Volume Three—Chapter Twenty.
My Sister still Obstinate.
I had been some little time in my sister’s company, before telling her of my intentions regarding her. I had allowed her to indulge in such conjectures about my designs, as the circumstances might suggest.
“I am very glad, Rowland,” said she, “that you have made up your mind to stay in the colonies. I hope you will live in Sydney. Oh! we would be so happy! You have come to stay here, have you not? Say yes, brother; and make me happy! Say you will not leave me any more?”
“I do not wish to leave you, dear sister,” said I; “and I hope that you have now learnt a lesson, that will make you willing to accept the offer I am going to make you. I have come, Martha, to take you with me to Melbourne.”
“What reason can you have, for wishing me to go to Melbourne? It cannot be a better place than Sydney?”
“Are you still unwilling to leave Sydney?” I asked, with a painful presentiment, that I was once more to be baulked in my design of making my poor sister happy.
“Brother,” she replied, “I am not willing to go to Melbourne. I don’t wish to leave Sydney—at least, not yet.”
“Would you not like to see your brother William?” I asked.
“What! William! dear little Willie! Have you heard of him, Rowland? Do you know where he is?”
“Yes. He is in Melbourne; and very anxious to see you. I have come to take you to him. Will you go?”
“I must see William—my long-lost brother William! I must see him. How came you to find him, Rowland? Tell me all about it. Why did he not come here along with you?”
“We met by mere chance—on the diggings of Victoria; and, hearing me called Rowland, he asked my other name. We then recognised one another. Little Willie—as you call him—is now a tall, fine-looking young man. Next week he is going to be married to a beautiful girl. I have come to take you to the wedding. Will you go, Martha?”
“I don’t know. I must see brother William. What shall I do? What shall I do? I cannot leave Sydney.”
“Martha,” said I, “I am your brother; and am willing to assist you in any manner possible. I am older than you; and we have no parents. I have the right to some authority over you; and now demand the reason, why you are not willing to go with me to Melbourne?”
My sister remained silent.
“Give me a straightforward answer,” I cried in a tone that partook of command. “Tell me why you will not go?”
“Oh, brother!—because—because I am waiting here for some one—one who has promised—to return to me.”
“A man, of course?”
“Yes, yes—a man—a true man, Rowland.”
“Where has he gone; and how long is it, since you have seen him?” I asked, unable to conceal my indignant sorrow.
“He went to the diggings in Victoria, a little more than two years ago. Before going, he told me to wait, until he should come back; and then he would marry me.”
“Martha! is it possible that this is your only reason for not going with me?”
“It is—my only one—I cannot go. I must wait for him!”
“Then you are as foolish, as our poor mother was in waiting for Mr Leary. The man who promised to return and marry you, has probably forgotten both his promise and you, long before this. Very likely he has married some other. I thought you had more sense, than to believe every idle word spoken by idle tongues. The man for whom you are making yourself miserable, would laugh at your simplicity, if he only knew of it. He has probably forgotten your name. Cease to think of him, dear sister; and make both yourself, and your brothers, happy!”
“Do not call me a fool, Rowland—do not think me one! I know I should be, if I was waiting for any common man; but the one I love is not a common man. He promised to return; and unless he dies, I am sure he will keep his word. I know it would be folly to have trusted most men as I’ve done him; but he’s not like others. I shall yet be happy. To wait for him is but my duty; do not urge me to neglect it.”
“Oh, Martha! our poor mother thought about Mr Leary, just as you do about this man. She thought him true to her—the best husband in the world! You may be as much mistaken as she was. I advise you to think no more of him, but go with me. Look around you! See the wretched state in which you are living! Leave it for a happy home, with those who will truly love you.”
“Do not talk to me so, Rowland, or you will drive me mad. I wish to go with you, and wish to see William; but I cannot, and must not leave Sydney!”
It was evident to me, that my sister was afflicted with the same delusion, that had enslaved our mother even unto death; and, with much regret, I became conscious of the folly of trying to induce her to act in a rational manner. I saw that common sense, reason, persuasion, or threats, would all be alike unavailing to obtain compliance with my wishes. The little I had seen of her sex, had impressed me with the belief that no woman ever exhibited such blind faith and full confidence in a man worthy of the least regard; and I was willing to stake my existence, that my sister’s lover was a fellow of no principle—some low blackguard of a similar stamp to the late Mr Leary. I could not suppose him to be quite so bad as Leary: for that to me would have appeared impossible.
I was greatly chagrined to think my kind intentions towards Martha should be thwarted by her folly. I was even angry. Perhaps it was unmanly in me to be so. My sister was unfortunate. No doubt she had been deluded; and could not help her misfortune. She was more an object for pity than anger; but I was angry, and could not restrain myself from showing it. Conscious of my upright and disinterested regard for her, I could not help thinking it ungrateful of her, thus to oppose my designs for her welfare.
“Martha,” said I, “I ask you once more to go with me. By doing so, you will fulfil a sister’s duty as well as seek your own welfare. Reject my offer now, and it will never be made again: for we shall part for ever, I will leave you to the misery, you seem not only to desire, but deserve.”
“Rowland! Rowland!” exclaimed she, throwing her arms around my neck, “I cannot part from you thus. Do not leave me. You must not—you must not!”
“Will you go with me?” I asked, too much excited to listen patiently to her entreaties.
“Rowland, do not ask me! May heaven help me; I cannot go!”
“Then, farewell!” I cried, “farewell for ever!” and as I uttered the parting speech, I tore myself from her embrace, and hurried half frantic out of the room.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty One.
