
regained some of her former aptitude for the saddle. Meantime he was
scouring the neighbourhood in search of a suitable cob for her future
use; and when he had heard of a likely animal, he would call for Sheila
to accompany him to the place, because, as he said, though she might
not know whether the creature were sound or not, she could give a very
good opinion as to whether its paces were easy and comfortable, and
whether it was the kind of creature Effie would like.
These rides were a source of great enjoyment to Sheila. She found Cyril
a delightful companion, and he seemed to find her the same. It was
a relief to get away from the atmosphere of Cossart Place for a few
hours—away from Effie’s companionship, and the feeling of irritation
and constraint which she often experienced there.
“I suppose it is my fault,” she sometimes said to Cyril, if he chanced
to find her in one of her stormy moods. “I want to be nice to Effie;
but she does aggravate me sometimes! When she is ill, I am really very
sorry for her. It must be dreadful to feel as though you couldn’t
breathe. But I do think she would be better if she wasn’t always
talking and thinking about her symptoms. It’s partly Aunt Cossart. She
is always asking her about them. But—oh, dear, I do get so tired of it!
And then if I am cross, I get into such disgrace!”
“Poor little thing!” said Cyril kindly. “Yes, it must be a trying life
for you; but I will do all I can to brighten it up for you. We will
try to get some fun out of the summer. Uncle and Aunt Cossart will do
anything and agree to anything if they think it is in the interest of
their darling! So we can make a capital stalking-horse of Effie!”
Sheila suddenly raised her clear glance to Cyril’s face. Something
in the tone of the last words struck her with a momentary sense of
uneasiness. Surely he was sincere in wishing to do Effie good and rouse
her up? Anything the least bit untrue went against the grain with
Sheila terribly. He seemed to see the question in her eyes, and at once
continued—
“You can see for yourself how much she wants taking out of herself; and
that will never be done at home. We must get her out into the world
amongst other people. As it is, she thinks she is rather a wonderful
being. When she goes out more and rubs against others, she will find
her level, and it will do her a world of good.”
“Don’t you like Effie, then?” asked Sheila.
“Oh, yes, in a way, poor little thing! I am sorry for her, and we have
always been good friends. She was a merry little soul once, though too
cheeky for my taste. Perhaps she will be better of that as she grows
older. But she has had no advantages. She has never seen society—as you
and I call it—and she shows it in every word and thought. She has no
charm about her—that great possession of womanhood—and when one sees
her beside somebody who has so large a share, one feels the absence of
it more than ever.”
Sheila felt Cyril’s eyes upon her, and blushed crimson. She was not
used to compliments, yet there was no misunderstanding the meaning of
his words. She could not help quivering with a sort of pleasure, yet
felt as though it were somehow treachery to her cousin. For that Cyril
was Effie’s hero Sheila could not doubt, though she would never exactly
admit as much.
The cob was selected at last, had up on trial, and finally purchased;
and Cyril was to be found at Cossart Place most mornings in the week to
take the girls out for a ride.
Effie could only go short distances as yet, and her steady cob did not
require more exercise than the daily amble. But Shamrock was young and
mettlesome, and so was the horse Cyril had hired for his own use; and
often, after Effie had dismounted and gone in, the other two would
betake themselves for a canter across the park, or a ride on some
errand or other, generally of Cyril’s devising.
The Cossart cousins had always been on brotherly and sisterly terms,
and nobody took exception to this arrangement. Sheila was delighted
to get the long breezy canters through the budding lanes or across a
stretch of park-land, and Cyril’s companionship was always pleasant.
Her little worries seemed to smooth themselves down when he was near;
and he had a way of saying flattering things, which, if a little
embarrassing sometimes, was rather delightful too.
The only thing that Sheila did not quite like or understand was his way
of half laughing at Effie behind her back—making out that what he did
for her was a kind of duty and treadmill, whilst he was all the while
longing to be off with Sheila.
Effie did not take this view of matters. To her he professed himself
the most devoted of knights. She fully believed that he enjoyed riding
beside her more than anything in the world, and he certainly seemed to
profess as much. But when off and away with Sheila, he would give her a
laughing look, and say—
“There, now we can enjoy ourselves. Aren’t we good to be so patient
over our task? But it’s worth it, for what we get afterwards. Don’t you
find it so too, little cousin?”
And then Sheila would feel guilty and uncomfortable, and ask herself if
she were being hypocritical. But surely Cyril could not be that, and
she quickly drove away the unwelcome misgiving.
Once rather a strange thing happened whilst they were riding together.
A man on horseback suddenly joined them—rather as though he were
waiting for them. She thought Cyril changed colour and looked angry;
and he said to her at once—
“Ride on, Sheila. I will join you almost at once. I have a little
business to talk over with this gentleman.”
Sheila did as she was bid. She rode ahead; but she heard the voices of
the men behind in argument, and what sounded rather like disagreement.
At least, the other man seemed angry. Sometimes he spoke quite loud and
roughly, and once Sheila heard him say—
“Is that the heiress you are riding with, then?” But she could not hear
Cyril’s reply; and when he came back to her, his face was pale and very
much clouded over.
“Is anything the matter, Cyril?” she asked. But he tried to laugh as he
answered in an off-hand way—
“Oh, we all have our little worries, Sheila! It’s nothing much! It’s
nothing to bother over! I’ve squared the fellow for the present. He
won’t trouble us again; and don’t you say anything about this to
anybody! It’s nothing to anybody but myself!”
(_To be continued._)
VARIETIES.
“MOTHER” IN FOURTEEN LANGUAGES.—Here are fourteen varieties of the
word “Mother,” all bearing a distinct resemblance—Anglo-Saxon, Modor;
Persian, Madr; Sanscrit, Matr; Greek, Meter; Italian, Madre; French,
Mère; Swedish, Moder; Danish, the same; Dutch, Moeder; German, Mutter;
Russian, Mater; Celtic, Mathair; Hebrew, Em; Arabic, Am.
DON’T BE INDISCREET.—An indiscreet girl does more harm than an
ill-natured one, for the latter will only attack her enemies and those
she wishes ill to, but the other injures indifferently both friends and
foes.
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.—Coolness and absence of heat and haste indicate
fine qualities. A gentleman makes no noise; a lady is serene.—_Emerson._
THE GREATEST EVENT IN LIFE.—Marriage is the greatest event in life. It
is also a new beginning of life. It is a home for the lonely, a haven
of rest for those who have been too much tossed by the storms of life.
It is the best and most lasting thing. It is heaven upon earth to live
together in perfect amity and disinterestedness and unselfishness to
the service of God and man until our life is over.—_Jowett._
WORDS FOR MUSIC.—Too much thought in words intended for music has
a disturbing and over-weighting effect. Music does not only deepen
emotion, it sometimes obscures the meaning. Hence the poet must meet
it with a concession. The most effective words for songs are simple,
slight, lucid, with unity—a simple idea worked out to one climax.
AVARICE.—A neighbour once refused another the loan of his well. The
latter was thus compelled to sink one himself, and in so doing he
tapped his neighbour’s spring, so that his neighbour’s well ran dry.
Thus avarice ofttimes defeats itself and benefits its enemy.
THE PLEASURES OF BEE-KEEPING.
BY F. W. L. SLADEN.