← catalogue

John Caldigate

by Anthony Trollope · English · Gutenberg #11643 · 1,143,772 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of John Caldigate
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: John Caldigate

Author: Anthony Trollope


        
Release date: March 1, 2004 [eBook #11643]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11643

Credits: E-text prepared by Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders and revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHN CALDIGATE ***

JOHN CALDIGATE

By

ANTHONY TROLLOPE





Contents

      I. Folking
     II. Puritan Grange
    III. Daniel Caldigate
     IV. The Shands
      V. The Goldfinder
     VI. Mrs. Smith
    VII. The Three Attempts
   VIII. Reaching Melbourne
     IX. Nobble
      X. Polyeuka Hall
     XI. Ahalala
    XII. Mademoiselle Cettini
   XIII. Coming Back
    XIV. Again at Home
     XV. Again at Pollington
    XVI. Again at Babington
   XVII. Again at Puritan Grange
  XVIII. Robert Bolton
    XIX. Men are so wicked
     XX. Hester's Courage
    XXI. The Wedding
   XXII. As to touching Pitch
  XXIII. The New Heir
   XXIV. News from the Gold Mines
    XXV. The Baby's Sponsors
   XXVI. A Stranger in Cambridge
  XXVII. The Christening
 XXVIII. Tom Crinkett at Folking
   XXIX. 'Just by telling me that I am'
    XXX. The Conclave at Puritan Grange
   XXXI. Hester is Lured Back
  XXXII. The Babington Wedding
 XXXIII. Persuasion
  XXXIV. Violence
   XXXV. In Prison
  XXXVI. The Escape
 XXXVII. Again at Folking
XXXVIII. Bollum
  XXXIX. Restitution
     XL. Waiting for the Trial
    XLI. The First Day
   XLII. The Second Day
  XLIII. The Last Day
   XLIV. After the Verdict
    XLV. The Boltons are much Troubled
   XLVI. Burning Words
  XLVII. Curlydown and Bagwax
 XLVIII. Sir John Jorum's Chambers
   XLIX. All the Shands
      L. Again at Sir John's Chambers
     LI. Dick Shand goes to Cambridgeshire
    LII. The Fortunes of Bagwax
   LIII. Sir John backs his Opinion
    LIV. Judge Bramber
     LV. How the Conspirators Throve.
    LVI. The Boltons are very Firm
   LVII. Squire Caldigate at the Home Office
  LVIII. Mr. Smirkie is Ill-used
    LIX. How the Big-Wigs doubted
     LX. How Mrs. Bolton was nearly conquered
    LXI. The News reaches Cambridge
   LXII. John Caldigate's Return
  LXIII. How Mrs. Bolton was quite conquered
   LXIV. Conclusion




Chapter I

Folking



Perhaps it was more the fault of Daniel Caldigate the father than of his
son John Caldigate, that they two could not live together in comfort in
the days of the young man's early youth. And yet it would have been much
for both of them that such comfortable association should have been
possible to them. Wherever the fault lay, or the chief fault--for
probably there was some on both sides--the misfortune was so great as to
bring crushing troubles upon each of them.

There were but the two of which to make a household. When John was
fifteen, and had been about a year at Harrow, he lost his mother and his
two little sisters almost at a blow. The two girls went first, and the
poor mother, who had kept herself alive to see them die, followed them
almost instantly. Then Daniel Caldigate had been alone.

And he was a man who knew how to live alone,--a just, hard,
unsympathetic man,--of whom his neighbours said, with something of
implied reproach, that he bore up strangely when he lost his wife and
girls. This they said, because he was to be seen riding about the
country, and because he was to be heard talking to the farmers and
labourers as though nothing special had happened to him. It was rumoured
of him, too, that he was as constant with his books as before; and he
had been a man always constant with his books; and also that he had
never been seen to shed a tear, or been heard to speak of those who had
been taken from him.

He was, in truth, a stout, self-constraining man, silent unless when he
had something to say. Then he could become loud enough, or perhaps it
might be said, eloquent. To his wife he had been inwardly affectionate,
but outwardly almost stern. To his daughters he had been the
same,--always anxious for every good thing on their behalf, but never
able to make the children conscious of this anxiety. When they were
taken from him, he suffered in silence, as such men do suffer; and he
suffered the more because he knew well how little of gentleness there
had been in his manners with them.

But he had hoped, as he sat alone in his desolate house, that it would
be different with him and his only son,--with his son who was now the
only thing left to him. But the son was a boy, and he had to look
forward to what years might bring him rather than to present happiness
from that source. When the boy came home for his holidays, the father
would sometimes walk with him, and discourse on certain chosen
subjects,--on the politics of the day, in regard to which Mr. Caldigate
was an advanced Liberal, on the abomination of the Game Laws, on the
folly of Protection, on the antiquated absurdity of a State Church;--as
to all which matters his son John lent him a very inattentive ear. Then
the lad would escape and kill rabbits, or rats, or even take birds'
nests, with a zest for such pursuits which was disgusting to the father,
though he would not absolutely forbid them. Then John would be allured
to go to his uncle Babington's house, where there was a pony on which he
could hunt, and fishing-rods, and a lake with a boat, and three fine
bouncing girl-cousins, who made much of him, and called him Jack; so
that he soon preferred his uncle Babington's house, and would spend much
of his holidays at Babington House.

Mr. Caldigate was a country squire with a moderate income, living in a
moderate house called Folking, in the parish of Utterden, about ten
miles from Cambridge. Here he owned nearly the entire parish, and some
portion of Netherden, which lay next to it, having the reputation of an
income of £3,000 a-year. It probably amounted to about two-thirds of
that. Early in life he had been a very poor man, owing to the
improvidence of his father; but he had soon quarrelled with his
father,--as he had with almost everyone else,--and had for some ten
years earned his own bread in the metropolis among the magazines and
newspapers. Then, when his father died, the property was his own, with
such encumbrances as the old squire had been able to impose upon it.
Daniel Caldigate had married when he was a poor man, but did not go to
Folking to live till the estate was clear, at which time he was forty
years old. When he was endeavouring to inculcate good Liberal principles
into that son of his, who was burning the while to get off to a battle
of rats among the corn-stacks, he was not yet fifty. There might
therefore be some time left to him for the promised joys of
companionship if he could only convince the boy that politics were
better than rats.

But he did not long make himself any such promise. It seemed to him that
his son's mind was of a nature very different from his own; and much
like to that of his grandfather. The lad could be awakened to no
enthusiasm in the abuse of Conservative leaders. And those Babingtons
were such fools! He despised the whole race of them,--especially those
thick-legged, romping, cherry-cheeked damsels, of whom, no doubt, his
son would marry one. They were all of the earth earthy, without an idea
among them. And yet he did not dare to forbid his son to go to the
house, lest people should say of him that his sternness was unendurable.

Folking is not a place having many attractions of its own, beyond the
rats. It lies in the middle of the Cambridgeshire fens, between St.
Ives, Cambridge, and Ely. In the two parishes of Utterden and Netherden
there is no rise of ground which can by any stretch of complaisance be
called a hill. The property is bisected by an immense straight dike,
which is called the Middle Wash, and which is so sluggish, so straight,
so ugly, and so deep, as to impress the mind of a stranger with the
ideas of suicide. And there are straight roads and straight dikes, with
ugly names on all sides, and passages through the country called droves,
also with ugly appellations of their own, which certainly are not worthy
of the name of roads. The Folking Causeway possesses a bridge across the
Wash, and is said to be the remains of an old Roman Way which ran in a
perfectly direct line from St. Neots to Ely. When you have crossed the
bridge going northward,--or north-westward,--there is a lodge at your
right hand, and a private road running, as straight as a line can be
drawn, through pollard poplars, up to Mr. Caldigate's house. Round the
house there are meadows, and a large old-fashioned kitchen garden, and a
small dark flower-garden, with clipt hedges and straight walks, quite in
the old fashion. The house itself is dark, picturesque, well-built, low,
and uncomfortable. Part of it is as old as the time of Charles II., and
part dates from Queen Anne. Something was added at a later
date,--perhaps early in the Georges; but it was all done with good
materials, and no stint of labour. Shoddy had not been received among
building materials when any portion of Folking was erected. But then
neither had modern ideas of comfort become in vogue. Just behind the
kitchen-garden a great cross ditch, called Foul-water Drain, runs, or
rather creeps, down to the Wash, looking on that side as though it had
been made to act as a moat to the house; and on the other side of the
drain there is Twopenny Drove, at the end of which Twopenny Ferry leads
to Twopenny Hall, a farmhouse across the Wash belonging to Mr.
Caldigate. The fields around are all square and all flat, all mostly
arable, and are often so deep in mud that a stranger wonders that a
plough should be able to be dragged through the soil. The farming is,
however, good of its kind, and the ploughing is mostly done by steam.

Such is and has been for some years the house at Folking in which Mr.
Caldigate has lived quite alone. For five years after his wife's death
he had only on rare occasions received visitors there. Twice his brother
had come to Folking, and had brought a son with him. The brother had
been a fellow of a college at Cambridge, and had taken a living, and
married late in life. The living was far away in Dorsetshire, and the
son, at the time of these visits, was being educated at a private
school. Twice they had both been at Folking together, and the uncle had,
in his silent way, liked the boy. The lad had preferred, or had
pretended to prefer, books to rats; had understood or seemed to
understand, something of the advantages of cheap food for the people,
and had been commended by the father for general good conduct. But when
they had last taken their departure from Folking, no one had entertained
any idea of any peculiar relations between the nephew and the uncle. It
was not till a year or two more had run by, that Mr. Daniel Caldigate
thought of making his nephew George the heir to the property.

The property indeed was entailed upon John, as it had been entailed upon
John's father. There were many institutions of his country which Mr.
Caldigate hated with almost an inhuman hatred; but there were none more
odious to him than that of entails, which institution he was wont to
prove by many arguments to be the source of all the ignorance and all
the poverty and all the troubles by which his country was inflicted. He
had got his own property by an entail, and certainly never would have
had an acre had his father been able to consume more than a
life-interest. But he had denied that the property had done him any
good, and was loud in declaring that the entail had done the property
and those who lived on it very much harm. In his hearts of hearts he did
feel a desire that when he was gone the acres should still belong to a
Caldigate. There was so much in him of the leaven of the old English
squirarchic aristocracy as to create a pride in the fact that the
Caldigates had been at Folking for three hundred years, and a wish that
they might remain there; and no doubt he knew that without repeated
entails they would not have remained there. But still he had hated the
thing, and as years rolled on he came to think that the entail now
existing would do an especial evil.

His son on leaving school spent almost the whole four months between
that time and the beginning of his first term at Cambridge with the
Babingtons. This period included the month of September, and afforded
therefore much partridge shooting,--than which nothing was meaner in the
opinion of the Squire of Folking. When a short visit was made to
Folking, the father was sarcastic and disagreeable; and then, for the
first time, John Caldigate showed himself to be possessed of a power of
reply which was peculiarly disagreeable to the old man. This had the
effect of cutting down the intended allowance of £250 to £220 per annum,
for which sum the father had been told that his son could live like a
gentleman at the University. This parsimony so disgusted uncle
Babington, who lived on the other side of the county, within the borders
of Suffolk, that he insisted on giving his nephew a hunter, and an
undertaking to bear the expense of the animal as long as John should
remain at the University. No arrangement could have been more foolish.
And that last visit made by John to Babington House for the two days
previous to his Cambridge career was in itself most indiscreet. The
angry father would not take upon himself to forbid it, but was worked up
by it to perilous jealousy. He did not scruple to declare aloud that old
Humphrey Babington was a thick-headed fool; nor did Humphrey Babington,
who, with his ten or twelve thousand a-year, was considerably involved,
scruple to say that he hated such cheese-paring ways. John Caldigate
felt more distaste to the cheese-paring ways than he did to his uncle's
want of literature.

Such was the beginning of the rupture which took place before the time
had come for John to take his degree. When that time came he had a
couple of hunters at Cambridge, played in the Cambridge eleven, and
rowed in one of the Trinity boats. He also owed something over £800 to
the regular tradesmen of the University, and a good deal more to other
creditors who were not 'regular.' During the whole of this time his
visits to Folking had been short and few. The old squire had become more
and more angry, and not the less so because he was sensible of a
non-performance of duty on his own part. Though he was close to
Cambridge he never went to see his son; nor would he even press the lad
to come out to Folking. Nor when, on rare occasions, a visit was made,
did he endeavour to make the house pleasant. He was jealous, jealous to
hot anger, at being neglected, but could not bring himself to make
advances to his own son. Then when he heard from his son's tutor that
his son could not pass his degree without the payment of £800 for
recognised debts,--then his anger boiled over, and he told John
Caldigate that he was expelled from his father's heart and his father's
house.

The money was paid and the degree was taken: and there arose the
question as to what was to be done. John, of course, took himself to
Babington House, and was condoled with by his uncle and cousins. His
troubles at this time were numerous enough. That £800 by no means summed
up his whole indebtedness;--covered indeed but a small part of it. He
had been at Newmarket; and there was a pleasant gentleman, named Davis,
who frequented that place and Cambridge, who had been very civil to him
when he lost a little money, and who now held his acceptances for, alas!
much more than £800. Even uncle Babington knew nothing of this when the
degree was taken. And then there came a terrible blow to him. Aunt
Babington,--aunt Polly as she was called,--got him into her own closet
upstairs, where she kept her linen and her jams and favourite liqueurs,
and told him that his cousin Julia was dying in love for him. After all
that had passed, of course it was expected he would engage himself to
his cousin Julia. Now Julia was the eldest, the thickest-ankled, and the
cherry-cheekedest of the lot. To him up to that time the Babington folk
had always been a unit. No one else had been so good-natured to him, had
so petted him, and so freely administered to all his wants. He would
kiss them all round whenever he went to Babington; but he had not kissed
Julia more than her sisters. There were three sons, whom he never
specially liked, and who certainly were fools. One was the heir, and, of
course, did nothing; the second was struggling for a degree at Oxford
with an eye to the family living; the third was in a fair way to become
the family gamekeeper. He certainly did not wish to marry into the
family;--and yet they had all been so kind to him!

'I should have nothing to marry on, aunt Polly,' he said.

Then he was reminded that he was his father's heir, and that his
father's house was sadly in want of a mistress. They could live at
Babington till Folking should be ready. The prospect was awful!

What is a young man to say in such a position? 'I do not love the young
lady after that fashion, and therefore I must decline.' It requires a
hero, and a cold-blooded hero, to do that. And aunt Polly was very much
in earnest, for she brought Julia into the room, and absolutely
delivered her up into the young man's arms.

'I am so much in debt,' he said, 'that I don't care to think of it.'

Aunt Polly declared that such debts did not signify in the least.
Folking was not embarrassed. Folking did not owe a shilling. Every one
knew that. And there was Julia in his arms! He never said that he would
marry her; but when he left the linen-closet the two ladies understood
that the thing was arranged.

Luckily for him aunt Polly had postponed this scene till the moment
before his departure from the house. He was at this time going to
Cambridge, where he was to be the guest, for one night, of a certain Mr.
Bolton, who was one of the very few friends to whom his father was still
attached. Mr. Bolton was a banker, living close to Cambridge, an old man
now, with four sons and one daughter; and to his house John Caldigate
was going in order that he might there discuss with Mr. Bolton certain
propositions which had been made between him and his father respecting
the Folking property. The father had now realised the idea of buying his
son out; and John himself, who had all the world and all his life before
him, and was terribly conscious of the obligations which he owed to his
friend Davis, had got into his head a notion that he would prefer to
face his fortune with a sum of ready money, than to wait in absolute
poverty for the reversion of the family estate. He had his own ideas,
and in furtherance of them he had made certain inquiries. There was gold
being found at this moment among the mountains of New South Wales, in
quantities which captivated his imagination. And this was being done in
a most lovely spot, among circumstances which were in all respects
romantic. His friend, Richard Shand, who was also a Trinity man, was
quite resolved to go out, and he was minded to accompany his friend. In
this way, and, as he thought, in this way only, could a final settlement
be made with that most assiduous of attendants, Mr. Davis. His mind was
fully set upon New South Wales, and his little interview with his
cousin Julia did not tend to bind him more closely to his own country,
or to Babington, or to Folking.




Chapter II

Puritan Grange



Perhaps there had been a little treachery on the part of Mr. Davis, for
he had, in a gently insinuating way, made known to the Squire the fact
of those acceptances, and the additional fact that he was, through
unforeseen circumstances, lamentably in want of ready money. The Squire
became eloquent, and assured Mr. Davis that he would not pay a penny to
save either Mr. Davis or his son from instant imprisonment,--or even
from absolute starvation. Then Mr. Davis shrugged his shoulders, and
whispered the word, 'Post-obits.' The Squire, thereupon threatened to
kick him out of the house, and, on the next day, paid a visit to his
friend Mr. Bolton. There had, after that, been a long correspondence
between the father, the son, and Mr. Bolton, as to which John Caldigate
said not a word to the Babingtons. Had he been more communicative, he
might have perhaps saved himself from that scene in the linen-closet. As
it was, when he started for Cambridge, nothing was known at Babington
either of Mr. Davis or of the New South Wales scheme.

Mr. Bolton lived in a large red-brick house, in the village of
Chesterton, near to Cambridge, which, with a large garden, was
surrounded by an old, high, dark-coloured brick-wall. He rarely saw any
company; and there were probably not many of the more recently imported
inhabitants of the town who had ever been inside the elaborate iron
gates by which the place was to be approached. He had been a banker all
his life, and was still reported to be the senior partner in Bolton's
bank. But the management of the concern had, in truth, been given up to
his two elder sons. His third son was a barrister in London, and a
fourth was settled in Cambridge as a solicitor. These men were all
married, and were doing well in the world, living in houses better than
their father's, and spending a great deal more money. Mr. Bolton had the
name of being a hard man, because, having begun life in small
circumstances, he had never learned to chuck his shillings about easily;
but he had, in a most liberal manner, made over the bulk of his fortune
to his sons; and though he himself could rarely be got to sit at their
tables, he took delight in hearing that they lived bounteously with
their friends. He had been twice married, and there now lived with him
his second wife and a daughter, Hester,--a girl about sixteen years of
age at the period of John Caldigate's visit to Puritan Grange, as Mr.
Bolton's house was called. At this time Puritan Grange was not badly
named; for Mrs. Bolton was a lady of stern life, and Hester Bolton was
brought up with more of seclusion and religious observances than are now
common in our houses.

Mr. Bolton was probably ten years older than the Squire of Folking; but
circumstances had, in early life, made them fast friends. The old Squire
had owed a large sum of money to the bank, and Mr. Bolton had then been
attracted by the manner in which the son had set himself to work, so
that he might not be a burden on the estate. They had been fast friends
for a quarter of a century, and now the arrangement of terms between the
present Squire and his son had been left to Mr. Bolton.

Mr. Bolton had, no doubt, received a very unfavourable account of the
young man. Men, such as was Mr. Bolton, who make their money by lending
it out at recognised rates of interest,--and who are generally very keen
in looking after their principal,--have no mercy whatsoever for the
Davises of creation, and very little for their customers. To have had
dealings with a Davis is condemnation in their eyes. Mr. Bolton would
not, therefore, have opened his gates to this spendthrift had not his
feelings for the father been very strong. He had thought much upon the
matter, and had tried hard to dissuade the Squire. He, the banker, was
not particularly attached to the theory of primogeniture. He had divided
his wealth equally between his own sons. But he had a strong idea as to
property and its rights. The young man's claim to Folking after his
father's death was as valid as the father's claim during his life. No
doubt, the severance of the entail, if made at all, would be made in
accordance with the young man's wishes, and on certain terms which
should be declared to be just by persons able to compute the value of
such rights. No doubt, also,--so Mr. Bolton thought,--the property would
be utterly squandered if left in its present condition. It would be
ruined by incumbrances in the shape of post-obits. All this had been
deeply considered, and at last Mr. Bolton had consented to act between
the father and the son.

When John Caldigate was driven up through the iron gates to Mr. Bolton's
door, his mind was not quite at ease within him. He had seen Mr. Bolton on
two or three occasions during his University career, and had called at
the house; but he had never entered it, and had never seen the ladies;
and now it was necessary that he should discuss his own follies, and own
all his faults. Of course, that which he was going to do would, in the
eyes of the British world, be considered very unwise. The British world
regards the position of heirship to acres as the most desirable which a
young man could hold. That he was about to abandon. But, as he told
himself, without abandoning it he could not rid himself from the horror
of Davis. He was quite prepared to acknowledge his own vice and
childish stupidity in regard to Davis. He had looked all round that now,
and was sure that he would do nothing of the kind again. But how could
he get rid of Davis in any other way than this? And then Folking had no
charms for him. He hated Folking. He was certain that any life would
suit him better than a life to be passed as squire of Folking. And he
was quite alive to the fact that, though there was at home the prospect
of future position and future income, for the present, there would be
nothing. Were he to submit himself humbly to his father, he might
probably be allowed to vegetate at the old family home. But there was no
career for him. No profession had as yet been even proposed. His father
was fifty-five, a very healthy man,--likely to live for the next twenty
years. And then it would be impossible that he should dwell in peace
under the same roof with his father. And Davis! Life would be miserable
to him if he could not free himself from that thraldom. The sum of money
which was to be offered to him, and which was to be raised on the
Folking property, would enable him to pay Davis, and to start upon his
career with plentiful means in his pocket. He would, too, be wise and
not risk all his capital. Shand had a couple of thousand pounds, and he
would start with a like sum of his own. Should he fail in New South
Wales, there would still be something on which to begin again. With his
mind thus fixed, he entered Mr. Bolton's gates.

He was to stay one night at Puritan Grange; and then, if the matter were
arranged, he would go over to Folking for a day or two, and endeavour to
part from his father on friendly terms. In that case he would be able to
pay Davis himself, and there need be no ground for quarrelling on that
score.

Before dinner the matter was settled at the Grange. The stern old man
bade his visitor sit down, and then explained to him at full length that
which it was proposed to do. So much money the Squire had himself put
by; so much more Mr. Bolton himself would advance; the value had been
properly computed; and, should the arrangement be completed, he, John
Caldigate, would sell his inheritance at its proper price. Over and over
again the young man endeavoured to interrupt the speaker, but was told
to postpone his words till the other should have done. Such
interruptions came from the too evident fact that Mr. Bolton thoroughly
despised his guest. Caldigate, though he had been very foolish, though
he had loved to slaughter rats and rabbits, and to romp with the girls
at Babington, was by no means a fool. He was possessed of good natural
abilities, of great activity, and of a high spirit. His appreciation was
quicker than that of the old banker, who, as he soon saw, had altogether
failed to understand him. In every word that the banker spoke, it was
evident that he thought that these thousands would be squandered
instantly. The banker spoke as though this terrible severance was to be
made because the natural heir had shown himself to be irrevocably bad.
What could be expected from a youth who was deep in the books of a Davis
before he had left his college? 'I do not recommend this,' he said at
last. 'I have never recommended it. The disruption is so great as to be
awful. But when your father has asked what better step he could take, I
have been unable to advise him.' It was as though the old man were
telling the young one that he was too bad for hope, and that, therefore,
he must be consigned for ever to perdition.

Caldigate, conscious of the mistake which the banker was making, full of
hope as to himself, intending to acknowledge the follies of which he had
been guilty, and, at the same time, not to promise,--for he would not
condescend so far,--but to profess that they were things of the past,
and impatient of the judgment expressed against him, endeavoured to stop
the old man in his severity, so that the tone in which the business was
being done might be altered. But when he found that he could not do this
without offence, he leaned back in his chair, and heard the indictment
to the end. 'Now, Mr. Bolton,' he said, when at length his time came,
'you shall hear my view of the matter.' And Mr. Bolton did hear him,
listening very patiently. Caldigate first asserted, that in coming
there, to Puritan Grange, his object had been to learn what were the
terms proposed,--as to which he was now willing to give his assent. He
had already quite made up his mind to sell what property he had on the
estate, and therefore, though he was much indebted to Mr. Bolton for his
disinterested and kind friendship, he was hardly in want of counsel on
that matter. Mr. Bolton raised his eyebrows, but still listened
patiently. Caldigate then went on to explain his views as to life,
declaring that under no circumstances--had there been no Davis--would he
have consented to remain at Folking as a deputy-squire, waiting to take
up his position some twenty years hence at his father's death. Nor, even
were Folking his own at this moment, would he live there! He must do
something; and, upon the whole, he thought that gold-mining in the
colonies was the most congenial pursuit to which he could put his hand.
Then he made a frank acknowledgment as to Davis and his gambling
follies, and ended by saying that the matter might be regarded as
settled.

He had certainly been successful in changing the old man's opinion. Mr.
Bolton did not say as much, nor was he a man likely to make such
acknowledgment; but when he led John Caldigate away to be introduced to
his wife in the drawing-room, he felt less of disdain for his guest than
he had done half an hour before. Mr. Bolton was a silent, cautious man,
even in his own family, and had said nothing of this business to his
wife, and nothing, of course, to his daughter. Mrs. Bolton asked after
the Squire, and expressed a hope that her guest would not find the
house very dull for one night. She had heard that John Caldigate was a
fast young man, and of course regarded him as a lost sinner. Hester, who
was with her mother, looked at him with all her young big eyes, but did
not speak a word. It was very seldom that she saw any young man, or
indeed young people of either sex. But when this stranger spoke freely
to her mother about this subject and the other, she listened to him and
was interested.

John Caldigate, without being absolutely handsome, was a youth sure to
find favour in a woman's eyes. He was about five feet ten in height,
strong and very active, with bright dark eyes which were full of life
and intelligence. His forehead was square and showed the angles of his
brow; his hair was dark and thick and cut somewhat short; his mouth was
large, but full of expression and generally, also, of good-humour. His
nose would have been well formed, but that it was a little snubbed at
the end. Altogether his face gave you the idea of will, intellect, and a
kindly nature; but there was in it a promise, too, of occasional anger,
and a physiognomist might perhaps have expected from it that vacillation
in conduct which had hitherto led him from better things into wretched
faults.

As he was talking to Mrs. Bolton he had observed the girl, who sat
apart, with her fingers busy on her work, and who had hardly spoken a
word since his entrance. She was, he thought, the most lovely human
being that he had ever beheld; and yet she was hardly more than a child.
But how different from those girls at Babington! Her bright brown hair
was simply brushed from off her forehead and tied in a knot behind her
head. Her dress was as plain as a child's,--as though it was intended
that she should still be regarded as a child. Her face was very fair,
with large, grey, thoughtful eyes, and a mouth which, though as
Caldigate watched her it was never opened, seemed always as if it was
just about to pour forth words. And he could see that though her eyes
were intent upon her work, from time to time she looked across at him;
and he thought that if only they two were alone together, he could teach
her to speak.

But no such opportunity was given to him now, or during his short
sojourn at the Grange. After a while the old man returned to the room
and took him up to his bed-chamber. It was then about half-past four,
and he was told that they were to dine at six. It was early in
November,--not cold enough for bedroom fires among thrifty people, and
there he was left, apparently to spend an hour with nothing to do.
Rebelling against this, declaring that even at Puritan Grange he would
be master of his own actions, he rushed down into the hall, took his
hat, and walked off into the town. He would go and take one last look at
the old college.

He went in through the great gate and across the yard, and passing by
the well-known buttery-hatches, looked into the old hall for the last
time. The men were all seated at dinner, and he could see the fellows up
at the high table. Three years ago it had been his fixed resolve to earn
for himself the right to sit upon that dais. He had then been sure of
himself,--that he would do well, and take honours, and win a fellowship.
There had been moments in which he had thought that a college life would
suit him till he came into his own property. But how had all that faded
away! Everybody had congratulated him on the ease with which he did his
work,--and the result had been Newmarket, Davis, and a long score in the
ephemeral records of a cricket match. As he stood there, with his
slouched hat over his eyes, one of the college servants recognised him,
and called him by his name. Then he passed on quickly, and made his way
out to the gravel-walk by the river-side. It was not yet closed for the
night, and he went on, that he might take one last turn up and down the
old avenue.

He had certainly made a failure of his life so far. He did acknowledge
to himself that there was something nobler in these classic shades than
in the ore-laden dirt of an Australian gold-gully. He knew as much of
the world as that. He had not hitherto chosen the better part, and now
something of regret, even as to Folking,--poor old Folking,--came upon
him. He was, as it were, being kicked out and repudiated by his own
family as worthless. And what was he to do about Julia Babington? After
that scene in the linen-closet, he could not leave his country without a
word either to Julia or to aunt Polly. But the idea of Julia was doubly
distasteful to him since that lovely vision of young female simplicity
had shone upon him from the corner of Mrs. Bolton's drawing-room.
Romping with the Babington girls was all very well; but if he could only
feel the tips of that girl's fingers come within the grasp of his hand!
Then he thought that it would lend a fine romance to his life if he
could resolve to come back, when he should be laden with gold, and make
Hester Bolton his wife. It should be his romance, and he swore that he
would cling to it.

He turned back, and came down to dinner five minutes after the time. At
ten minutes before dinner-time Mr. Bolton heard that he was gone out and
was offended,--thinking it quite possible that he would not return at
all. What might not be expected from a young man who could so easily
abandon his inheritance! But he was there, only five minutes after the
time, and the dinner was eaten almost in silence. In the evening there
was tea, and the coldest shivering attempt at conversation for half an
hour, during which he could still at moments catch the glance of
Hester's eyes, and see the moving curve of her lips. Then there was a
reading of the Bible, and prayer, and before ten he was in his bed-room.

On the next morning as he took his departure, Mr. Bolton said a word
intended to be gracious. 'I hope you may succeed in your enterprise,
Mr. Caldigate.'

'Why should I not as well as another?' said John, cheerily.

'If you are steady, sober, industrious, self-denying and honest, you
probably will,' replied the banker.

'To promise all that would be to promise too much,' said John. 'But I
mean to make an effort.'

Then at that moment he made one effort which was successful. For an
instant he held Hester's fingers within his hand.




Chapter III

Daniel Caldigate



That piece of business was done. It was one of the disagreeable things
which he had had to do before he could get away to the gold-diggings,
and it was done. Now he had to say farewell to his father, and that
would be a harder task. As the moment was coming in which he must bid
adieu to his father, perhaps for ever, and bid adieu to the old place
which, though he despised it, he still loved, his heart was heavy within
him. He felt sure that his father had no special regard for him;--in
which he was, of course, altogether wrong, and the old man was equally
wrong in supposing that his son was unnaturally deficient in filial
affection. But they had never known each other, and were so different
that neither had understood the other. The son, however, was ready to
confess to himself that the chief fault had been with himself. It was
natural, he thought, that a father's regard should be deadened by such
conduct as his had been, and natural that an old man should not believe
in the quick repentance and improvement of a young one.

He hired a gig and drove himself over from Cambridge to Folking. As he
got near to the place, and passed along the dikes, and looked to the
right and left down the droves, and trotted at last over the Folking
bridge across the Middle Wash, the country did not seem to him to be so
unattractive as of yore; and when he recognised the faces of the
neighbours, when one of the tenants spoke to him kindly, and the girls
dropped a curtsey as he passed, certain soft regrets began to crop up in
his mind. After all, there is a comfort in the feeling of property--not
simply its money comfort, but in the stability and reputation of a
recognised home. Six months ago there had seemed to him to be something
ridiculous in the idea of a permanent connection between the names of
Caldigate and Folking. It was absurd that, with so wild and beautiful a
world around him, he should be called upon to live in a washy fen
because his father and grandfather had been unfortunate enough to do so.
And then, at that time, all sympathy with bricks and mortar, any
affection for special trees or well-known home-haunts, was absurd in his
eyes. And as his father had been harsh to him, and did not like him,
would it not be better that they should be far apart? It was thus that
he had reasoned. But now all that was changed. An unwonted tenderness
had come upon his spirit. The very sallows by the brook seemed to appeal
to him. As he saw the house chimneys through the trees, he remembered
that they had carried smoke from the hearths of many generations of
Caldigates. He remembered, too, that his father would soon be old, and
would be alone. It seemed to himself that his very mind and spirit were
altered.

But all that was too late. He had agreed to the terms proposed; and even
were he now to repudiate them, what could he do with Davis, and how
could he live for the present? Not for a moment did he entertain such an
idea, but he had lost that alacrity of spirit which had been his when he
first found the way out of his difficulties.

His father did not come forth to meet him. He went in across the hall
and through the library, into a little closet beyond, in which Mr.
Caldigate was wont to sit. 'Well, John,' said the old man, 'how have you
and Mr. Bolton got on together?'

There seemed to be something terribly cold in this. It might be better
that they should part,--better even, though the parting should be for
ever. It might be right;--nay, he knew that it was right that he should
be thrust out of the inheritance. He had spent money that was not his
own, and, of course, he must pay the debt. But that his father should
sit there in his chair on his entrance, not even rising to greet him,
and should refer at once to Mr. Bolton and that business arrangement, as
though that, and that alone, need now be discussed, did seem to him to
be almost cruel. Of all that his father had suffered in constraining
himself to this conduct, he understood nothing. 'Mr. Bolton made himself
very plain, sir.'

'He would be sure to do so. He is a man of business and intelligent. But
as to the terms proposed, were they what you had expected?'

'Quite as good as I had expected.'

'Whether good or bad, of course you will understand that I have had
nothing to do with them. The matter has been referred to two gentlemen
conversant with such subjects; and, after due inquiry, they told Mr.
Bolton what was the money value of your rights. It is a question to be
settled as easily as the price of a ton of coals or a joint of beef. But
you must understand that I have not interfered.'

'I am quite aware of that, sir.'

'As for the money, something over a third of it is in my own hands. I
have not been extravagant myself, and have saved so much. The remainder
will come out of Mr. Bolton's bank, and will be lent on mortgage. I
certainly shall not have cause for extravagance now, living here alone;
and shall endeavour to free the estate from the burden by degrees. When
I die, it will, in accordance with my present purpose, go to your cousin
George.' As this was said, John thought he perceived something like a
quiver in his father's voice, which, up to that point, had been hard,
clear, and unshaken. 'As to that, however, I do not intend to pledge
myself,' he continued. 'The estate will now be my own, subject to the
claim from Messrs. Bolton's bank. I don't know that there is anything
else to be said.'

'Not about business, sir.'

'And it is business, I suppose, that has brought you here,--and to
Cambridge. I do not know what little things you have of your own in the
house.'

'Not much, sir.'

'If there be anything that you wish to take, take it. But with you now,
I suppose, money is the only possession that has any value.'

'I should like to have the small portrait of you,--the miniature.'

'The miniature of me,' said the father, almost scoffingly, looking up at
his son's face, suspiciously. And yet, though he would not show it, he
was touched. Only if this were a ruse on the part of the young man, a
mock sentiment, a little got-up theatrical pretence,--then,--then how
disgraced he would be in his own estimation at having been moved by such
mockery!

The son stood square before his father, disdaining any attempt to evince
a supplicating tenderness either by his voice or by his features. 'But,
perhaps, you have a special value for it,' he said.

'No, indeed. It is others, not oneself, that ought to have such
trifles,--that is, if they are of value at all.'

'There is none but myself that can care much for it.'

'There is no one to care at all. No one else that is,' he added, wishing
to avoid any further declaration. 'Take that or anything else you want
in the house. There will be things left, I suppose,--clothes and books
and suchlike.'

'Hardly anything, sir. Going so far, I had better give them away. A few
books I shall take.' Then the conversation was over; and in a few
minutes John Caldigate found himself roaming alone about the place.

It was so probable that he might never see it again! Indeed it seemed to
him now that were he to return to England with a fortune made, he would
hardly come to Folking. Years and years must roll by before that could
be done. If he could only come back to Cambridge and fetch that wife
away with him, then he thought it would be better for him to live far
from England, whether he were rich or whether he were poor. It was quite
evident that his father's heart was turned from him altogether. Of
course he had himself to blame,--himself only; but still it was strange
to him that a father should feel no tenderness at parting with an only
son. While he had been in the room he had constrained himself manfully;
not a drop of moisture had glittered in his eye; not a tone of feeling
had thrilled in his voice; his features had never failed him. There had
always been that look of audacity on his brow joined to a certain
manliness of good-humour in his mouth, as though he had been thoroughly
master of himself and the situation. But now, as he pushed his hat from
off his forehead, he rubbed his hand across his eyes to dash away the
tears. He felt almost inclined to rush back to the house and fall on his
knees before his father, and kiss the old man's hands, and beg the old
man's blessing. But though he was potent for much he was not potent for
that. Such expression of tenderness would have been true; but he knew
that he would so break down in the attempt as to make it seem to be
false.

He got out upon Twopenny Drove and passed over the ferry, meaning to
walk across the farm and so out on to the Causeway, and round home by
the bridge. But on the other side of the Wash he encountered Mr. Ralph
Holt, the occupier of Twopenny farm, whose father also and grandfather
had lived upon the same acres. 'And so thou be'est going away from us,
Mr. John,' said the farmer, with real tenderness, almost with solemnity,
in his voice, although there was at the same time something ridiculous
in the far-fetched sadness of his tone and gait.

'Yes, indeed, Holt, I want to travel and see the world at a distance
from here.'

'If it was no more than that, Mr. John, there would be nothing about it.
Zeeing the world! You young collegers allays does that. But be'est thou
to come back and be Squoire o'Folking?'

'I think not, Holt, I think not. My father, I hope, will be Squire for
many a year.'

'Like enough. And we all hope that, for there aren't nowhere a juster
man nor the Squoire, and he's hale and hearty. But in course of things
his time'll run out. And it be so, Mr. John, that thou be'est going for
ever and allays?'

'I rather think I am.'

'It's wrong, Mr. John. Though maybe I'm making over-free to talk of what
don't concern me. Yet I say it's wrong. Sons should come arter fathers,
specially where there's land. We don't none of us like it;--none of us!
It's worse nor going, any one of ourselves. For what's a lease? But when
a man has a freehold he should stick to it for ever and aye. It's just
as though the old place was a-tumbling about all our ears.' Caldigate
was good-natured with the man, trying to make him understand that
everything was being done for the best. And at last he bade him good-bye
affectionately, shaking hands with him, and going into the farmhouse to
perform the same ceremony with his wife and daughters. But to the last
Ralph Holt was uncomfortable and dismal, foretelling miseries. It was
clear that, to his thinking, the stability of this world was undermined
and destroyed by the very contemplation of such a proceeding as this.

Caldigate pursued his walk, and in the course of it bade farewell to
more than one old friend. None of them were so expressive as Holt, but
he could perceive that he was regarded by all of them as a person who,
by his conduct, was bringing misfortune, not only on himself, but on the
whole parishes of Utterden and Netherden.

At dinner the Squire conversed upon various subjects if not easily to
himself, at least with affected ease. Had he applied himself to subjects
altogether indifferent,--to the state of politics, or the Game Laws, or
the absurdities of a State Church, the unfitness of such matters for the
occasion would have been too apparent. Both he and his son would have
broken down in the attempt. But he could talk about Babington,--abusing
the old family,--and even about himself, and about New South Wales, and
gold, and the coming voyage, without touching points which had been, and
would be, specially painful. Not a word had ever been spoken between
them as to Davis. There had, of course, been letters, very angry
letters; but the usurer's name had never been mentioned. Nor was there
any need that it should be mentioned now. It was John's affair,--not in
any way his. So he asked and listened to much about Richard Shand, and
the mode of gold-finding practised among the diggings in New South
Wales.

When the old butler had gone he was even more free, speaking of things
that were past, not only without anger, but, as far as possible, without
chagrin,--treating his son as a person altogether free from any control
of his. 'I dare say it is all for the best,' he said.

'It is well at any rate to try to think so, sir,' replied John,
conscience-stricken as to his own faults.

'I doubt whether there would have been anything for you to do here,--or
at least anything that you would have done. You would have had too much
ambition to manage this little estate under me, and not enough of
industry, I fear, to carry you to the front in any of the professions. I
used to think of the bar.'

'And so did I.'

'But when I found that the Babingtons had got hold of you, and that you
liked horses and guns, better than words and arguments----'

'I never did, sir.'

'It seemed so.'

'Of course I have been weak.'

'Do not suppose for a moment that I am finding fault. It would be of no
avail, and I would not thus embitter our last hours together. But when I
saw how your tastes seemed to lead you, I began to fear that there could
be no career for you here. On such a property as Babington an eldest son
may vegetate like his father before him, and may succeed to it in due
time, before he has wasted everything, and may die as he had lived,
useless, but having to the end all the enjoyments of a swine.'

'You are severe upon my cousins, sir.'

'I say what I think. But you would not have done that. And though you
are not industrious, you are far too active and too clever for such a
life. Now you are probably in earnest as to the future.'

'Yes, I am certainly in earnest.'

'And though you are going to risk your capital in a precarious business,
you will only be doing what is done daily by enterprising men. I could
wish that your position were more secure;--but that now cannot be
helped.'

'My bed is as I have made it. I quite understand that, sir.'

'Thinking of all this, I have endeavoured to reconcile myself to your
going.' Then he paused a moment, considering what he should next say.
And his son was silent, knowing that something further was to come. 'Had
you remained in England we could hardly have lived together as father
and son should live. You would have been dependent on me, and would have
rebelled against that submission which a state of dependence demands.
There would have been nothing for you but to have waited,--and almost to
have wished, for my death.'

'No, sir; never; never that.'

'It would have been no more than natural. I shall hear from you
sometimes?'

'Certainly, sir.'

'It will give an interest to my life if you will write occasionally.
Whither do you go to-morrow?'

It had certainly been presumed, though never said, that this last visit
to the old home was to be only for one day. The hired gig had been kept;
and in his letter the son had asked whether he could be taken in for
Thursday night. But now the proposition that he should go so soon seemed
to imply a cold-blooded want of feeling on his part. 'I need not be in
such a hurry, sir,' he said.

'Of course, it shall be as you please, but I do not know that you will
do any good by staying. A last month may be pleasant enough, or even a
last week, but a last day is purgatory. The melancholy of the occasion
cannot be shaken off. It is only the prolonged wail of a last farewell.'
All this was said in the old man's ordinary voice, but it seemed to
betoken if not feeling itself, a recognition of feeling which the son
had not expected.

'It is very sad,' said the son.

'Therefore, why prolong it? Stand not upon the order of your going but
go at once,--seeing that it is necessary that you should go. Will you
take any more wine? No? Then let us go into the other room. As they are
making company of you and have lighted another fire, we will do as they
would have us.' Then for the rest of the evening there was some talk
about books, and the father, who was greatly given to reading, explained
to his son what kind of literature would, as he thought, fit in best
with the life of a gold-digger.

After what had passed, Caldigate, of course, took his departure on the
following morning. Good-bye said the old man, as the son grasped his
hand, 'Good-bye.' He made no overture to come even as far as the hall in
making this his final adieu.

'I trust I may return to see you in health.'

'It may be so. As to that we can say nothing. Good-bye.' Then, when the
son had turned his back, the father recalled him, by a murmur rather
than by a word,--but in that moment he had resolved to give way a little
to the demands of nature. Good-bye my son,' he said, in a low voice,
very solemnly; 'May God bless you and preserve you.' Then he turned back
at once to his own closet.




Chapter IV

The Shands



John Caldigate had promised to go direct from Folking to the house of
his friend Richard Shand, or rather, to the house in which lived Richard
Shand's father and family. The two young men had much to arrange
together, and this had been thought to be expedient. When Caldigate,
remembering how affairs were at his own home, had suggested that at so
sad a moment he might be found to be in the way, Shand had assured him
that there would be no sadness at all. 'We are not a sentimental race,'
he had said. 'There are a dozen of us, and the sooner some of us
disperse ourselves, the more room will there be in the nest for the
others.'

Shand had been Caldigate's most intimate friend at college through the
whole period of their residence, and now he was to be his companion in
a still more intimate alliance. And yet, though he liked the man, he
did not altogether approve of him. Shand had also got into debt at
Cambridge, but had not paid his debts; and had dealings also with Davis,
as to which he was now quite indifferent. He had left the University
without taking a degree, and had seemed to bear all these adversities
with perfect equanimity. There had not been hitherto much of veneration
in Caldigate's character, but even he had, on occasions, been almost
shocked at the want of respect evinced by his friend for conventional
rules. All college discipline, all college authorities, all university
traditions had been despised by Shand, who even in his dress had
departed as far from recognised customs and fashions among the men as
from the requisitions of the statutes and the milder requirements of the
dignitaries of the day. Now, though he could not pay his debts,--and
intended, indeed, to run away from them,--he was going to try his
fortune with a certain small capital which his father had agreed to give
him as his share of what there might be of the good things of the world
among the Shands generally. As Shand himself said of both of them, he
was about to go forth as a prodigal son, with a perfect assurance that,
should he come back empty-handed, no calf would be killed for him. But
he was an active man, with a dash of fun, and perhaps a sprinkling of
wit, quick and brave, to whom life was apparently a joke, and who
boasted of himself that, though he was very fond of beef and beer, he
could live on bread and water, if put to it, without complaining.
Caldigate almost feared that the man was a dangerous companion, but
still there was a certain fitness about him for the thing contemplated;
and, for such a venture, where could he find any other companion who
would be fit?

Dr. Shand, the father, was a physician enjoying a considerable amount
of provincial eminence in a small town in Essex. Here he had certainly
been a succesful man; for, with all the weight of such a family on his
back, he had managed to save some money. There had been small legacies
from other Shands, and trifles of portion had come to them from the
Potters, of whom Mrs. Shand had been one,--Shand and Potter having been
wholesale druggists in Smithfield. The young Shands had generally lived
a pleasant life; had gone to school,--the eldest son, as we have seen,
to the university also,--and had had governesses, and ponies to ride,
and had been great at dancing, and had shot arrows, and played
Badminton, and been subject to but little domestic discipline. They had
lived crowded together in a great red-brick house, plenteously, roughly,
quarrelling continually, but very fond of each other in their own way,
and were known throughout that side of the country as a happy family.
The girls had always gloves and shoes for dancing, and the boys had
enjoyed a considerable amount of shooting and hunting without owning
either guns or horses of their own. Now Dick was to go in quest of a
fortune, and all the girls were stitching shirts for him, and were as
happy as possible. Not a word was said about his debts, and no one threw
it in his teeth that he had failed to take a degree. It was known of the
Shands that they always made the best of everything.

When Caldigate got out of the railway carriage at Pollington, he was
still melancholy with the remembrance of all that he had done and all
that he had lost, and he expected to find something of the same feeling
at his friend's house. But before he had been there an hour he was
laughing with the girls as though such an enterprise as theirs was the
best joke in the world. And when a day and a night had passed, Mrs.
Shand was deep among his shirts and socks, and had already given him
much advice about flannel and soft soap. 'I know Maria would like to go
out with you,' said the youngest daughter on the third day, a girl of
twelve years old, who ought to have known better, and who, nevertheless,
knew more than she ought to have done.

'Indeed Maria would like nothing of the kind,' said the young lady in
question.

'Only, Mr. Caldigate, of course you would have to marry her.' Then the
child was cuffed, and Maria declared that the proposed arrangement would
suit neither her nor Mr. Caldigate in the least. The eldest daughter,
Harriet, was engaged to marry a young clergyman in the neighbourhood,
which event, however, was to be postponed till he had got a living; and
the second, Matilda, was under a cloud because she would persist in
being in love with Lieutenant Postlethwaite, of the Dragoons, whose
regiment was quartered in the town. Maria was the third. All these
family secrets were told to him quite openly as well as the fact that
Josh, the third son, was to become a farmer because he could not be got
to learn the multiplication table.

Between Pollington and London, Caldigate remained for six weeks, during
which time he fitted himself out, took his passage, and executed the
necessary deeds as to the estate. It might have been pleasant
enough,--this little interval before his voyage,--as the Shands, though
rough and coarse, were kind to him and good-humoured, had it not been
that a great trouble befell him through over conscientiousness as to a
certain matter. After what had passed at Babington House, it was
expedient that he should, before he started for New South Wales, give
some notice to his relatives there, so that Julia might know that
destiny did not intend her to become Mrs. Caldigate of Folking. Aunt
Polly had, no doubt, been too forward in that matter, and in wishing to
dispose of her daughter had put herself in the way of merited rebuke and
disappointment. It was, however, not the less necessary that she should
be told of the altered circumstances of her wished-for son-in-law. But,
had he been wise, he would so have written his letter that no answer
should reach him before he had left the shores of England. His
conscience, however, pinched him, and before he had even settled the day
on which he would start, he wrote to his aunt a long letter in which he
told her everything,--how he had disposed of his inheritance,--how he
had become so indebted to Davis as to have to seek a new fortune out of
England,--how he had bade farewell to Folking for ever,--and how
impossible it was under all these circumstances that he should aspire to
the hand of his cousin Julia.

It was as though a thunderbolt had fallen among them at Babington. Mr.
Babington himself was certainly not a clever man, but he knew enough of
his own position, as an owner of acres, to be very proud of it, and he
was affectionate enough towards his nephew to feel the full weight of
this terrible disruption. It seemed to him that his brother-in-law,
Daniel Caldigate, was doing a very wicked thing, and he hurried across
the country, to Folking, that he might say so. 'You have not sense
enough to understand the matter,' said Daniel Caldigate. 'You have no
heart in your bowels if you can disinherit an only son,' said the big
squire. 'Never mind where I carry my heart,' said the smaller squire;
'but it is a pity you should carry so small an amount of brain.' No good
could be done by such a meeting as that, nor by the journey which aunt
Polly took to Pollington. The Caldigates, both father and son, were
gifted with too strong a will to be turned from their purpose by such
interference. But a great deal of confusion was occasioned; and aunt
Polly among the Shands was regarded as a very wonderful woman indeed.
'Oh, my son, my darling son!' she said, weeping on John Caldigate's
shoulder. Now John Caldigate was certainly not her son, in the usual
acceptation of the word, nor did Maria Shand believe that he was so
even in that limited sense in which a daughter's husband may be so
designated. It was altogether very disagreeable, and made our hero
almost resolve to get on board the ship a week before it started from
the Thames instead of going down to Plymouth and catching it at the last
moment. Of course it would have been necessary that the Babingtons
should know all about it sooner or later, but John very much regretted
that he had not delayed his letter till the day before his departure.

There is something jovial when you are young in preparing for a long
voyage and for totally altered circumstances in life, especially when
the surroundings are in themselves not melancholy. A mother weeping over
a banished child may be sad enough,--going as an exile when there is no
hope of a return. But here among the Shands, with whom sons and
daughters were plentiful, and with whom the feelings were of a useful
kind, and likely to wear well, rather than of a romantic nature, the
bustle, the purchasings, the arrangements, and the packings generally
had in them a pleasantness of activity with no disagreeable
accompaniments.

'I do hope you will wear them, Dick,' the mother said with something
like a sob in her voice; but the tenderness came not from the
approaching departure, but from her fear that the thick woollen drawers
on which she was re-sewing all the buttons, should be neglected,--after
Dick's usual fashion. 'Mr. Caldigate I hope you will see that he wears
them. He looks strong, but indeed he is not.' Our hero who had always
regarded his friend as a bull for strength of constitution generally,
promised that he would be attentive to Dick's drawers.

'You may be sure that I shall wear them,' said Dick; 'but the time will
come when I shall probably wear nothing else, so you had better make the
buttons firm.'

Everything was to be done with strict economy, but yet there was plenty
of money for purchases. There always is at such occasions. The quantity
of clothes got together seemed to be more than any two men could ever
wear; and among it all there were no dress-coats and no dress-trousers:
or, if either of them had such articles, they were smuggled. The two
young men were going out as miners, and took a delight in preparing
themselves to be rough. Caldigate was at first somewhat modest in
submitting his own belongings to the females of the establishment but
that feeling soon wore off, and the markings and mendings, and
buttonings and hemmings went on in a strictly impartial manner as though
he himself were a chick out of the same brood.

'What will you do?' said the doctor, 'if you spend your capital and make
nothing?'

'Work for wages,' said Dick. 'We shall have got, at any rate, enough
experience out of our money to be able to do that. Men are getting 10s.
a-day.'

'But you'd have to go on doing that always,' said the mother.

'Not at all. Of course it's a life of ups and downs. A man working for
wages can put half what he earns into a claim, so that when a thing does
come up trumps at last, he will have his chance. I have read a good deal
about it now. There is plenty to be got if a man only knows how to keep
it.'

'Drinking is the worst,' said the doctor.

'I think I can trust myself for that,' said Dick, whose hand at the
moment was on a bottle of whisky, and who had been by no means averse to
jollifications at Cambridge. 'A miner when he's at work should never
drink.'

'Nor when he's not at work, if he wants to keep what he earns.'

'I'm not going to take the pledge, or anything of that kind,' continued
the son, 'but I think I know enough of it all, not to fall into that
pit.' During this discussion, Caldigate sat silent, for he had already
had various conversations on this subject with his friend. He had
entertained some fears, which were not, perhaps, quite removed by Dick's
manly assurances.

A cabin had been taken for the joint use of the young men on board the
Goldfinder, a large steamer which was running at the time from London to
Melbourne, doing the voyage generally in about two months. But they were
going as second-class passengers and their accommodation therefore was
limited. Dick had insisted on this economy, which was hardly necessary
to Caldigate, and which was not absolutely pressed upon the other. But
Dick had insisted. 'Let us begin as we mean to go on,' he had said; 'of
course we've got to rough it. We shall come across something a good deal
harder than second-class fare before we have made our fortunes, and
worked probably with mates more uncouth than second-class passengers.'
It was impossible to oppose counsel such as this, and therefore
second-class tickets were taken on board the Goldfinder.

A terrible struggle was made during the last fortnight to prevent the
going of John Caldigate. Mr. Babington was so shocked that he did not
cease to stir himself. Allow a son to disinherit himself, merely because
he had fallen into the hands of a money-lending Jew before he had left
college! To have the whole condition of a property changed by such a
simple accident! It was shocking to him; and he moved himself in the
matter with much more energy than old Mr. Caldigate had expected from
him. He wrote heartrending letters to Folking, in spite of the hard
words which had been said to him there. He made a second journey to
Cambridge, and endeavoured to frighten Mr. Bolton. Descent of acres from
father to son was to him so holy a thing, that he was roused to
unexpected energies. He was so far successful that Mr. Daniel Caldigate
did write a long letter to his son, in which he offered to annul the
whole proceeding. 'Your uncle accuses me of injustice,' he said. 'I have
not been unjust. But there is no reason whatever why the arrangement
should stand. Even if the money has been paid to Davis I will bear that
loss rather than you should think that I have taken advantage of you in
your troubles.' But John Caldigate was too firm and too determined for
such retrogression. The money had been paid to Davis, and other monies
had been used in other directions. He was quite contented with the
bargain, and would certainly adhere to it.

Then came the last night before their departure; the evening before the
day on which they were to go from Pollington to London, and from London
to Plymouth. All the heavy packages, and all the clothes had, of course,
been put on board the Goldfinder in the London docks. The pleasant task
of preparation was at an end, and they were now to go forth upon their
hard labours. Caldigate had become so intimate with the family, that it
seemed as though a new life had sprung up for him, and that as he had
parted from all that he then had of a family at Folking, he was now to
break away from new ties under the doctor's roof. They had dined early,
and at ten o'clock there was what Mrs. Shand called a little bit of
supper. They were all of them high in heart, and very happy,--testifying
their affection to the departing ones by helping them to the nicest
bits, and by filling their tumblers the fullest. How it happened, no one
could have said, but it did happen that, before the evening was over,
Maria and Caldigate were together in a little room behind the front
parlour. What still remained of their luggage was collected there, and
this last visit had probably been made in order that the packages might
be once more counted.

'It does seem so odd that you should be going,' she said.

'It is so odd to me that I should ever have come.'

'We had always heard of you since Dick went to Cambridge.'

'I knew that there were so many of you, and that was all. Brothers never
talk of their sisters, I suppose. But I seem to know you now so well!
You have been so kind to me!'

'Because you are Dick's friend.'

'I didn't suppose that it was anything else.'

'That's not nice of you, Mr. Caldigate. You know that we are all very
fond of you. We shall be so anxious to hear. You will be good to him,
won't you?'

'And he to me, I hope.'

'I think you are steadier than he is, and can do more for him than he
can for you. I wonder, shall we ever see each other again, Mr.
Caldigate?'

'Why not?'

'New South Wales is so far, and you will both marry there, and then you
will not want to come back. I hope I may live to see dear Dick again
some day.'

'But only Dick?'

'And you too, if you would care about it.'

'Of course I should care about it,' he said. And as he said so, of
course he put his arm round her waist and kissed her. It did not mean
much. She did not think it meant much. But it gave a little colouring of
romance to that special moment of her life. He, when he went up to his
bed, declared to himself that it meant nothing at all. He still had
those large eyes clear before him, and was still fixed in his resolution
to come back for them when some undefined point of his life should have
passed by.

'Now,' said Dick Shand, as they were seated together in a third-class
railway carriage on the following morning, 'now I feel that I am
beginning life.'

'With proper resolutions, I hope, as to honesty, sobriety, and
industry.'

'With a fixed determination to make a fortune, and come back, and be
_facile princeps_ among all the Shands. I have already made up my mind
as to the sum I will give each of the girls, and the way I will start
the two younger boys in business. In the meantime let us light a pipe.'




Chapter V

The Goldfinder



There is no peculiar life more thoroughly apart from life in general,
more unlike our usual life, more completely a life of itself, governed
by its own rules and having its own roughnesses and amenities, than life
on board ship. What tender friendship it produces, and what bitter
enmities! How completely the society has formed itself into separate
sets after the three or four first days! How thoroughly it is
acknowledged that this is the aristocratic set, and that the plebeian!
How determined are the aristocrats to admit no intrusion, and how
anxious are the plebeians to intrude! Then there arises the great
demagogue, who heads a party, having probably been disappointed in early
life,--that is, in his first endeavours on board the ship. And the women
have to acknowledge all their weaknesses, and to exercise all their
strength. It is a bad time for them on board ship if they cannot secure
the attention of the men,--as it is in the other world; but in order
that they may secure it, they assume indifference. They assume
indifference, but are hard at work with their usual weapons. The men can
do very well by themselves. For them there is drinking, smoking, cards,
and various games; but the potency of female spells soon works upon
them, and all who are worth anything are more or less in love by the end
of the first week. Of course it must all come to an end when the port
is reached. That is understood, though there may sometimes be mistakes.
Most pathetic secrets are told with the consciousness that they will be
forgotten as soon as the ship is left. And there is the whole day for
these occupations. No work is required from any one. The lawyer does not
go to his court, nor the merchant to his desk. Pater-familias receives
no bills; mater-familias orders no dinners. The daughter has no
household linen to disturb her. The son is never recalled to his books.
There is no parliament, no municipality, no vestry. There are neither
rates nor taxes nor rents to be paid. The government is the softest
despotism under which subjects were ever allowed to do almost just as
they please. That the captain has a power is known, but hardly felt. He
smiles on all, is responsible for everything, really rules the world
submitted to him, from the setting of the sails down to the frying of
the chops, and makes one fancy that there must be something wrong with
men on shore because first-class nations cannot be governed like
first-class ships.

The Goldfinder had on board her over a hundred first-class passengers,
and nearly as many of the second class. The life among them was much of
the same kind, though in the second class there was less of idleness,
less of pleasure, and something more of an attempt to continue the
ordinary industry of life. The women worked more and the men read more
than their richer neighbours. But the love-making, and the fashion, and
the mutiny against the fashion, were the same in one set as in the
other. Our friends were at first subjected to an inconvenience which is
always felt in such a position. They were known to have had saloon
rather than second-class antecedents. Everybody had heard that they had
been at Cambridge, and therefore they were at first avoided. And as they
themselves were determined not to seek associates among their more
aristocratic neighbours, they were left to themselves and solitary for
some few days. But this was a condition not at all suited to Dick
Shand's temperament, and it was not long before he had made both male
and female acquaintances.

'Have you observed that woman in the brown straw hat?' Dick said to
Caldigate, one morning, as they were leaning together on the forepart of
the vessel against one of the pens in which the fowls were kept. They
were both dressed according to the parts they were acting, and which
they intended to act, as second-class passengers and future working
miners. Any one knowing in such matters would have seen that they were
over-dressed; for the real miner, when he is away from his work, puts on
his best clothes, and endeavours to look as little rough as possible.
And all this had no doubt been seen and felt, and discounted among our
friends' fellow-passengers.

'I have seen her every day, of course,' said Caldigate, 'and have been
looking at her for the last half hour.'

'She is looking at us now.'

'She seems to me to be very attentive to the stocking she is mending.'

'Just a woman's wiles. At this moment she can't hear us, but she knows
pretty nearly what we are saying by the way our lips are going. Have you
spoken to her?'

'I did say a word or two to her yesterday.'

'What did she say?'

'I don't recollect especially. She struck me as talking better than her
gown, if you know what I mean.'

'She talks a great deal better than her gown,' said Dick. 'I don't quite
know what to make of her. She says that she is going out to earn her
bread; but when I asked her how, she either couldn't or wouldn't answer
me. She is a mystery, and mysteries are always worth unravelling. I
shall go to work and unravel her.'

At that moment the female of whom they were speaking got up from her
seat on one of the spars which was bound upon the deck, folded up her
work, and walked away. She was a remarkable woman, and certainly looked
to be better than her gown, which was old and common enough. Caldigate
had observed her frequently, and had been much struck by the word or two
she had spoken to him on the preceding day. 'I should like ship-life
well enough,' she had said, in answer to some ordinary question, 'if it
led to nothing else.'

'You would not remain here for ever?'

'Certainly, if I could. There is plenty to eat, and a bed to sleep on,
and no one to be afraid of. And though nobody knows me, everybody knows
enough of me not to think that I ought to be taken to a police office
because I have not gloves to my hands.'

'Don't you think it wearisome?' he had asked.

'Everything is wearisome; but here I have a proud feeling of having paid
my way. To have settled in advance for your dinner for six weeks to come
is a magnificent thing. If I get too tired of it I can throw myself
overboard. You can't even do that in London without the police being
down upon you. The only horror to me here is that there will so soon be
an end to it.'

At that time he had not even heard her name, or known whether she were
alone or joined to others. Then he had inquired, and a female
fellow-passenger had informed him that she was a Mrs. Smith,--that she
had seen better days, but had been married to a ne'er-do-well husband,
who had drank himself to death within a year of their marriage, and that
she was now going out to the colony, probably,--so the old lady said who
was the informant,--in search of a second husband. She was to some
extent, the old lady said, in charge of a distant relative, who was
then on board, with a respectable husband and children, and who was very
much ashamed of her poor connection. So much John Caldigate had heard.

Though he had heard this he did not feel inclined to tell it all to Dick
Shand. Dick had professed his intention of unravelling the mystery, but
Caldigate almost thought that he would like to unravel it himself. The
woman was so constantly alone! And then, though she was ill-dressed,
untidy, almost unkempt on occasions, still, through it all, there was
something attractive about her. There was a brightness in her eye, and a
courage about her mouth, which had made him think that, in spite of her
appearance, she would be worth his attention--just for the voyage. When
he had been speaking to herself they had been on the deck together, and
it had been dusk and he had not been able to look her in the face; but
while Shand had been speaking to him he had observed that she was very
comely. And this was the more remarkable because it seemed to him to be
so evident that she made the worst rather than the best of herself. She
was quite a young woman;--probably, he thought, not more than three or
four and twenty; and she was there, with many young men round her, and
yet she made no effort to attract attention. When his eye had fallen
upon her she had generally been quite alone, doing some piece of coarse
and ordinary work.

'I have had another conversation with her,' said Shand to him that
night.

'Have you unravelled the mystery?'

'Not quite; but I have got the fact that there is a mystery. She told me
that you and I and she herself ought not to be here. When I asked her
why, she said that you and I ought to be gentlemen and that she ought to
be a lady. I told her that you and I were gentlemen, in spite of our
trousers. "Ah," she said, "there comes the difference; I'm not a lady
any longer!" When I contradicted her she snubbed me, and said that I
hadn't seen enough of the world to know anything about it. But I'll have
it all out of her before I've done.'

For some days after that Caldigate kept himself aloof from Mrs. Smith,
not at all because he had ceased to notice her or to think about her,
but from a feeling of dislike to exhibit rivalry with his friend. Shand
was making himself very particular, and he thought that Shand was a fool
for his pains. He was becoming angry with Shand, and had serious
thoughts of speaking to him with solemn severity. What could such a
woman be to him? But at the bottom of all this there was something akin
to jealousy. The woman was good-looking, and certainly clever, and was
very interesting. Shand, for two or three evenings running, related his
success; how Mrs. Smith had communicated to him the fact that she
utterly despised those Cromptons, who were distant cousins of her late
husband's, and with whom she had come on board; how she preferred to be
alone to having aught to do with them; how she had one or two books with
her, and passed some hours in reading; and how she was poor, very poor,
but still had something on which to live for a few weeks after landing.
But Caldigate fancied that there must be a betrayal of trust in these
revelations, and though he was in truth interested about the woman, did
not give much encouragement to his friend.

'Upon my word,' he said, 'I don't seem to care so very much about Mrs.
Smith's affairs.'

'I do,' said Shand, who was thick-skinned and irrepressible. 'I declared
my intention of unravelling the mystery, and I mean to do it.'

'I hope you are not too inquisitive?'

'Of course she likes to have some one to whom she can talk. And what can
people talk about on board ship except themselves? A woman who has a
mystery always likes to have it unravelled. What else is the good of a
mystery?'

He was thick-skinned and irrepressible, but Caldigate endeavoured to
show his displeasure. He felt that the poor woman was in coarse hands;
and he thought that, had matters gone otherwise, he might have accepted,
in a more delicate manner, so much confidence as she chose to vouchsafe.

So it was when they had been a fortnight at sea. They had left home in
mid-winter; but now they were in the tropics, near the line, and
everything was sultry, sleepy, and warm. Flying-fishes were jumping from
the waves on to the deck, and when the dusk of night was come, the
passengers would stand by the hour together watching the phosphorus on
the water. The Southern Cross had shown itself plainly, and possessed
the heavens in conjunction with the Bear. The thick woollen drawers
which had been so carefully prepared, were no longer in use, and men
were going about in light pantaloons and linen jackets,--those on the
quarter-deck at first beautifully clean and white, while our friends of
the second cabin were less careful. The women, too, had got quit of
their wraps, and lounged about the deck in light attire. During the
bright hours of the day the aristocrats, in the stern, were shrouded
from the sun by a delightful awning; but, forward, the passengers sought
the shade of the loose idle sails, or screened themselves from the
fierce rays as best they might among the hatchways and woodwork. But it
was when the burning sun had hidden himself, when the short twilight had
disappeared, and the heavens were alive and alight with stars, that all
the world of the ship would be crowded on the upper deck. There they
would remain, long after the lamps below had been extinguished, some of
them sleeping through the whole night in the comparative coolness of the
air. But it was from eight, when tea would be over, till midnight, that
the hum of voices would be thickest, and the tread of those who walked
for their exercise the most frequent.

At such times Caldigate would be often alone; for though he had made
acquaintances, and had become indeed intimate with some of those around
him, he had never thrust himself into the life of the ship as Shand had
done. Charades were acted in the second cabin, in which Shand always
took part,--and there were penny readings, at which Shand was often the
reader. And he smoked much and drank somewhat with those who smoked and
drank. The awe at first inspired by his university superiority and
supposed rank in the world had faded almost into nothing, but by
Caldigate, unconsciously, much of this had been preserved. I am not sure
that he did not envy his friend, but at any rate he stood aloof. And, in
regard to Mrs. Smith, when he saw her walking one evening with Shand in
the sweetly dim light of the evening, with her hand upon Shand's arm, he
made up his mind that he would think no more about her.

They had been at sea just a fortnight when this happened. And in about a
quarter of an hour after this resolve had been formed Mrs. Smith was
standing by him and talking to him. A ball was being held on the
quarter-deck, or rather, as there was in truth no quarter-deck to the
Goldfinder, on that clean, large, luxurious expanse devoted to the
aristocracy in the after-part of the vessel. From among the second-class
passengers, two fiddlers and a flute player had been procured, who
formed the band. At sea you have always to look for your musicians among
the second-class passengers. And now under the awning young and old were
standing up, and making themselves happy beneath the starlight and the
glimmer of the dozen ship-lamps which had been hung around. On board
ship there are many sources of joy of which the land knows nothing. You
may flirt and dance at sixty; and if you are awkward in the turn of a
valse, you may put it down to the motion of the ship. You need wear no
gloves, and may drink your soda-and-brandy without being ashamed of it.

It was not for John Caldigate to join the mazes of that dance, though he
would have liked it well, and was well fitted by skill and taste for
such exercise. But the ground was hallowed on which they trod, and
forbidden to him; and though there was probably not a girl or a dancing
married woman there who would not have been proud to stand up with Mr.
Caldigate of Folking, there was not one who would have dared to take the
hand of a second-class passenger. So he stood, just within his own
boundary, and looked and longed. Then there was a voice in his ear. 'Do
you dance, Mr. Caldigate?'

It was a very pleasant voice, low, but distinct and silvery, infinitely
better again than the gown; a voice so distinct and well-managed that it
would have been noticed for its peculiar sweetness if coming from any
high-bred lady. He turned round and found her face close to his. Why had
she come to speak to him when she must have perceived that he had
intentionally avoided her.

'I used to be very fond of dancing,' he said, 'but it is one of the
things that have gone away.'

'I, too, was fond of dancing; but, as you say, it has gone away. It will
come back to you, in half-a-dozen years, perhaps. It can never come back
to me. Things do come back to men.'

'Why more than to women?'

'You have a resurrection;--I mean here upon earth. We never have. Though
we live as long as you, the pleasure-seeking years of our lives are much
shorter. We burst out into full flowering early in our spring, but long
before the summer is over, we are no more than huddled leaves and thick
stalks.'

'Are you a thick stalk, Mrs. Smith?'

'Unfortunately, not. My flowers are gone while my stalk is still thin
and sensitive. And then women can't recuperate.'

'I don't quite know what that means.'

'Yes, you do. It is good English enough even for Cambridge by this time.
If you had made a false step, got into debt and ran away, or mistaken
another man's wife for your own, or disappeared altogether under a cloud
for a while, you could retrieve your honour, and, sinking at twenty-five
or thirty, could come up from out of the waters at thirty-five as
capable of enjoyment and almost as fresh as ever. But a woman does not
bear submersion. She is draggled ever afterwards. She must hide
everything by a life of lies, or she will get no admittance anywhere.
The man is rather the better liked because he has sown his wild oats
broadly. Of all these ladies dancing there, which dances the best? There
is not one who really knows how to dance.'




Chapter VI

Mrs. Smith



She had changed the conversation so suddenly, rushing off from that
great question as to the condition of women generally to the very
unimportant matter of the dancing powers of the ladies who were
manoeuvring before them, that Caldigate hardly knew how to travel with
her so quickly. 'They all dance well enough for ship dancing,' he
replied; 'but as to what you were saying about women----'

'No, Mr. Caldigate; they don't dance well enough for ship dancing.
Dancing, wherever it be done, should be graceful. A woman may at any
rate move her feet in accordance with time, and she need not skip, nor
prance, nor jump, even on board ship. Look at that stout lady.'

'Mrs. Callander?'

Everybody by this time knew everybody's name.

'If she is Mrs. Callander?'

Mrs. Smith, no doubt, knew very well that it was Mrs. Callander.

'Does not your ear catch separately the thud of her footfall every time
she comes to the ground?'

'She is fat, fair, and forty.'

'Fat enough;--and what she lacks in fairness may be added on to the
forty; but if she were less ambitious and had a glimmer of taste, she
might do better than that. You see that girl with the green scarf round
her? She is young and good-looking. Why should she spring about like a
bear on a hot iron?'

'You should go and teach them.'

'It is just what I should like; only they would not be taught; and I
should be stern, and tell them the truth.'

'Why don't you go and dance with them yourself?'

'I!'

'Why not? There is one second-class lady there?' This was true. For
though none of the men would have been admitted from the inferior rank
to join the superior, the rule of demarcation had so far been broken
that a pretty girl who was known to some of the first-class passengers
had been invited to come over the line and join the amusements of the
evening. 'She dances about as well as any of them.'

'If you were among them would you dare to come out and ask me to join
them? That is a question which you won't even dare to answer.'

'It is a little personal.'

'"No," you ought to say. "I could not do that because your clothes are
so poor, and because of your ragged old hat, and I am not quite sure
that your shoes are fit to be seen." Is not that what you would say, if
you said what you thought?'

'Perhaps it is.'

'And if you said all that you thought, perhaps you would remind me that
a woman of whom nobody knows anything is always held to be disreputable.
That girl, no doubt, has her decent belongings. I have nobody.'

'You have your friends on board.'

'No, I have not. I have not a single friend on board. Those Cromptons
were very unwillingly persuaded to take a sort of interest in me, though
they really know nothing about me. And I have already lost any good
which might come from their protection. She told me yesterday, that I
ought not to walk about with Mr. Shand.'

'And what did you say?'

'Of course I told her to mind her own business. I had no alternative. A
woman has to show a little spirit or she will be trodden absolutely into
the dirt. It was something to have a woman to speak to, even though I
had not a thought in common with her;--though she was to my feeling as
inferior to myself as I no doubt am thought to be by that fat prancing
woman to herself. Even Mrs. Crompton's countenance was of value. But if
I had yielded she would have taken it out in tyranny. So now we don't
speak.'

'That is a pity.'

'It is a pity. You watch them all and see how they look at me,--the
women, I mean. They know that Mr. Shand speaks to me, and that you and
Mr. Shand are the two gentlemen we have among us. There are, no doubt, a
dozen of them watching me now, somewhere, and denouncing me for the
impropriety of my behaviour.'

'Is it improper?'

'What do you think?'

'Why may we not talk as well as others?'

'Exactly. But there are people who are tabooed. Look at that Miss Green
and the ship doctor.' At that moment the ship's doctor and the young
lady in question came close to them in the dance. 'There is no harm in
Miss Green talking by the hour together with the doctor, because she is
comfortably placed. She has got an old father and mother on board who
don't look after her, and everything is respectable. But if I show any
of the same propensities I ought almost to be put into irons.'

'Has anybody else been harsh to you?'

'The Captain has been making inquiries,--no doubt with the idea that he
may at last be driven to harsh measures. Have you got a sister?'

'No.'

'Or a mother?'

'No.'

'Or a housemaid?'

'Not even a housemaid. I have no female belongings whatever.'

'Don't you know that if you had a sister, and a mother, and a housemaid,
your mother would quite expect that your sister should in time have a
lover, but that she would be horrified at the idea of the housemaid
having a follower?'

'I did not know that. I thought housemaids got married sometimes.'

'Human nature is stronger than tyranny.'

'But what does all this mean? You are not a housemaid, and you have not
got a mistress?'

'Not exactly. But at present;--if I say my outward woman you'll know
what I mean perhaps.'

'I think I shall.'

'Well; my present outward woman stands to me in lieu of the housemaid's
broom, and the united authority of the Captain and Mrs. Crompton make up
the mistress between them. And the worst of it all is, that though I
have to endure the tyranny, I have not got the follower. It is as hard
upon Mr. Shand as it is upon me.'

'Shand, I suppose, can take care of himself.'

'No doubt;--and so in real truth can I. I can stand apart and defy them
all; and as I look at them looking at me, and almost know with what
words they are maligning me, I can tell myself that they are beneath me,
and that I care nothing for them. I shall do nothing which will enable
any one to interfere with me. But it seems hard that all this should be
so because I am a widow,--and because I am alone,--and because I am
poorly clothed.'

As she said this there were tears in her eyes, true ones, and something
of the sound of a broken sob in her voice. And Caldigate was moved. The
woman's condition was to be pitied, whether it had been produced with or
without fault on her own part. To be alone is always sad,--even for a
man; but for a woman, and for a young woman, it is doubly melancholy. Of
a sudden the dancing was done and the lamps were taken away.

'If you do not want to go to bed,' he said, 'let us take a turn.'

'I never go to bed. I mean here, on board ship. I linger up on deck,
half hiding myself about the place, till I see some quartermaster eying
me suspiciously and then I creep down into the little hole which I
occupy with three of Mrs. Crompton's children and then I cry myself to
sleep. But I don't call that going to bed.'

'Take a turn now.'

'I shall feel like the housemaid talking to her follower through the
area-gate. But she is brave, and why should I be a coward?' Then she put
her hand upon his arm. 'And you,' she said, 'why are not you dancing in
the other part of the ship with Mrs. Callander and Miss Green, instead
of picking your way among the hencoops here with me?'

'This suited my pocket best,--and my future prospects.'

'You are making a delightful experiment in roughing it,--as people eat
pic-nic dinners out in the woods occasionally, so that there may be a
break in the monotony of chairs and tables.'

While Shand had been unravelling her mystery, she, perhaps, had been
more successful in unravelling his.

'We intend to be miners.'

'And to return home before long with some vast treasure. I hope you may
be successful.'

'You seem to doubt it.'

'Of course it is doubtful. If not, the thing would be common and hardly
worth the doing. Will Mr. Shand be very persistent as a working miner?'

'I hope so.'

'He seems to me to have great gifts of idleness, which on board ship are
a blessing. How I do envy men when I see them smoking! It seems to me
that nothing is wanting to them. Women have their needlework; but though
they hate it less than idleness, they do hate it. But you really like
your tobacco.'

'I don't like being idle. I read a good deal. Do you read?'

'I have but few books here. I have read more perhaps than most young
women of my age. I came away in such a hurry that I have almost nothing
with me.'

'Can I lend you books?'

'If you will. I will promise to take care of them.'

'I have "The Heartbroken One," by Spratt, you know. It is very absurd,
but full of life from beginning to end. All that Spratt writes is very
lively.'

'I don't think I care for Spratt. He may be lively, but he's not
life-like.'

'And "Michael Bamfold." It is hard work, perhaps but very thoughtful, if
you can digest that sort of thing.'

'I hate thought.'

'What do you say to Miss Bouverie's last;--"Ridden to a Standstill;" a
little loud, perhaps, but very interesting? Or "Green Grow the Rushes
O," by Mrs. Tremaine? None of Mrs. Tremaine's people do anything that
anybody would do, but they all talk well.'

'I hate novels written by women. Their girls are so unlovely, and their
men such absurdly fine fellows!'

'I have William Coxe's "Lock picked at Last," of which I will defy you
to find the secret till you have got to the end of it.'

'I am a great deal too impatient.'

'And Thompson's "Four Marquises." That won't give you any trouble,
because you will know it all from the first chapter.'

'And never have a moment of excitement from the beginning to the end. I
don't think I care very much for novels. Have you nothing else?'

Caldigate had many other books, a Shakespeare, some lighter poetry, and
sundry heavier works of which he did not wish specially to speak, lest
he should seem to be boasting of his own literary taste; but at last it
was settled that on the next morning he should supply her with what
choice he had among the poets. Then at about midnight they parted, and
Caldigate, as he found his way down to his cabin, saw the quartermaster
with his eye fixed upon Mrs. Smith. There is no so stern guardian of
morality and propriety as your old quartermaster on board a first-class
ship.

'You have been having a grand time of it with Mrs. Smith,' said Shand as
soon as Caldigate was in their cabin.

'Pretty well,--as far as fine times go on board ship. Is there anything
against it?'

'Oh, no, not that I know of. I started the hare; if you choose to run it
I have no right to complain, I suppose.'

'I don't know anything about the hare, but you certainly have no right
to complain because I have been talking to Mrs. Smith;--unless indeed
you tell me that you are going to make her Mrs. Shand.'

'You are much more likely to make her Mrs. Caldigate.'

'I don't know that I should have any objection;--that is, if I wanted
a wife. She is good-looking, clever, well-educated, and would be
well-mannered were it not that she bristles up against the ill-usage of
the world too roughly.'

'I didn't know it had gone so far as that,' said Shand, angrily.

'Nor did I, till you suggested it to me. Now I think I'll go to sleep,
if you please, and dream about it.'

He did not go to sleep, but lay awake half thinking and half dreaming.
He certainly liked Mrs. Smith; but then, as he had begun to find out of
himself he liked women's society generally. He was almost jealous of the
doctor, because the doctor was allowed to talk to Miss Green and waltz
with Miss Green, whereas he could not approach her. Then he thought of
Maria Shand and that kiss in the little back parlour,--the kiss which
had not meant much, but which had meant something; and then of Julia
Babington, to whom he was not quite sure that he ought not to feel
himself engaged. But the face that was clearest to him of all,--and
which became the dearer the nearer that he approached to a state of
dozing,--was that of Hester Bolton, whose voice he had hardly heard, who
had barely spoken to him;--the tips of whose fingers he had only just
touched. If there was any one thing fixed on his mind it was that, as
soon as he had put together a large lump of gold, he would go back to
Cambridge and win Hester Bolton to be his wife. But yet what a singular
woman was this Mrs. Smith! As to marrying her, that of course had been a
joke produced by the petulance of his snoring friend. He began to
dislike Shand, because he did snore so loudly, and drank so much bottled
ale, and smelt so strongly of cavendish tobacco. Mrs. Smith was at any
rate much too good for Shand. Surely she must have been a lady, or her
voice would not have been sweet and silvery? And though she did bristle
roughly against the ill-usage of the world, and say strong things, she
was never absolutely indelicate or even loud. And she was certainly very
interesting. How did it come to pass that she was so completely alone,
so poor, so unfriended and yet possessed of such gifts? There certainly
was a mystery, and it would certainly be his fate, and not the fate of
Dick Shand, to unravel it. The puzzle was much too delicate and too
intricate for Dick Shand's rough hands. Then, giving his last waking
thoughts for a moment to Hester Bolton, he went to sleep in spite of the
snoring.

On the next morning, as soon as he was out of bed, he opened a small
portmanteau in which he had put up some volumes the day before he left
Pollington and to which he had not yet had recourse since the beginning
of the voyage. From these he would select one or two for the use of his
new friend. So he dragged out the valise from beneath the berth, while
Shand abused him for the disturbance he made. On the top, lying on the
other volumes, which were as he had placed them, was a little book,
prettily bound, by no means new, which he was sure had never been placed
there by himself. He took it up, and, standing in the centre of the
cabin, between the light of the porthole and Dick's bed, he examined it.
It was a copy of Thomson's 'Seasons', and on the flyleaf was written in
a girl's hand the name of its late owner,--Maria Shand. The truth
flashed upon him at once. She must have gone down on that last night
after he was in bed, and thus have made her little offering in silence,
knowing that it would be hidden from him till he was far away from her.

'What book is that?' said Shand suddenly, emerging with his head and
shoulders from the low berth.

'A book of mine,' said Caldigate, disconcerted for the moment.

'What are you going to do with it?'

'I am looking for something to lend to Mrs. Smith.'

'That is Molly's Thomson's "Seasons,"' said the brother, remembering,
as we are so apt to remember the old thing that had met his eye so often
in the old house. 'Where did you get it?'

'I didn't steal it, Dick.'

'I don't suppose you did; but I'm sure it's the book I say.'

'No doubt it is. If you think it is in bad hands, shall I give it back
to you?'

'I don't want it. If she gave it you, she was a fool for her pains.'

'I don't see that.'

'I would rather, at any rate, that you would not lend a book with my
sister's name in it to Mrs. Smith.'

'I was not thinking of doing so. She wants a Shakespeare that I have got
here, and a volume of Tennyson.' Then Dick retreated back into his
berth, and snored again, while Caldigate dressed himself. When that
operation was completed,--which, including his lavations, occupied about
five minutes,--he went up on the deck with the books for Mrs. Smith in
his hand, and with Thomson's 'Seasons' in his pocket. So the poor girl
had absolutely stolen down-stairs in the middle of the cold night, and
had opened the case and re-fastened it, in order that he, when in
strange lands, might find himself in possession of something that had
been hers!

He had not been alone a minute or two, and was looking about to see if
Mrs. Smith was there, when he was accosted by the Captain. The Captain
was a pleasant-looking, handsome man, about forty-five years of age, who
had the good word of almost everybody on board, but who had not before
spoken specially to Caldigate.

'Good morning, Mr. Caldigate. I hope you find yourself fairly
comfortable where you are.'

'Pretty well, thank you, Captain.'

'If there is anything I can do.'

'We have all that we have a right to expect.'

'I wish, Mr. Caldigate, I could invite you and your friends to come
astern among us sometimes, but it would be contrary to rule.'

'I can quite understand that, Captain.'

'You are doing a bit of roughing,--no doubt for the sake of experience.
If you only knew the sort of roughing I've had in my time!'

'I dare say.'

'Salt pork and hard biscuit, and only half enough of that. You find
yourself among some queer fellow-passengers I dare say, Mr. Caldigate.'

'Everybody is very civil.'

'They're sure to be that to a gentleman. But one has to be careful. The
women are the most dangerous.' Then the Captain laughed, as though it
had only been a joke,--this allusion to the women. But Caldigate knew
that there was more than a joke in it. The Captain had intended to warn
him against Mrs. Smith.




Chapter VII

The Three Attempts



Something more than a month had gone by, and John Caldigate and Mrs.
Smith were very close companions. This had not been effected without
considerable opposition, partly on the part of Shand, and partly by the
ship's inhabitants generally. The inhabitants of the ship were inimical
to Mrs. Smith. She was a woman who had no friends; and the very female
who had first appeared as a friend was now the readiest to say hard
things of her. And Caldigate was a handsome well-mannered young man. By
this time all the ladies in the first-class knew very well who he was,
and some of them had spoken to him. On one or two occasions the stern
law of the vessel had been broken; and he had been absolutely invited
to sit on those august after-benches. He was known to be a gentleman,
and believed, on the evidence of Dick Shand, to be possessed of
considerable means. It was therefore a thing horrible to all of them,
and particularly to Miss Green, that he should allow himself to be
enticed into difficulties by such a creature as that Mrs. Smith. Miss
Green had already been a little cold to the doctor in consequence of a
pleasant half-hour spent by her in Caldigate's company, as they looked
over the side of the vessel at the flying-fish. Mrs. Callander had been
with them, and everything had been quite proper. But what a pity it was
that he should devote so much of his time to that woman! 'Fancy his
condition if he should be induced to marry her!' said Miss Green,
holding up her hands in horror. The idea was so terrible that Mrs.
Callander declared that she would speak to him. 'Nobody ever disliked
interfering so much as I do,' said Mrs. Callander; 'but sometimes a word
from a lady will go so far with a young man!' Mrs. Callander was a most
respectable woman, whose father had begun life as a cattle drover in the
colonies, but had succeeded in amassing a considerable fortune. 'Oh, I
do wish that something may be done to save him!' said Miss Green.

Among the second-class passengers the same feeling existed quite as
strongly. The woman herself had not only been able but had been foolish
enough to show that in spite of her gown she considered herself superior
to them all. When it was found that she was, in truth, handsome to look
upon,--that her words were soft and well chosen,--that she could sit
apart and read,--and that she could trample upon Mrs. Crompton in her
scorn,--then, for a while, there were some who made little efforts to
get into her good graces. She might even have made an ally of
good-natured Mrs. Bones, the wife of the butcher who was going out with
his large family to try his fortune at Melbourne. Mrs. Bones had been
injured, after some ship fashion, by Mrs. Crompton, and would have made
herself pleasant. But Mrs. Smith had despised them all, and had shown
her contempt, and was now as deeply suspected by Mrs. Bones as by Mrs.
Crompton or Mrs. Callander.

But of all the foes to this intimacy Dick Shand was for a time the most
bitter and the most determined. No doubt this arose at first from
jealousy. He had declared his purpose of unravelling the mystery; but
the task had been taken out of his hands, and the unravelling was being
done by another. And the more that the woman was abused, and the more
intent were all the people in regard to her wicked determination to be
intimate with Caldigate, the more interesting she became. Dick, who was
himself the very imp of imprudence,--who had never been deterred from
doing anything he fancied by any glimmer of control,--would have been
delighted to be the hero of all the little stories that were being told.
But as that morsel of bread had been taken, as it were, from between his
very teeth by the unjustifiable interference of his friend, he had
become more alive than any one else to the danger of the whole
proceeding. He acknowledged to the Captain that his friend was making a
fool of himself; and, though he was a little afraid of Caldigate, he
resolved upon interfering.

'Don't you think you are making an ass of yourself about this woman?' he
said.

'I daresay I am.'

'Well!'

'All the wise men, from David downwards, have made asses of themselves
about women; and why should I be wiser than the rest?'

'That's nonsense, you know.'

'Very likely.'

'I am trying to talk to you in earnest.'

'You make such a failure of it, old boy, that I am compelled to talk
nonsense in return. The idea of your preaching! Here I am with nothing
special to do, and I like to amuse myself. Ought not that to be enough
for you?'

'But what is to be the end of it?' Dick Shand asked, very solemnly.

'How can I tell? But the absurdity is that such a man as you should talk
about the end of anything. Did you ever look before you leaped in your
life?'

'We are to be together, you know, and it won't do for us to be hampered
with that woman.'

'Won't it? Then let me tell you that, if I choose to hamper myself with
that woman, or with a whole harem of women, and am not deterred by any
consideration for myself, I certainly shall not be deterred by any
consideration for you. Do you understand me?'

'That is not being a true partner,' said Shand.

'I'm quite sure of this,--that I'm likely to be as true as you are. I'm
not aware that I have entered into any terms with you by which I have
bound myself to any special mode of living. I have left England, as I
fancy you have done also, because I desired more conventional freedom
than one can find among the folk at home. And now, on the first outset,
I am to be cautioned and threatened by you because I have made
acquaintance with a young woman. Of all the moral pastors and masters
that one might come across in the world, you, Dick Shand, appear to me
to be the most absurd. But you are so far right as this, that if my
conduct is shocking to you, you had better leave me to my wickedness.'

'You are always so d---- upsetting,' said Dick, 'that no one can speak
to you.' Then Dick turned away, and there was nothing more said about
Mrs. Smith on that occasion.

The next to try her hand was Mrs. Callander. By this time the passengers
had become familiar with the ship, and knew what they might and what
they might not do. The second-class passengers were not often found
intruding across the bar, but the first-class frequently made visits to
their friends amidships. In this way Mrs. Callander had become
acquainted with our two gold-seekers, and often found herself in
conversation with one or the other. Even Miss Green, as has been stated
before, would come and gaze upon the waves from the inferior part of the
deck.

'What a very nice voyage we are having, Mr. Caldigate,' Mrs. Callander
said one afternoon.

'Yes, indeed. It is getting a little cold now, but we shall enjoy that
after all the heat.'

'Quite so; only I suppose it will be very cold when we get quite south.
You still find yourself tolerably comfortable.'

'I shall be glad to have it over,' said Caldigate, who had in truth
become disgusted with Dick's snoring.

'I daresay,--I am sure we shall. My young people are getting very tired
of it. Children, when they are accustomed to every comfort on shore, of
course feel it grievously. I suppose you are rather crowded?'

'Of course we are crowded. One can't have a twenty-foot square room on
board ship.'

'No, indeed. But then you are with your friend, and that is much
pleasanter than a stranger.'

'That would depend on whether the stranger snored, Mrs. Callander.'

'Don't talk of snoring, Mr. Caldigate. If you only heard Mr. Callander!
But, as I was saying, you must have some very queer characters down
there.' She had not been saying anything of the kind, but she found a
difficulty in introducing her subject.

'Take them altogether, they are a very decent, pleasant, well-mannered
set of people, and all of them in earnest about their future lives.'

'Poor creatures! But I dare say they're very good.' Then she paused a
moment, and looked into his face. She had undertaken a duty, and she was
not the woman to shrink from it. So she told herself at that moment. And
yet she was very much afraid of him as she saw the squareness of his
forehead, and the set of his mouth. And there was a frown across his
brow, as though he were preparing himself to fight. 'You must have found
it hard to accommodate yourselves to them, Mr. Caldigate?'

'Not at all.'

'Of course we all know that you are a gentleman.'

'I am much obliged to you; but I do not know any word that requires a
definition so much as that. I am going to work hard to earn my bread;
and I suppose these people are going to do the same.'

'There always will be some danger in such society,' said Mrs. Callander.

'I hope I may escape any great evil.'

'I hope so too, Mr. Caldigate. You probably have had a long roll of
ancestors before you?'

'We all have that;--back to Adam.'

'Ah! but I mean a family roll, of which you ought to be proud;--all
ladies and gentlemen.'

'Upon my word I don't know.'

'So I hear, and I have no doubt it is true.' Then she paused, looking
again into his face. It was very square, and his lips were hard, and
there was a gleam of anger in his eyes. She wished herself back again in
her own part of the ship; but she had boasted to Miss Green that she was
not the woman to give up a duty when she had undertaken it. Though she
was frightened, still she must go on. 'I hope you will excuse me, Mr.
Caldigate.'

'I am sure you will not say anything that I cannot excuse.'

'Don't you think--' Then she paused. She had looked into his face again,
and was so little satisfied that she did not dare to go on. He would not
help her in the least, but stood there looking at her, with something
of a smile stealing over the hardness of his face, but with such an
expression that the smile was even worse than the hardness.

'Were you going to speak to me about another lady, Mrs. Callander?'

'I was. That is what I was going to speak of--'

She was anxious to remonstrate against that word lady, but her courage
failed her.

'Then don't you think that perhaps you had better leave it alone. I am
very much obliged to you, and all that kind of thing; and as to myself,
I really shouldn't care what you said. Any good advice would be taken
most gratefully,--if it didn't affect any one else. But you might say
things of the lady in question which I shouldn't bear patiently.'

'She can't be your equal.'

'I won't hear even that patiently. You know nothing about her, except
that she is a second-class passenger,--in which matter she is exactly my
equal. If you come to that, don't you think that you are degrading
yourself in coming here and talking to me? I am not your equal.'

'But you are.'

'And so is she, then. We shan't arrive at anything, Mrs. Callander, and
so you had better give it up.' Whereupon she did give it up and retreat
to her own part of the ship, but not with a very good grace.

They had certainly become very intimate,--John Caldigate and Mrs. Smith;
and there could be no doubt that, in the ordinary language of the world,
he was making a fool of himself. He did in fact know nothing about her
but what she told herself, and this amounted to little more than three
statements, which might or might not be true,--that she had gone on the
stage in opposition to her friends,--that she had married an actor, who
had treated her with great cruelty,--and that he had died of drink. And
with each of these stories there had been an accompaniment of mystery.
She had not told him her maiden name, nor what had been the condition of
her parents, nor whether they were living, nor at what theatres she and
her husband had acted, nor when he had died. She had expressed a hope
that she might get an engagement in the colonies, but she had not spoken
of any recommendation or letters of introduction. He simply knew of her
that her name was Euphemia Smith.

In that matter of her clothes there had been a great improvement, but
made very gradually. She had laughed at her own precautions, saying,
that in her poverty she had wished to save everything that could be
saved, and that she had only intended to make herself look like others
in the same class. 'And I had wanted to avoid all attention,--at first,'
she said, smiling, as she looked up at him.

'In which you have been altogether unsuccessful he replied, 'as you are
certainly more talked about than any one in the ship.'

'Has it been my fault?' she asked.

Then he comforted her, saying that it certainly had not been her fault;
that she had been reticent and reserved till she had been either
provoked or invited to come forth; and, in fact, that her conduct had
been in all respects feminine, pretty, and decorous;--as to all which
he was not perhaps the best judge in the world.

But she was certainly much pleasanter to look at, and even to talk to,
now that she had put on a small, clean, black felt hat instead of the
broken straw, and had got out from her trunks a pretty warm shawl, and
placed a ribbon or two about her in some indescribable manner, and was
no longer ashamed of showing her shoes as she sat about upon the deck.
There could be no doubt, as she was seen now, that she was the most
attractive female on board the ship; but it may be doubted whether the
anger of the Mrs. Cromptons, Mrs. Callanders, and Miss Greens was
mitigated by the change. The battle against her became stronger, and the
duty of rescuing that infatuated young man from her sorceries was more
clear than ever;--if only anything could be done to rescue him!

What could be done? Mrs. Smith could not be locked up. No one,--not even
the Captain,--could send her down to her own wretched little cabin
because she would talk with a gentleman. Talking is allowed on board
ship, and even flirting, to a certain extent. Mrs. Smith's conduct with
Mr. Caldigate was not more peculiar than that of Miss Green and the
doctor. Only it pleased certain people to think that Miss Green might be
fond of the doctor if she chose, and that Mrs. Smith had no right to be
fond of any man. There was a stubbornness about both the sinners which
resolved to set public opinion at defiance. The very fact that others
wished to interfere with him made Caldigate determined to resent all
interference; and the woman, with perhaps a deeper insight into her own
advantages, was brave enough to be able to set opposition at defiance.

They were about a week from their port when the captain,--Captain
Munday,--was induced to take the matter into his own hands. It is hardly
too much to say that he was pressed to do so by the united efforts of
the first-class passengers. It was dreadful to think that this
unfortunate young man should go on shore merely to become the prey of
such a woman as that. So Captain Munday, who at heart was not afraid of
his passenger,--but who persisted in saying that no good could be done,
and who had, as may be remembered, already made a slight attempt,--was
induced to take the matter in hand. He came up to Caldigate on the deck
one afternoon, and without any preface began his business. 'Mr.
Caldigate,' he said, 'I am afraid you are getting into a scrape with one
of your fellow-passengers.'

'What do you call a scrape, Captain Munday?'

'I should call it a scrape if a young gentleman of your position and
your prospects were to find himself engaged on board ship to marry a
woman he knew nothing about.'

'Do you know anything about my position and prospects, Captain Munday?'

'I know you are a gentleman.'

'And I think you know less about the lady.'

'I know nothing;--but I will tell you what I hear.'

'I really would rather that you did not. Of course, Captain Munday, on
board your own ship you are a despot, and I must say that you have made
everything very pleasant for us. But I don't think even your position
entitles you to talk to me about my private affairs,--or about hers. You
say you know nothing. Is it manly to repeat what one hears about a poor
forlorn woman?' Then the Captain retreated without another word, owning
to himself that he was beaten. If this foolish young man chose to make
for himself a bed of that kind he must lie upon it. Captain Munday went
away shrugging his shoulders, and spoke no further word to John
Caldigate on that or any other subject during the voyage.

Caldigate had driven off his persecutors valiantly, and had taught them
all to think that he was resolute in his purposes in regard to Mrs.
Smith, let those purposes be what they might; but nothing could be
further from the truth; for he had no purposes and was, within his own
mind, conscious of his lack of all purpose, and very conscious of his
folly. And though he could repel Mrs. Callander and the Captain,--as he
had always repelled those who had attempted to control him,--still he
knew that they had been right. Such an intimacy as this could not be
wise, and its want of wisdom became the more strongly impressed upon him
the nearer he got to shore, and the more he felt that when he had got
ashore he should not know how to act in regard to her.

The intimacy had certainly become very close. He had expressed his
great admiration, and she had replied that, 'had things not been as they
were,' she could have returned the feeling. But she did not say what the
things were which might have been otherwise. Nor did she seem to attempt
to lead him on to further and more definite proposals. And she never
spoke of any joint action between them when on shore, though she gave
herself up to his society here on board the ship. She seemed to think
that they were then to part, as though one would be going one way, and
one the other;--but he felt that after so close an intimacy they could
not part like that.




Chapter VIII

Reaching Melbourne



Things went on in the same way till the night before the morning on
which they were to enter Hobson's Bay. Hobson's Bay, as every one knows,
is the inlet of the sea into which the little river runs on which
Melbourne is built. After leaving the tropics they had gone down south,
and had encountered showers and wind, and cold weather, but now they had
come up again into warm latitudes and fine autumn weather,--for it was
the beginning of March, and the world out there is upside down. Before
that evening nothing had been said between Mrs. Smith and John Caldigate
as to any future; not a word to indicate that when the journey should be
over, there would or that there would not be further intercourse between
them. She had purposely avoided any reference to a world after this world
of the ship, even refusing, in her half-sad but half-joking manner,
to discuss matters so far ahead. But he felt that he could not leave
her on board, as he would the other passengers, without a word spoken
as to some future meeting. There will arrive on occasions a certain pitch
of intimacy,--which cannot be defined as may a degree of cousinship,
but which is perfectly understood by the persons concerned;--so close
as to forbid such mere shaking of the hands. There are many men, and
perhaps more women, cautious enough and wise enough to think of this
beforehand, and, thinking of it, to guard themselves from the dangerous
attractions of casual companions by a composed manner and unenthusiastic
conversation. Who does not know the sagacious lady who, after sitting at
table with the same gentleman for a month, can say, 'Good-bye, Mr.
Jones,' just as though Mr. Jones had been a stranger under her notice
but for a day. But others gush out, and when Mr. Jones takes his
departure, hardly know how not to throw themselves into his arms. The
intercourse between our hero and Mrs. Smith had been such that, as a
gentleman, he could not leave her without some allusion to future
meetings. That was all up to the evening before their arrival. The whole
ship's company, captain, officers, quarter-masters, passengers, and all,
were quite sure that she had succeeded in getting a promise of marriage
from him. But there had been nothing of the kind.

Among others, Dick Shand was sure that there was some entanglement.
Entanglement was the word he always used in discussing the matter with
Mrs. Callander. Between Dick and his friend there had been very little
confidential communication of late. Caldigate had forbidden Shand to
talk to him about Mrs. Smith, and thus had naturally closed the man's
mouth on other matters. And then they had fallen into different sets.
Dick, at least, had fallen into a set, while Caldigate had hardly
associated with any but the one dangerous friend. Dick had lived much
with a bevy of noisy young men who had been given to games and smoking,
and to a good deal of drink. Caldigate had said not a word, even when
on one occasion Dick had stumbled down into the cabin very much the
worse for what he had taken. How could he find fault with Dick's folly
when he would not allow Dick to say a word to him as to his own? But on
this last day at sea it became necessary that they should understand
each other.

'What do you mean to do when you land?' Caldigate asked.

All that had been settled between them very exactly long since. At a
town called Nobble, about three hundred miles west of Sydney, there
lived a man, supposed to be knowing in gold, named Crinkett, with whom
they had corresponded, and to whom they intended, in the first instance,
to apply. And about twenty miles beyond Nobble were the new and now much
reputed Ahalala diggings, at which they purposed to make their first
debut. It had been decided that they would go direct from Melbourne to
Nobble,--not round by Sydney so as to see more of the world, and thus
spend more money,--but by the direct route, taking the railway to Albury
and the coaches, which they were informed were running between Albury
and Nobble. And it had also been determined that they would spend but
two nights in Melbourne,--'just to get their things washed,'--so keen
had they been in their determination to begin their work. But on all
these matters there had been no discussion now for a month, nor even an
allusion to them.

'What do you mean to do when we land?' Caldigate asked on that last day.

'I thought all that was settled. But I suppose you are going to change
everything?'

'I am going to change nothing. Only you seem to have got into such a way
of life that I didn't know whether you would be prepared for serious
work.'

'I shall be as well prepared as you are, I don't doubt,' said Dick. 'I
have no impediment of any kind.'

'I certainly have none. Then we will start by the first train on
Wednesday morning for Albury. We must have our heavy things sent round
by sea to Sydney, and get them from there as best we can. When we are a
little fixed, one of us can run down to Sydney.'

And so it was settled, without any real confidence between them, but in
conformity with their previous arrangements.

It was on the evening of the same day, after they had sighted Cape
Otway, that Mrs. Smith and Caldigate began their last conversation on
board the Goldfinder,--a conversation which lasted, with one or two
interruptions, late into the night.

'So we have come to the end of it,' she said.

'To the end of what?'

'To the end of all that is pleasant and easy and safe. Don't you
remember my telling you how I dreaded the finish? Here I have been
fairly comfortable and have in many respects enjoyed it. I have had you
to talk to; and there has been a flavour of old days about it. What
shall I be doing this time to-morrow?'

'I don't know your plans.'

'Exactly;--and I have not told you, because I would not have you
bothered with me when I land. You have enough on your own hands; and if
I were to be a burden to you now it might be a serious trouble. I am
afraid poor Mr. Shand objects to me.'

'You don't think that would stand in my way?'

'It stands in mine. Of course, with your pride and your obstinacy you
would tell Mr. Shand to go to--the devil if he ventured to object to any
little delay that might be occasioned by looking after me. Then Mr.
Shand would go--there, or elsewhere; and all your plans would be broken
up, and you would be without a companion.'

'Unless I had you.' Of all the words which he could have spoken in such
an emergency these were the most foolish; and yet, at so tender a
moment, how were they to be repressed?

'I do think that Dick Shand is dangerous,' she answered, laughing; 'but
I should be worse. I am afraid Dick Shand will--drink.'

'If so, we must part. And what would you do?'

'What would I do? What could I do?' Then there was a pause. 'Perhaps I
should want you to--marry me, which would be worse than Dick Shand's
drinking. Eh?'

There is an obligation on a man to persevere when a woman has encouraged
him in love-making. It is like riding at a fence. When once you have set
your horse at it you must go on, however impracticable it may appear as
you draw close to it. If you have never looked at the fence at all,--if
you have ridden quite the other way, making for some safe gate or
clinging to the dull lane,--then there will be no excitement, but also
there will be no danger and no disgrace. Caldigate had ridden hard at
the fence, and could not crane at it now that it was so close to him. He
could only trust to his good fortune to carry him safe over. 'I don't
suppose you would want it,' he said, 'but I might.'

'You would want me, but you would not want me for always. I should be a
burden less easy to shake off than Dick Shand.'

'Is that the way a man is always to look at a woman?'

'It is the way in which they do, I think. I often wonder that any man is
ever fool enough to marry. A poor man may want some one to serve him,
and may be able to get service in no other way; or a man, poor in
another way, may find an heiress convenient;--but otherwise I think men
only marry when they are caught. Women are prehensile things, which have
to cling to something for nourishment and support. When I come across
such a one as you I naturally put out my feelers.'

'I have not been aware of it.'

'Yes, you are; and I do not doubt that your mind is vacillating about
me. I am sure you like me.'

'Certainly, I like you.'

'And you know that I love you.'

'I did not know it.'

'Yes, you did. You are not the man to be diffident of yourself in such a
matter. You must either think that I love you, or that I have been a
great hypocrite in pretending to do so. Love you!' They were sitting
together on a large spar which was lashed on to the deck, and which had
served throughout all the voyage for a seat for second-class passengers
There were others now on the farther end of it; but there was a feeling
that when Caldigate and Mrs. Smith were together it would not be civil
to intrude upon their privacy. At this time it was dark; but their eyes
had become used to the gloom, and each could see the other's face. 'Love
you!' she repeated, looking up at him, speaking in a very low voice, but
yet, oh so clearly, so that not a fraction of a sound was lost to his
ears, with no special emotion in her face, with no contortion, no
grimace, but with her eyes fixed upon his. 'How should it be possible
that I should not love you? For two months we have been together as
people seldom are in the world,--as they never can be without hating
each other or loving each other thoroughly. You have been very good to
me who am all alone and desolate. And you are clever, educated,--and a
man. How should I not love you? And I know from the touch of your hand,
from your breath when I feel it on my face, from the fire of your eye,
and from the tenderness of your mouth, that you, too, love me.'

'I do,' he said.

'But as there may be marriage without love, so there may be love without
marriage. You cannot but feel how little you know of me, and ignorant as
you are of so much, that to marry me might be--ruin.' It was just what
he had told himself over and over again, when he had been trying to
resolve what he would do in regard to her. 'Don't you know that?'

'I know that it might have been so among the connections of home life.'

'And to you the connections of home life may all come back. That woman
talked about your "roll of ancestors." Coming from her it was absurd.
But there was some truth in it. You know that were you to marry me, say
to-morrow, in Melbourne, it would shut you out from--well, not the
possibility but the probability of return.'

'I do not want to go back.'

'Nor do I want to hinder you from doing so. If we were alike desolate,
alike alone, alike cast out, oh then, what a heaven of happiness I
should think had been opened to me by the idea of joining myself to you!
There is nothing I could not do for you. But I will not be a millstone
round your neck.'

She had taken so much the more prominent part in all this that he felt
himself compelled by his manliness to say something in contradiction to
it--something that should have the same flavour about it as had her
self-abnegation and declared passion. He also must be unselfish and
enthusiastic. 'I do not deny that there is truth in what you say.'

'It is true.'

'Of course I love you.'

'It ought to be of course,--now.'

'And of course I do not mean to part from you now, as though we were
never to see each other again.'

'I hope not quite that.'

'Certainly not. I shall therefore hold you as engaged to me, and myself
as engaged to you,--unless something should occur to separate us.' It
was a foolish thing to say, but he did not know how to speak without
being foolish. It is not usual that a gentleman should ask a lady to be
engaged to him '--unless something should occur to separate them!' 'You
will consent to that,' he said.

'What I will consent to is this, that I will be yours, all yours,
whenever you may choose to send for me. At any moment I will be your
wife for the asking. But you shall go away first, and shall think of it,
and reflect upon it,--so that I may not have to reproach myself with
having caught you.'

'Caught me?'

'Well, yes, caught you. I do feel that I have caught you,--almost. I do
feel,--almost,--that I ought to have had nothing to do with you. From
the beginning of it all I knew that I ought to have nothing to say to
you. You are too good for me.' Then she rose from her place as though to
leave him. 'I will go down now,' she said, 'because I know you will have
many things to do. To-morrow, when we get up, we shall be in the
harbour, and you will be on shore quite early. There will be no time for
a word of farewell then. I will meet you again here just before we go to
bed,--say at half-past ten. Then we will arrange, if we can arrange, how
we may meet again.'

And so she glided away from him, and he was left alone, sitting on the
spar. Now, at any rate, he had engaged himself. There could not be any
doubt about that. He certainly could not be justified in regarding
himself as free because she had told him that she would give him time to
think of it. Of course he was engaged to marry her. When a man has been
successful in his wooing he is supposed to be happy. He asked himself
whether he was proud of the result of this intimacy. She had told
him,--she herself,--that she had 'caught him', meaning thereby that he
had been taken as a rabbit with a snare or a fish with a baited hook. If
it had been so, surely she would not herself have said so. And yet he
was aware how common it is for a delinquent to cover his own delinquency
by declaring it. 'Of course I am idle,' says the idle one, escaping the
disgrace of his idleness by his honesty. 'I have caught you!' There is
something soothing to the vanity in such a declaration from a pretty
woman. That she should have wished to catch you is something;--something
that the net should itself be so pleasant, with its silken meshes! But
the declaration may not the less be true and the fact unpleasant. In the
matter of matrimony a man does not wish to be caught; and Caldigate,
fond as he was of her, acknowledged that what she said was true.

He leant back in a corner that was made by the hatchway, and endeavoured
to think over his life and prospects. If this were a true engagement,
then must he cease altogether to think of Hester Bolton. Then must that
dream be abandoned. It is of no use to the most fervid imagination to
have a castle projected in Spain from which all possible foundation has
been taken away. In his dreams of life a man should never dream that
which is altogether impossible. There had been something in the thought
of Hester Bolton which had taken him back from the roughnesses of his
new life, from the doubtful respectability of Mrs. Smith, from the
squalor of the second-class from the whisky-laden snores of Dick Shand,
to a sweeter, brighter, cleaner world. Till this engagement had been
absolutely spoken he could still indulge in that romance, distant and
unreal as it was. But now,--now it seemed to be brought in upon him very
forcibly that he must rid his thoughts of Hester Bolton,--or else rid
his life of Mrs. Smith.

But he was engaged to marry Mrs. Smith. Then he got up, and walked
backwards and forwards along the deck, asking himself whether this could
really be the truth. Was he bound to this woman for his life? And if so,
had he done a thing of which he already repented himself? He tried to
persuade himself that she was admirably fitted for the life which he was
fated to lead. She was handsome, intellectual, a most delightful
companion, and yet capable of enduring the hardships of an adventurous
uncertain career. Ought he not to think himself peculiarly lucky in
having found for himself so eligible a companion? But there is something
so solemn, so sacred, in the name of wife. A man brought up among soft
things is so imbued with the feeling that his wife should be something
better, cleaner, sweeter, holier than himself that he could not but be
awe-struck when he thought that he was bound to marry this all but
nameless widow of some drunken player,--this woman who, among other
women, had been thought unfit for all companionship!

But things arrange themselves. How probable it was that he would never
be married to her. After all, this might be but an incident, and not an
unpleasant incident, in his life. He had had his amusement out of it,
and she had had hers. Perhaps they would part to meet no more. But when
he thought that there might be comfort in this direction, he felt that
he was a scoundrel for thinking so.

'And this is to say good-bye?' 'Twas thus she greeted him again that
night. 'Good-bye--'

'Good-bye, my love.'

'My love! my love! And now remember this; my address will be,
Post-office, Melbourne. It will be for you to write to me. You will not
hear from me unless you do. Indeed I shall know nothing of you. Let me
have a line before a month is over.' This he promised, and then they
parted.

At break of day on the following morning the Goldfinder rode over the
Rip into Hobson's Bay. There were still four hours before the ship lay
at her moorings; but during all that time Mrs. Smith was not seen by
Caldigate. As he got into the boat which took him and Shand from the
ship to the pier at Sandridge she kissed her hand to him over the side
of the vessel. Before eleven o'clock Dick Shand and his companion were
comfortably put up at the Miners' Home in Flinders Lane.




Chapter IX

Nobble



During the two days which Dick and Caldigate spent together in Melbourne
Mrs. Smith's name was not mentioned between them. They were particularly
civil each to the other and went to work together, making arrangements
at a bank as to their money, taking their places, despatching their
luggage, and sorting their belongings as though there had been no such
woman as Mrs. Smith on board the Goldfinder. Dick, though he had been
inclined to grumble when his mystery had been taken out of his
hands,--who had, of course, been jealous when he saw that the lady had
discarded her old hat and put on new ribbons, not for him, but for
another,--was too conscious of the desolation to which he would be
subjected by quarrelling with his friend. He felt himself unable to go
alone, and was therefore willing that the bygones of the ship should be
bygones. Caldigate, on the other hand, acknowledged to himself that he
owed some reparation to his companion. Of course he had not bound
himself to any special mode of life;--but had he, in his present
condition, allied himself more closely to Mrs. Smith, he would, to some
extent, have thrown Dick over. And then, as soon as he was on shore, he
did feel somewhat ashamed of himself in regard to Mrs. Smith. Was it not
manifest that any closer alliance, let the alliance be what it might,
must be ruinous to him? As it was, had he not made an absolute fool of
himself with Mrs. Smith? Had he not got himself already into a mess from
which there was no escape? Of course he must write to her when the month
was over. The very weight of his thoughts on this matter made him tamer
with Dick and more observant than he would otherwise have been.

They were during those two days frequently about the town, looking at
the various streets and buildings, at the banks and churches and
gardens,--as is usual with young men when they visit a new town; but,
during it all, Caldigate's mind was more intent on Mrs. Smith than he
was on the sights of the place. Melbourne is not so big but that she
might easily have thrown herself in his way had she pleased. Strangers
residing in such a town are almost sure to see each other before
twenty-four hours are gone. But Mrs. Smith was not seen. Two or three
times he went up and down Collins Street alone, without his friend, not
wishing to see her,--aware that he had better not see her,--but made
restless by a nervous feeling that he ought to wish to see her, that he
should, at any rate, not keep out of her way. But Mrs. Smith did not
show herself. Whatever might be her future views, she did not now take
steps to present herself to him. 'I shall be so much the more bound to
present myself to her,' he said to himself. 'But perhaps she knows all
that,' he added in the same soliloquy.

On the Wednesday morning they left Melbourne by the 6 A.M. train for
Albury, which latter place they reached the same day, about 2 P.M.,
having then crossed the Murray river, and passed into the colony of New
South Wales. Here they stayed but a few hours and then went on by coach
on their journey to Nobble. From one wretched vehicle they were handed
on to another, never stopping anywhere long enough to go to bed,--three
hours at one wretched place and five at another,--travelling at the rate
of six miles an hour, bumping through the mud and slush of the bush
roads, and still going on for three days and three nights. This was
roughing it indeed. Even Dick complained, and said that, of all the
torments prepared for wicked mortals on earth, this Australian coaching
was the worst. They went through Wagga-Wagga and Murrumburra, and other
places with similar names, till at last they were told that they had
reached Nobble. Nobble they thought was the foulest place which they had
ever seen. It was a gold-digging town, as such places are called, and
had been built with great rapidity to supply the necessities of adjacent
miners. It was constructed altogether of wood, but no two houses had
been constructed alike. They generally had gable ends opening on to the
street, but were so different in breadth, altitude, and form, that it
was easy to see that each enterprising proprietor had been his own
architect. But they were all alike in having enormous advertisement-boards,
some high, some broad, some sloping, on which were declared the merits of
the tradesmen who administered within to the wants of mining humanity. And
they had generally assumed most singular names for themselves: 'The Old
Stick-in-the-Mud Soft Goods Store,' 'The Polyeuka Stout Depot,' 'Number
Nine Flour Mills,' and so on,--all of which were very unintelligible to
our friends till they learned that these were the names belonging to
certain gold-mining claims which had been opened in the neighbourhood
of Nobble. The street itself was almost more perilous to vehicles than
the slush of the forest-tracks, so deep were the holes and so uncertain
the surface. When Caldigate informed the driver that they wanted to be
taken as far as Henniker's hotel, the man said that he had given up
going so far as that for the last two months, the journey being too
perilous. So they shouldered their portmanteaus and struggled forth
down the street. Here and there a short bit of wooden causeway, perhaps
for the length of three houses, would assist them; and then, again, they
would have to descend into the roadway and plunge along through the mud.

'It is not quite as nice walking as the old Quad at Trinity,' said
Caldigate.

'It is the beastliest hole I ever put my foot in since I was born,' said
Dick, who had just stumbled and nearly came to the ground with his
burden. 'They told us that Nobble was a fine town.'

Henniker's hotel was a long, low wooden shanty, divided into various
very small partitions by thin planks, in most of which two or more
dirty-looking beds had been packed very closely. But between these
little compartments there was a long chamber containing a long and very
dirty table, and two long benches. Here were sitting a crowd of miners,
drinking, when our friends were ushered in through the bar or counter
which faced to the street. At the bar they were received by a dirty old
woman who said that she was Mrs. Henniker. Then they were told, while
the convivial crowd were looking on and listening, that they could have
the use of one of the partitions and their 'grub' for 7s. 6d. a-day
each. When they asked for a partition apiece, they were told that if
they didn't like what was offered to them they might go elsewhere. Upon
that they agreed to Mrs. Henniker's terms, and sitting down on one of
the benches looked desolately into each others faces.

Yes;--it was different from Trinity College, different from Babington,
very different even from the less luxurious comfort of the house at
Pollington. The deck, even the second-class cabin, of the Goldfinder had
been better than this. And then they had no friend, not even an
acquaintance, within some hundred miles. The men around them were not
uncivil. Australian miners never are so. But they were inquisitive,
familiar, and with their half-drunken good-humour, almost repulsive. It
was about noon when our friends reached Henniker's, and they were told
that there would be dinner at one. There was always 'grub' at one, and
'grub' at seven, and 'grub' at eight in the morning. So one of the men
informed them. The same gentleman hoped that the strangers were not very
particular, as the 'grub,' though plentiful was apt to be rough of its
kind.

'You'll have it a deal worse before you've done if you're going on to
Ahalala,' said another. Then Caldigate said that they did intend to go
on to Ahalala. 'We're going to have a spell at gold-digging,' said he.
What was the use of making any secret of the matter? 'We knowed that
ready enough,' said one of the men. 'Chaps like you don't come much to
Nobble for nothing else. Have you got any money to start with?'

'A few half-crowns,' said Dick, cautiously.

'Half-crowns don't go very far here, my mate. If you can spend four or
five pounds a-week each for the next month, so as to get help till you
know where you are, it may be you'll turn up gold at Ahalala;--but if
not, you'd better go elsewhere. You needn't be afraid. We ain't a-going
to rob you of nothing.'

'Nor yet we don't want nothing to drink,' said another.

'Speak for yourself, Jack,' said a third. 'But come;--as these are
regular new chums, I don't care if I shout for the lot myself.' Then the
dirty old woman was summoned, and everybody had whisky all round. When
that was done, another generous man came to the front, and there was
more whisky, till Caldigate was frightened as to the result.

Evil might have come from it, had not the old woman opportunely brought
the 'grub' into the room. This she chucked down on the table in such a
way that the grease out of the dish spattered itself all around. There
was no tablecloth, nor had any preparation been made; but in the middle
of the table there was a heap of dirty knives and forks, with which the
men at once armed themselves; and each took a plate out of a heap that
had been placed on a shelf against the wall. Caldigate and Shand, when
they saw how the matter was to be arranged, did as the other men. The
'grub' consisted of an enormous lump of boiled beef, and a bowl of
potatoes, which was moderate enough in size considering that there were
in all about a dozen men to be fed. But there was meat enough for
double the number, and bread in plenty, but so ill-made as to be
rejected by most of the men. The potatoes were evidently the luxury;
and, guided by that feeling, the man who had told the strangers that
they need not be afraid of being robbed, at once selected six out of the
bowl, and deposited three each before Dick and Caldigate. He helped the
others all round to one each, and then was left without any for himself.
'I don't care a damn for that sort of tucker,' he said, as though he
despised potatoes from the bottom of his heart. Of all the crew he was
the dirtiest, and was certainly half drunk. Another man holloaed to
'Mother Henniker' for pickles; but Mother Henniker, without leaving her
seat at the bar, told them to 'pickle themselves.' Whereupon one of the
party, making some allusion to Jack Brien's swag,--Jack Brien being
absent at the moment,--rose from his seat and undid a great roll lying
in one of the corners. Every miner has his swag,--consisting of a large
blanket which is rolled up, and contains all his personal luggage. Out
of Jack Brien's swag were extracted two large square bottles of pickles.
These were straightway divided among the men, care being taken that Dick
and Caldigate should have ample shares. Then every man helped himself to
beef, as much as he would, passing the dish round from one to the other.
When the meal was half finished, Mrs. Henniker brought in an enormous
jorum of tea, which she served out to all the guests in tin pannikins,
giving to every man a fixed and ample allowance of brown sugar, without
at all consulting his taste. Milk there was none. In the midst of this
Jack Brien came in, and with a clamour of mirth the empty pickle jars
were shown him. Jack, who was a silent man, and somewhat melancholy,
merely shook his head and ate his beef. It may be presumed that he was
fond of pickles, having taken so much trouble to provide them; but he
said not a word of the injury to which he had been subjected.

'Them's a-going to Ahalala, Jack,' said the distributor of the
potatoes, nodding his head to indicate the two new adventurers.

'Then they're a-going to the most infernal, mean, ----, ----
break-heartedest place as God Almighty ever put on this 'arth for the
perplexment of poor unfortunate ---- ---- miners.' This was Jack Brien's
eloquence, and his description of Ahalala. Before this he had not spoken
a word, nor did he speak again till he had consumed three or four pounds
of beef, and had swallowed two pannikins of tea. Then he repeated his
speech: 'There isn't so ---- ---- an infernal, mean, break-hearted a
place as Ahalala,--not nowhere; no, not nowhere. And so them chums'll
find for theirselves if they go there.' Then his neighbour whispered
into Caldigate's ear that Jack had gone to Ahalala with fifty sovereigns
in his pocket, and that he wasn't now worth a red cent.

'But there is gold there?' asked Caldigate.

'It's my belief there's gold pretty much everywhere, and you may find it,
or you mayn't. That's where it is;--and the mayn'ts are a deal oftener
turning up than the mays.'

'A man can get work for wages,' suggested Dick.

'Wages! What's the use of that? A man as knows mining can earn wages.
But Ahalala aint a place for wages. If you want wages, go to one of the
old-fashioned places,--Bendigo, or the like of that. I've worked for
wages, but what comes of it? A man goes to Ahalala because he wants to
run his chance, and get a big haul. It's every one on his own bottom
pretty much at Ahalala.'

'Wages be ----!' said Jack Brien, rising from the seat and hitching up
his trousers as he left the room. It was very evident that Jack Brien
was a gambler.

After dinner there was a smoke, and after the smoke Dick Shand 'shouted'
for the company. Dick had quite learned by this time the mystery of
shouting. When one man 'stands' drinks all round, he shouts; and then
it is no more than reciprocal that another man should do the same. And,
in this way, when the reciprocal feeling is spread over a good many
drinkers, a good deal of liquor is consumed.

While Dick Shand's 'shout' was being consumed, Caldigate asked one of
his new friends where Mr. Crinkett lived. Was Mr. Crinkett known in
Nobble? It seemed that Crinkett was very well known in Nobble indeed. If
anybody had done well at Nobble, Mr. Crinkett had done well. He was the
'swell' of the place. This informant did not think that Mr. Crinkett had
himself gone very deep at Ahalala. Mr. Crinkett had risen high enough in
his profession to be able to achieve more certainty than could be found
at such a place as Ahalala. By this time they were on the road to Mr.
Crinkett's house, this new friend having undertaken to show them the
way.

'He can put you up to a thing or two, if he likes,' said the new friend.
'Perhaps he's a pal of yourn?'

Caldigate explained that he had never seen Mr. Crinkett, but that he had
come to Nobble armed with a letter from a gentleman in England who had
once been concerned in gold-digging.

'He's a civil enough gent, is Crinkett,' said the miner;--'but he do
like making money. They say of him there's nothing he wouldn't
sell,--not even his grandmother's bones. I like trade, myself,' added
the miner; 'but some of 'em's too sharp. That's where Crinkett lives.
He's a swell; ain't he?'

They had walked about half a mile from the town, turning down a lane at
the back of the house, and had made their way through yawning pit-holes
and heaps of dirt and pools of yellow water,--where everything was
disorderly and apparently deserted,--till they came to a cluster of
heaps so large as to look like little hills; and here there were signs
of mining vitality. On their way they had not come across a single shred
of vegetation, though here and there stood the bare trunks of a few
dead and headless trees, the ghosts of the forest which had occupied the
place six or seven years previously. On the tops of these artificial
hills there were sundry rickety-looking erections, and around them were
troughs and sheds and rude water-works. These, as the miner explained
were the outward and visible signs of the world-famous 'Old
Stick-in-the-Mud' claim, which was now giving two ounces of gold to the
ton of quartz, and which was at present the exclusive property of Mr.
Crinkett, who had bought out the tribute shareholders and was working
the thing altogether on his own bottom. As they ascended one of those
mounds of upcast stones and rubble, they could see on the other side the
crushing-mills, and the engine-house, and could hear the thud, thud,
thud of the great iron hammers as they fell on the quartz,--and then,
close beyond, but still among the hillocks, and surrounded on all sides
by the dirt and filth of the mining operations, was Mr. Crinkett's
mansion. 'And there's his very self a-standing at the gate a-counting
how many times the hammer falls a minute, and how much gold is a-coming
from every blow as it falls.' With this little observation as to Mr.
Crinkett's personal character, the miner made his way back to his
companions.




Chapter X

Polyeuka Hall



The house which they saw certainly surprised them much, and seemed to
justify the assertion just before made to them that Mr. Crinkett was a
swell. It was marvellous that any man should have contemplated the
building of such a mansion in a place so little attractive, with so many
houses within view. The house and little attempted garden, together with
the stables and appurtenances, may have occupied half an acre. All
around it were those hideous signs of mining operations which make a
country rich in metals look as though the devil had walked over it,
dragging behind him an enormous rake. There was not a blade of grass to
be seen. As far as the eye could reach there stood those ghost-like
skeletons of trees in all spots where the soil had not been turned up;
but on none of them was there a leaf left, or even a branch. Everywhere
the ground was thrown about in hideous uncovered hillocks, all of which
seemed to have been deserted except those in the immediate neighbourhood
of Mr. Crinkett's house. But close around him one could see wheels
turning and long ropes moving, and water running in little wooden
conduits, all of which were signs of the activity going on under ground.
And then there was the never-ceasing thud, thud, thud of the
crushing-mill, which from twelve o'clock on Sunday night to twelve
o'clock on Saturday night, never paused for a moment, having the effect,
on that vacant day, of creating a painful strain of silence upon the
ears of those who were compelled to remain on the spot during the
unoccupied time. It was said that in Mr. Crinkett's mansion every
sleeper would wake from his sleep as soon as the engine was stopped,
disturbed by the unwonted quiescence.

But the house which had been built in this unpromising spot was quite
entitled to be called a mansion. It was of red brick, three storeys
high, with white stone facings to all the windows and all the corners,
which glittered uncomfortably in the hot sun. There was a sweep up to
it, the road having been made from the débris of the stone out of which
the gold had been crushed; but though there was the sweep up to the door
carefully made for the length of a few dozen yards, there was nothing
that could be called a road outside, though there were tracks here and
there through the hillocks, along which the waggons employed about the
place struggled through the mud. The house itself was built with a large
hall in the middle, and three large windows on each side. On the floor
there were four large rooms, with kitchens opening out behind, and above
there were, of course, chambers in proportion and in the little garden
there was a pond and a big bath-house, and there were coach-houses and
stables;--so that it was quite a mansion. It was called Polyeuka Hall,
because while it was being built Mr. Crinkett was drawing large gains
from the Polyeuka mine, about three miles distant on the other side of
Nobble. For the building of his mansion on this special site, no one
could imagine any other reason than that love which a brave man has of
overcoming difficulties. To endeavour to create a paradise in such a
Pandemonium required all the energies of a Crinkett. Whether or not he
had been successful depended of course on his own idiosyncrasies. He
had a wife who, it is to be hoped, liked her residence. They had no
children, and he spent the greater part of his time away in other mining
districts in which he had ventures. When thus absent, he would live as
Jack Brien and his friends were living at Mrs. Henniker's, and was
supposed to enjoy the ease of his inn more thoroughly than he did the
constraint of his grand establishment.

At the present moment he was at home, and was standing at the gate of
his domain all alone, with a pipe in his mouth,--perhaps listening, as
the man had said, to the noise of his own crushing-machine. He was
dressed in black, with a chimney-pot on his head,--and certainly did not
look like a miner, though he looked as little like a gentleman. Our
friends were in what they conceived to be proper miners' costume, but
Mr. Crinkett knew at a glance that there was something uncommon about
them. As they approached he did not attempt to open the gate, but
awaited them, looking over the top of it from the inside. 'Well, my
mates, what can I do for you?' he said, still remaining on his side, and
apparently intending that they should remain on theirs. Then Caldigate
brought forth his letter, and handed it to the owner of the place across
the top of the gate. 'I think Mr. Jones wrote to you about us before,'
said Caldigate.

Crinkett read the letter very deliberately. Perhaps he required time to
meditate what his conduct should be. Perhaps he was not quick at reading
written letters. But at last he got to the end of the very few words
which the note contained. 'Jones!' he said, 'Jones wasn't much account
when he was out here.'

'We don't know a great deal about him,' said Dick.

'But when he heard that we were coming, he offered us a letter to you,'
said Caldigate. 'I believe him to be an honest man.'

'Honest! Well, yes; I daresay he's honest enough. He never robbed me of
nothing. And shall I tell you why? Because I know how to take care that
he don't, nor yet nobody else.' As he said this, he looked at them as
though he intended that they were included among the numbers against
whom he was perfectly on his guard.

'That's the way to live,' said Dick.

'That's the way I live, my friend. He did write before. I remember
saying to myself what a pair of simpletons you must be if you was
thinking of going to Ahalala.'

'We do think of going there,' said Caldigate.

'The road's open to you. Nobody won't prevent you. You can get beef and
mutton there, and damper, and tea no doubt, and what they call brandy,
as long as you've got the money to pay for it. One won't say anything
about what price they'll charge you. Have you got any money?' Then
Caldigate made a lengthened speech, in which he explained so much of
their circumstances as seemed necessary. He did not name the exact sum
which had been left at the bank in Melbourne, but he did make Mr.
Crinkett understand that they were not paupers. They were anxious to do
something in the way of mining, and particularly anxious to make money.
But they did not quite know how to begin. Could he give them a hint?
They meant to work with their own hands, but perhaps it might be well
for them at first to hire the services of some one to set them a-going.

Crinkett listened very patiently, still maintaining his position on his
own side of the gate. Then he spoke words of such wisdom as was in him.
'Ahalala is just the place to ease you of a little money. Mind I tell
you. Gold! of course there's been gold to be got there. But what's been
the cost of it? What's been the return? If sixteen hundred men, among
'em, can sell fifteen hundred pounds' worth of gold a week, how is each
man to have twenty shillings on Saturday night? That's about what it is
at Ahalala. Of course there's gold. And where there's gold chucked about
in that way, just on the surface, one gets it and ten don't. Who is to
say you mayn't be the one. As to hiring a man to show you the way,--you
can hire a dozen. As long as you'll pay 'em ten shillings a-day to loaf
about, you may have men enough. But whether they'll show you the way to
anything except the liquor store, that's another thing. Now shall I tell
you what you two gents had better do?' Dick declared that the two gents
would be very much obliged to him if he would take that trouble. 'Of
course you've heard of the "Old Stick-in-the-Mud"?' Dick told him that
they had heard of that very successful mining enterprise since their
arrival at Nobble. 'You ask on the veranda at Melbourne, or at Ballarat,
or at Sydney. If they don't tell you about it, my name's not Crinkett.
You put your money, what you've got, into ten-shilling shares. I'll
accommodate you, as you're friends of Jones, with any reasonable number.
We're getting two ounces to the ton. The books'll show you that.'

'We thought you'd purchased out all the shareholders said Caldigate.

'So I did, and now I'm redividing it. I'd rather have a company. It's
pleasanter. If you can put in a couple of thousand pounds or so between
you, you can travel about and see the country, and your money'll be
working for you all the time. Did you ever see a gold mine?'

They owned that they never yet had been a yard below ground. Then he
opened his gate preparatory to taking them down the 'Old
Stick-in-the-Mud,' and brought them with him into one of the front
rooms. It was a large parlour, only half furnished, not yet papered,
without a carpet, in which it appeared that Mr. Crinkett kept his own
belongings. Here he divested himself of his black clothes and put on a
suit of miner's garments,--real miner's garments, very dirty, with a
slouch hat, on the top of which there was a lump of mud in which to
stick a candle-end. Any one learned in the matter would immediately have
known the real miner. 'Now if you like to see a mine we will go down,
and then you can do as you like about your money.'

They started forth, Crinkett leading the way, and entered the
engine-house. As they went he said not a word, being aware that gold,
gold that they could see with their eyes in its raw condition, would
tempt them more surely than all his eloquence. In the engine-house the
three of them got into a box or truck that was suspended over the mouth
of a deep shaft, and soon found themselves descending through the bowels
of the earth. They went down about four hundred feet, and as they were
reaching the bottom Crinkett remarked that it was 'a goodish deep hole
all to belong to one man.' 'Yes,' he added as Caldigate extricated
himself from the truck, 'and there's a precious lot more gold to come
out of it yet, I can tell you.'

In all the sights to be seen about the world there is no sight in which
there is less to be seen than in a gold-mine. The two young men were
made to follow their conductor along a very dirty underground gallery
for about a quarter of a mile, and then they came to four men working
with picks in a rough sort of chamber, and four others driving holes in
the walls. They were simply picking down the rock, in doing which they
were assisted by gunpowder. With keen eyes Crinkett searched along the
roof and sides, and at last showed to his companions one or two little
specks which he pronounced to be gold. 'When it shows itself like that
all about, you may guess whether it's a paying concern! Two ounces to
the ton, my boys!' As Dick and Caldigate hitherto knew nothing about
ounces and tons in reference to gold, and as they had heard of nuggets,
and lumps of gold nearly as big as their fist, they were not much
exalted by what they saw down the 'Old Stick-in-the-Mud.' Nor did they
like the darkness and dampness and dirt and dreariness of the place.
They had both resolved to work, as they had often said, with their own
hands;--but in thinking over it their imagination had not pictured to
them so uncomfortable a workshop as this. When they had returned to the
light, the owner of the place took them through the crushing-mill
attached, showed them the stone or mulloch, as it was thrust into the
jaws of the devouring animal, and then brought them in triumph round to
the place where the gold was eliminated from the débris of mud and
water. The gold did not seem to them to be very much; but still there it
was. 'Two ounces to the ton, my boys!' said Crinkett, as he brought them
back to his house. 'You'll find that a 10s. share'll give you about 6d.
a month. That's about 60 per cent, I guess. You can have your money
monthly. What comes out of that there mine in a March, you can have in
a April, and so on. There ain't nothing like it anywhere else,--not as I
knows on. And instead of working your hearts out, you can be just
amusing yourselves about the country. Don't go to Ahalala;--unless it is
for dropping your money. If that's what you want, I won't say but
Ahalala is as good a place as you'll find in the colony.' Then he
brought a bottle of whisky out of a cupboard, and treated them to a
glass of grog apiece. Beyond that his hospitality did not go.

Dick looked as though he liked the idea of having a venture in the 'Old
Stick-in-the-Mud.' Caldigate, without actually disbelieving all that had
been said to him, did not relish the proposal. It was not the kind of
thing which they had intended. After they had learned their trade as
miners it might be very well for them to have shares in some established
concern;--but in that case he would wish to be one of the managers
himself, and not to trust everything to any Crinkett, however honest.
That suggestion of travelling about and amusing themselves, did not
commend itself to him. New South Wales might, he thought, be a good
country for work, but did not seem to offer much amusement beyond sheer
idleness, and brandy-and-water.

'I rather think we should like to do a little in the rough first,' he
said.

'A very little'll go a long way with you, I'm thinking.'

'I don't see that at all,' said Dick, stoutly.

'You go down there and take one of them picks in your hand for a
week,--eight hours at a time, with five minutes' spell allowed for a
smoke, and see how you'll feel at the end of the week.'

'We'll try it on, if you'll give us 10s. a-day for the week,' said
Caldigate, rubbing his hands together.

'I wouldn't give you half-a-crown for the whole time between you, and
you wouldn't earn it. Ten shillings a day! I suppose you think a man has
only just to say the word and become a miner out of hand. You've a deal
to learn before you'll be worth half the money. I never knew chaps like
you come to any good at working. If you've got a little money, you know,
I've shown you what you can do with it. But perhaps you haven't.'

The conversation was ended by a declaration on the part of Caldigate
that they would take a week to think over Mr. Crinkett's kind
proposition, and that they might as well occupy the time by taking a
look at Ahalala. A place that had been so much praised and so much
abused must be worth seeing. 'Who's been a-praising it,' asked Crinkett,
angrily, 'unless it's that fool Jones? And as for waiting, I don't say
that you'll have the shares at that price next week.' In this way he
waxed angry; but, nevertheless, he condescended to recommend a man to
them, when Caldigate declared that they would like to hire some
practical miner to accompany them. 'There's Mick Maggott,' said he,
'knows mining a'most as well as anybody. You'll hear of him, may be, up
at Henniker's. He's honest; and if you can keep him off the drink he'll
do as well as anybody. But neither Mick nor nobody else can do you no
good at Ahalala.' With that he led them out of the gate, and nodding his
head at them by way of farewell, left them to go back to Mrs.
Henniker's.

To Mrs. Henniker's they went, and there, stretched out at length on the
wooden veranda before the house, they found the hero of the
potatoes,--the man who had taken them down to Crinkett's house. He
seemed to be fast asleep, but as they came up on the boards, he turned
himself on his elbow, and looked at them. 'Well, mates,' he said, 'what
do you think of Tom Crinkett now you've seen him?'

'He doesn't seem to approve of Ahalala,' said Dick.

'In course he don't. When a new rush is opened like that, and takes
away half the hands a man has about him, and raises the wages of them
who remain, in course he don't like it. You see the difference. The Old
Stick-in-the-Mud is an established kind of thing.'

'It's a paying concern, I suppose,' said Caldigate.

'It has paid;--not a doubt about it. Whether it's played out or not, I'm
not so sure. But Ahalala is a working-man's diggings, not a master's,
such as Crinkett is now. Of course Crinkett has a down on Ahalala.'

'Your friend Jack Brien didn't seem to think much of the place,' said
Dick.

'Poor Jack is one of them who never has a stroke of luck. He's a sort of
chum who, when he has a bottle of pickles, somebody else is sure to eat
'em. Ahalala isn't so bad. It's one of them chancy places, of course.
You may and you mayn't, as I was a-saying before. When the great rush
was on, I did uncommon well at Ahalala. I never was the man I was then.'

'What became of it?' asked Caldigate with a smile.

'Mother Henniker can tell you that, or any other publican round the
country. It never will stick to me. I don't know why, but it never will.
I've had my luck, too. Oh, laws! I might have had my house, just as
grand as Polly Hooker this moment, only I never could stick to it like
Tom Crinkett. I've drank cham--paign out of buckets;--I have.'

'I'd rather have a pot of beer out of the pewter,' said Caldigate.

'Very like. One doesn't drink cham--paign because it's better nor
anything else. A nobbler of brandy's worth ten of it. It's the glory of
out-facing the swells at their own game. There was a chap over in the
other colony shod his horse with gold,--and he had to go shepherding
afterwards for thirty pounds a-year and his grub. But it's something for
him to have ridden a horse with gold shoes. You've never seen a
bucketful of cham--paign in the old country?'

When both Dick and Caldigate had owned that they had never encountered
luxury so superabundant, and had discussed the matter in various
shapes,--asking whether the bucket had been emptied, and other questions
of the same nature,--Caldigate inquired of his friend whether he knew
Mick Maggott?

'Mick Maggott!' said the man, jumping up to his feet. 'Who wants Mick
Maggott?' Then Caldigate explained the recommendation which Mr. Crinkett
had made. 'Well;--I'm darned;--Mick Maggott? I'm Mick Maggott, myself.'

Before the evening was over an arrangement had been made between the
parties, and had even been written on paper and signed by all the three.
Mick on the morrow was to proceed to Ahalala with his new comrades, and
was to remain with them for a month, assisting them in all their views;
and for this he was to receive ten shillings a-day. But, in the event of
his getting drunk, he was to be liable to dismissal at once. Mick
pleaded hard for one bout of drinking during the month;--but when Dick
explained that one bout might last for the entire time, he acknowledged
that the objection was reasonable and assented to the terms proposed.




Chapter XI

Ahalala



It was all settled that night, and some necessary purchases made.
Ahalala was twenty-three miles from Nobble, and a coach had been
established through the bush for the benefit of miners going to the
diggings;--but Mick was of opinion that miners ought to walk, with their
swag on their backs, when the distance was not more than forty miles.
'You look so foolish getting out of one of them rattletrap coaches,' he
said, 'and everybody axing whether you're going to pick for yourself or
buy a share in a claim. I'm all for walking,--if it ain't beneath you.'
They declared themselves quite ready to walk, and under Mick's guidance
they went out and bought two large red blankets and two pannikins. Mick
declared that if they went without swags on their backs and pannikins
attached to their swags, they would be regarded with evil eyes by all
who saw them. There were some words about the portmanteaus. Mick
proposed that they should be left for the entire month in the charge of
Mrs. Henniker, and, when this was pronounced impossible, he was for a
while disposed to be off the bargain. Caldigate declared that, with all
his ambition to be a miner, he must have a change of shirts. Then Mick
pointed to the swag. Couldn't he put another shirt into the swag? It was
at last settled that one portmanteau should be sent by the coach, and
one left in the charge of Mrs. Henniker. 'Them sort of traps ain't never
any good, in my mind,' said Mick. 'It's unmanly, having all them togs. I
like a wash as well as any man,--trousers, jersey, drawers, and all. I'm
always at 'em when I get a place for a rinse by the side of a creek. But
when my things are so gone that they won't hang on comfortable any
longer, I chucks 'em away and buys more. Two jerseys is good, and two
drawers is good, because of wet. Boots is awkward, and I allays does
with one pair. Some have two, and ties 'em on with the pannikin. But it
ain't ship-shape. Them's my ideas, and I've been at it these nine years.
You'll come to the same.'

The three started the next morning at six, duly invested with their
swags. Before they went they found Mrs. Henniker up, with hot tea,
boiled beef, and damper. 'Just one drop at starting,--for the good of
the house,' said Mick, apologetically. Whereupon the whisky was
brought, and Mick insisted on shouting for it out of his own pocket.

They had hardly gone a mile out of Nobble before Maggott started a
little difficulty,--merely for the purpose of solving it with a master's
hand. 'There ain't to be no misters among us, you know.'

'Certainly not,' said Caldigate.

'My name's Mick. This chap's name's Dick. I didn't exactly catch your'n.
I suppose you've been kursened.'

'Yes;--they christened me John.'

'Ain't it never been Jack with you?'

'I don't think it ever was.'

'John! It do sound lackadaisical. What I call womanish. But perhaps it's
for the better. We have such a lot of Jacks. There's dirty Jack, and
Jack the nigger, and Jack Misery,--that's poor Jack Brien;--and a lot
more. Perhaps you wouldn't like not another name of that sort.'

'Well; no,--unless it's necessary.'

'There ain't another John about the place, as I know. I never knew a
John down a mine,--never. We'll try it, anyhow.'

And so that was settled. As it happened, though Dick Shand had always
been Dick to his friend, Caldigate had never, as yet, been either John
or Jack to Dick Shand. There are men who fall into the way of being
called by their Christian names, and others who never hear them except
from their own family. But before the day was out, Caldigate had become
John to both his companions. 'It don't sound as it ought to do;--not
yet,' said Mick, after he had tried it about a dozen times in five
minutes.

Before the day was over it was clear that Mick Maggott had assumed the
mastery. When three men start on an enterprise together, one man must be
'boss.' Let the republic be as few as it may one man must be president.
And as Mick knew what he was about, he assumed the situation easily. The
fact that he was to receive wages from the others had no bearing on the
subject at all. Before they got to Ahalala, Caldigate had begun to
appreciate all this, and to understand in part what they would have to
do during this month, and how they would have to live. It was proposed
that they should at once fix on a spot,--'peg out a claim,' on some
unoccupied piece of ground, buy for themselves a small tent,--of which
they were assured that they would find many for sale,--and then begin to
sink a hole. When they entered Ahalala, Caldigate was surprised to find
that Mick was the most tired of the three. It is always so. The man who
has laboured from his youth upwards can endure with his arms. It is he
who has had leisure to shoot, to play cricket, to climb up mountains and
to handle a racket, that can walk. 'Darned if you ain't better stuff
than I took you for,' said Mick, as the three let the swags down from
their backs on the veranda of Ridley's hotel at Ahalala.

Ahalala was a very different place from Nobble,--made Nobble seem to be
almost a compact and prosperous city. At Nobble there was at any rate a
street. But at Ahalala everything was straggling. The houses, such as
they were, stood here and there about the place, while a great part of
the population lived under canvas. And then Ahalala was decidedly in the
forest. The trees around had not yet been altogether killed, nor had
they been cut down in sufficient numbers to divest the place of its
forest appearance. Ahalala was leafy, and therefore, though much less
regular, also less hideous than Nobble. When Dick first made tender
inquiry as to the comforts of an hotel, he was assured that there were
at least a couple of dozen. But the place was bewildering. There seemed
to be no beginning to it and no end. There were many tracks about here
and there,--but nothing which could be called a road. The number of
holes was infinite,--each hole covered by a rough windlass used for
taking out the dirt, which was thrown loosely anywhere round the
aperture. Here and there were to be seen little red flags stuck upon the
end of poles. These indicated, as Mick informed them, those fortunate
adventures in which gold had been found. At those very much more
numerous hillocks which showed no red flag, the labourers were hitherto
labouring in vain. There was a little tent generally near to each
hillock in which the miners slept, packed nearly as close as sheep in a
fold. As our party made its way through the midst of this new world to
Ridley's hotel, our friend observed many a miner sitting at his evening
meal. Each generally had a frying-pan between his legs, out of which he
was helping himself to meat which he had cooked on the ashes just behind
him. Sometimes two or three were sharing their provisions out of the
same frying-pan; but as a rule each miner had his own, and each had it
between his legs.

Before they had been at Ahalala twenty-four hours they also had their
tent and their frying-pan and their fire, and had pegged out their
claim, and were ready to commence operations on the morrow. It was soon
manifest to Caldigate and Dick Shand that they would have been very much
astray without a 'boss' to direct them. Three or four hours had been
passed in forming a judgment as to the spot on which they should
commence to dig. And in making his choice Mick had been guided by many
matters as to which our two adventurers were altogether ignorant. It
might be that Mick was equally so; but he at any rate assumed some
knowledge. He looked to the fall of the ground, the line in which the
red flags were to be traced,--if any such line could be found,--and was
possessed of a considerable amount of jargon as to topographical mining
secrets. At last they found a spot, near a creek, surrounded by
forest-trees, perhaps three hundred yards from the nearest adjacent
claim, and, as Mick declared, in a direct line with three red flags.
Here they determined to commence their operations. 'I don't suppose we
shall do any good,' said Caldigate to Dick, 'but we must make a
beginning, if only for the sake of hardening our hands. We shall be
learning something at the time even though we only shovel up so much
mud.'

For a fortnight they shovelled up the soil continuously without any
golden effects, and, so far, without any feeling of disappointment. Mick
had told them that if they found a speck at the end of three weeks they
would be very fortunate. They had their windlass, and they worked in
relays; one man at the bottom, one man at the wheel, and one man idle.
In this way they kept up their work during eighteen hours of the day.
Each man in this way worked twelve hours, and had twelve for sleeping,
and cooking, and eating. Other occupation they had none. During the
fortnight neither of them went any further distance from their claim
than to the neighbouring shop. Mick often expressed his admiration at
their continued industry, not understanding the spirit which will induce
such young men as them to work, even when the work is agonising. And
they were equally charmed with Mick's sobriety and loyalty. Not a word
had been said as to hours of work,--and yet he was as constant to their
long hours as though the venture was his own,--as though there was no
question of wages.

'We ain't had a drop o' drink yet,' said Mick one night. 'Ain't we a
holding off like Britons?' There was great triumph in his voice as he
said this;--very great triumph, but, also, as Caldigate thought, a sound
of longing also. They were now in their third week, and the word whisky
had never been pronounced between them. At this moment, when Mick's
triumphant ejaculation was uttered, they were all lying--in bed. It
shall be called bed by way of compliment. They had bought a truss of
straw, which Mick had declared to be altogether unnecessary and
womanish, and over that was laid a white india-rubber sheet which
Caldigate had brought with him from England. This, too, had roused the
miner's wrath. Nevertheless he condescended to lie upon it. This was
their bed; and here they lay, each wrapped up in his blanket, Mick in
the middle, with our two friends at the sides. Now it was not only on
Mick's account, but quite as much in reference to Dick Shand, that
Caldigate deprecated any reference to drink. The abstention hitherto had
been marvellous. He himself would have gone daily to the store for a
bottle of beer, but that he recognised the expediency of keeping them
away from the place. He had heard that it was a peculiarity of the
country that all labour was done without drink, even when it was done by
determined drunkards. The drunkard would work for a month, and then
drink for a month,--and then, after a time, would die. The drink almost
always consisted of spirits of the worst description. It seemed to be
recognised by the men that work and drink must be kept separate. But
Mick's mind travelled away on this occasion from the little tent to the
delights of Ridley's bar. 'We haven't had a drop of drink yet,' he said.

'We'll push through the month without it;--eh, old boy?' said Caldigate.

'What wouldn't I give for a pint of bitter beer?' said Shand.

'Or a bottle of Battleaxe between the three of us!' said
Mick;--Battleaxe being the name for a certain brand of brandy.

'Not a drop till the month is over,' said Caldigate turning himself
round in his blanket. Then there were whisperings between the other two
men, of which he could only hear the hum.

On the next morning at six Caldigate and Dick Shand were at the hole
together. It was Caldigate's turn to work till noon, whereas Dick went
off at nine, and Mick would come on from nine till three. At nine Mick
did not make his appearance, and Dick declared his purpose of looking
after him. Caldigate also threw down his tools, as he could not work
alone, and went in search. The upshot of it was, that he did not see
either of his companions again till he found them both very drunk at a
drinking-shop about two miles away from their claim, just before dusk!

This was terrible. He did at last succeed in bringing back his own
friend to the tent, having, however, a sad task in doing so. But Mick
Maggott would not be moved. He had his wits about him enough to swear
that he cared for nothing. He was going to have a spree. Nobody had ever
known him to be talked out of it when he had once set his mind upon it.
He had set his mind upon it now, and he meant to have his whack. This
was what he said of himself: 'It ain't no good, John. It ain't no good
at all, John. Don't you trouble yourself, John. I'm going to have it
out, John, so I tell you.' This he said, nodding his head about in a
maudlin sort of way, and refusing to allow himself to be moved.

On the next day Dick Shand was sick, repentant, and idle. On the third,
he returned to his work,--working however, with difficulty. After that,
he fairly recovered himself, and the two Cambridge men went on
resolutely at their hole. They soon found how hard it was not to go
astray without their instructed mate. The sides of the shaft became
crooked and uneven, and the windlass sometimes could not be made to
work. But still they persevered, and went on by themselves for an entire
week without a sign of gold. During this time various fruitless
expeditions were made by both the men in search of Maggott. He was still
at the same drinking-shop, but could not be induced to leave it. At last
they found him with the incipient horrors of delirium tremens, and yet
they could not get him away. The man who kept the place was quite used
to delirium tremens, and thought nothing about it. When Caldigate tried
a high moral tone everybody around him laughed at him.

They had been digging for a month, and still without a speck of gold,
when, one morning early, Mick appeared in front of the tent. It was then
about eight, and our friends had stopped their work to eat their
breakfast. The poor man, without saying a word, came and crouched down
before them;--not in shame,--not at all that; but apparently in an agony
of sickness,--'I've had my bout,' he said.

'I don't suppose you're much the better for it,' replied Caldigate.

'No; I ain't none the better. I thought it was all up with me yesterday.
Oh, laws! I've had it heavy this time.'

'Why are you such a fool?'

'Well;--you see, John, some of us is born fools. I'm one of 'em. You
needn't tell me, 'cause I know all about it without any sermoning.
Nobody don't know it so well as I do! How should they? If you had my
inside now,--and my head! Oh, laws!'

'Give it up, man.'

'That's easy said;--as if I wouldn't if I could. I haven't got a blessed
coin left to buy a bite of bread with,--and I couldn't touch a morsel if
I had ever so much. I'll take my blanket and be off as soon as I can
move.' All this time he had been crouching, but now he threw himself at
length upon the ground.

Of course they did what they could for the poor wretch. They got him
into the tent, and they made him swallow some tea. Then he slept; and in
the course of the afternoon he had so far recovered as to be able to eat
a bit of meat. Then, when his companions were at their work, he
carefully packed up his swag, and fastening it on to his back, appeared
by the side of the hole. 'I'm come to bid you good-bye he said.

'Where are you going, Mick?' asked Caldigate, climbing up out of the
hole by the rope.

'I'm blessed if I know, but I'm off. You are getting that hole
tarnation crooked.'

The man was going without any allusion to the wages he had earned, or to
the work that he had done. But then, in truth, he had not earned his
wages, as he had broken his contract. He made no complaint, however, and
no apology, but was prepared to start.

'That's all nonsense,' said Dick, catching hold of him.

'You put your swag down,' said Caldigate, also catching hold of the
other shoulder.

'What am I to put my swag down for? I'm a-going back to Nobble.
Crinkett'll give me work.'

'You're not going to leave us in that way,' said Dick.

'Stop and make the shaft straight,' said Caldigate. The man looked
irresolute. 'Friends are not to part like that.'

'Friends!' said the poor fellow. 'Who'll be friends to such a beast as I
be? But I'll stay out the month if you'll find me my grub.'

'You shall have your grub and your money, too. Do you think we've
forgotten the potatoes?'

'---- the potatoes,' said the man, bursting into tears. Then he chucked
away his swag, and threw himself under the tent upon the straw. The next
day he was making things as straight as he could down the shaft.

When they had been at work about five weeks there was a pole stuck into
their heap of dirt, and on the top of the pole there was a little red
flag flying. At about thirty feet from the surface, when they had
already been obliged to insert transverse logs in the shaft to prevent
the sides from falling in, they had come upon a kind of soil altogether
different from the ordinary clay through which they had been working.
There was a stratum of loose shingle or gravelly earth, running
apparently in a sloping direction, taking the decline of the very
slight hill on which their claim was situated. Mick, as soon as this was
brought to light, became an altered man. The first bucket of this stuff
that was pulled up was deposited by him separately, and he at once sat
down to wash it. This he did in an open tin pan. Handful after handful
he washed, shifting and teasing it about in the pan, and then he cast it
out, always leaving some very small residuum. He was intent upon his
business to a degree that Caldigate would have thought to be beyond the
man's nature. With extreme patience he went on washing handful after
handful all the day, while the other two pulled up fresh buckets of the
same stuff. He would not pause to eat, or hardly to talk. At last there
came a loud exclamation. 'By------, we've got it!' Then Dick and
Caldigate, stooping down, were shown four or five little specks in the
angle of the pan's bottom. Before the sun had set they had stuck up
their little red flag, and a crowd of neighbours was standing round them
asking questions as to their success.




Chapter XII

Mademoiselle Cettini



After three days of successful washing, when it became apparent that a
shed must be built, and that, if possible, some further labour must be
hired, Mick said that he must go. 'I ain't earned nothing,' he said,
'because of that bout, and I ain't going to ask for nothing, but I can't
stand this any longer. I hope you'll make your fortins.' Then came the
explanation. It was not possible, he said, that a regular miner, such as
he was, should be a party to such a grand success without owning a share
in it. He was quite aware that nothing belonged to him. He was working
for wages and he had forfeited them. But he couldn't see the gold
coming out under his hands in pailfuls and feel that none of it belonged
to him. Then it was agreed that there should be no more talk of wages,
and that each should have a third share in the concern. Very much was
said on the matter of drink, in all of which Caldigate was clever enough
to impose on his friend Dick the heavy responsibility of a mentor. A man
who has once been induced to preach to another against a fault will feel
himself somewhat constrained by his own sermons. Mick would make no
promises; but declared his intention of trying very hard. 'If anybody'd
knock me down as soon as I goes a yard off the claim, that'd be best.'
And so they renewed their work, and at the end of six weeks from the
commencement of their operations sold nine ounces of gold to the manager
of the little branch bank which had already established itself at
Ahalala. These were hardly 'pailfuls'; but gold is an article which adds
fervour to the imagination and almost creates a power for romance.

Other matters, however, were not running smoothly with John Caldigate at
this eventful time. To have found gold so soon after their arrival was
no doubt a great triumph, and justified him in writing a long letter to
his father, in which he explained what he had done, and declared that he
looked forward to success with confidence. But still he was far from
being at ease. He could not suffer himself to remain hidden at Ahalala
without saying something of his whereabouts to Mrs. Smith. After what
had happened between them he would be odious to himself if he omitted to
keep the promise which he had made to her. And yet he would so fain have
forgotten her,--or rather have wiped away from the reality of his past
life that one episode, had it been possible. A month's separation had
taught him to see how very silly he had been in regard to this
woman,--and had also detracted much from those charms which had
delighted him on board ship. She was pretty, she was clever, she had
the knack of being a pleasant companion. But how much more than all
these was wanted in a wife? And then he knew nothing about her. She
might be, or have been, all that was disreputable. If he could not shake
himself free from her, she would be a millstone round his neck. He was
aware of all that, and as he thought of it he would think also of the
face of Hester Bolton, and remember her form as she sat silent in the
big house at Chesterton. But nevertheless it was necessary that he
should write to Mrs. Smith. He had promised that he would do so, and he
must keep his word.

The name of the woman had not been mentioned between him and Dick Shand
since they left the ship. Dick had been curious, but had been afraid to
inquire, and had in his heart applauded the courage of the man who had
thus been able to shake off at once a woman with whom he had amused
himself. Caldigate himself was continually meditating as he worked with
the windlass in his hand, or with his pick at the bottom of the hole,
whether in conformity with the usages of the world he could not
simply--drop her. Then he remembered the words which had passed between
them on the subject, and he could not do it. He was as yet too young to
be at the same time so wise and so hard. 'I shall hold you as engaged to
me,' he had said, 'and myself as engaged to you.' And he remembered the
tones of her voice as, with her last words, she had said to him, 'My
love, my love!' They had been very pleasant to him then, but now they
were most unfortunate. They were unfortunate because there had been a
power in them from which he was now unable to extricate himself.

Therefore, during one of those leisure periods in which Mick and Dick
were at work, he wrote his letter, with the paper on his knees,
squatting down just within his tent on a deal case which had contained
boxes of sardines, bottles of pickles, and cans of jam. For now, in
their prosperity, they had advanced somewhat beyond the simple plenty of
the frying-pan. It was a difficult letter to write. Should it be
ecstatic and loving, or cold and severe,--or light, and therefore false?
'My own one, here I am. I have struck gold. Come to me and share it.'
That would have been ecstatic and loving.' 'Tis a hard life this, and
not fit for a woman's weakness. But it must be my life--and therefore
let there be an end of all between us.' That would have been cold and
severe. 'How are you, and what are you doing? Dick and I are shoving
along. It isn't half as nice as on board ship. Hope to see you before
long, and am yours,--just the same as ever.' That would have been light
and false,--keeping the word of promise to the ear but breaking it to
the heart. He could not write either of these. He began by describing
what they had done, and had completed two pages before he had said a
word of their peculiar cir

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/11643