My Sister’s Sweetheart.
On leaving the house, my soul was stirred by conflicting emotions. I was wild with disappointment, sorrow and indignation.
It was wrong to part with my poor sister in such fashion; and my conscience told me so, before I had proceeded two hundred yards along the street. I should at least have given her some money, to relieve her from the extreme necessity which she was evidently in.
A moment’s reflection, as I stopped in the street, told me it was my duty to do this, if nothing more.
I thought of sending her a few pounds after getting back to the hotel. Then succeeded the reflection, that to do so would be more trouble, than to turn back, and give it to her myself. This thought decided me to return to the house, and see her once more. I retraced my steps; and again knocked at the door.
For some moments there was no answer; and I knocked again. I waited for nearly two minutes; and still there was no sign of my summons being answered.
I was on the point of bursting in the door, when it was opened by a man, whose huge frame almost filled the entrance from jamb to jamb. It was the Elephant! The truth instantly flashed upon my mind. It was for him my sister had been waiting! She—was the sempstress for whom he had been toiling—the young girl spoken of in his story—she, whom he had said, he was going to return and marry!
Martha had flung herself into a chair; and appeared insensible.
I cannot remember that either Olliphant or I spoke on seeing one another. Each was too much surprised at meeting the other. And yet neither of us thought, there was anything strange in the circumstance. Let those, who can, explain the singularity of our sentiments at that encounter. I cannot, and therefore shall not make the attempt. The attention of both of us was soon called to Martha, who had recovered consciousness.
“I thank God!” she cried out addressing me, “I thank God, Rowland, you have returned. You see, he has come back!” she continued, placing her hand on the broad shoulder of ‘the Elephant.’ “I knew he would. I told you he was certain to come; and that it was not possible for him to deceive me. This is my brother, Alex,” she added, turning to Olliphant. “He wanted me to leave you; but don’t blame him: for he did not know you, as I did. I’ve seen hard times, Alex; but the joy of this moment more than repays me for all.”
It was some time before Olliphant and I had an opportunity of communicating with each other: for Martha seemed determined that no one should have anything to say but herself.
“What fools we have been!” exclaimed Olliphant, as soon as his sweetheart gave him a chance of speaking. “Had you told me that your name was Stone, and that you had a sister in Sydney, how much more pleasure we should have had in one another’s society! You have nearly missed finding your brother; and either you or I have nearly lost your sister by keeping your name a secret. I know that for a man to talk to others of his family affairs is not strict etiquette; but the rules of that are often made by those who are only respected because they are unknown; or rather, because nothing concerning them can be told to their credit.”
“You and I have been friends,” continued the Elephant, still addressing his discourse to me. “Why should we have cared for etiquette? We ought to have acted independently of its requirements. Depend upon it, that open-hearted candour is ever preferable to secrecy.”
I assured Olliphant, that I was convinced of the truth of this doctrine by late events; and that it was also my belief, an honest man has very little on his mind that need be concealed from his acquaintances.
The scene that followed was one of unalloyed happiness. It ended in the determination—that we should all three at once proceed to Melbourne; and that Olliphant and Martha should be married at the same time that my brother was to be united to Miss Morell.
It was ludicrous to witness the change, that had suddenly taken place in the sentiments of Martha. She no longer offered the slightest objection to leaving Sydney; but on the contrary, declared herself delighted at the prospect of going to Melbourne—a place, she said, she had been long desirous of seeing!
During the evening, the little slavey, Sarah, came over from the milliner’s shop, with a bundle of sewing materials—which Martha was required to make up immediately.
“Tell your mistress,” said Martha, “that I cannot afford to do any more work for her: for she does not pay me enough for it. Tell her, that I hope she will not be much disappointed; but that I really cannot sew any more for her. Will you tell her that?”
“Yes, thank you!” said Sarah, “but I don’t think she’ll be much disappointed: for she said she did not think you would do any more work now; and she only sent it to see.”
We had enough to talk about that evening. Olliphant had been acquainted with our poor mother; and expressed much regret that she had died so unhappily.
We all had explanations to make; and Olliphant and I listened with equal interest to a long recital of my sister’s struggle to maintain herself, and to an explanation of her sorrow at being unable to comply with my request, when I had entreated her to leave Sydney.
This confession was as pleasant to me as to the Elephant; but perhaps still pleasanter was it for him to hear that, during his long absence, she had never felt a doubt about his returning, and that such a suspicion had never remained for an instant in her mind.
As events had turned out, I could not regret that my sister had been, what I had too rashly termed foolish; and that her faith in Olliphant’s promise had remained unshaken under such strong temptations, as those to which she had been subjected.
She had proved herself worthy of a good husband; and there was no one, whom I should have preferred seeing her united to, before the man, for whom she had so long and patiently waited.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Two.
At Sea.
On the third day after my arrival in Sydney, I started back for Melbourne, in the steamer “Warratah,” accompanied by Olliphant and Martha.
On arriving at Melbourne, my sister was taken to the residence of Mrs Morell, where she had the pleasure of meeting her brother William; and making the acquaintance of her future sister-in-law.
Sarah Morell and Martha became warm friends upon sight; and on the evening of our return, a more happy party, than the one assembled in Mrs Morell’s cottage, could not have been found in the colony.
At intervals, a thought of my own life-long disappointment would flash across my mind; but the sight of so many happy faces around me, would soon restore me to a feeling of tranquil contentment.
Next day, preparations were made for the double marriage, which took place shortly after.
The occasion was not marked by any grand ceremonial display—such as I have often witnessed at the “weddings” of lucky gold-diggers. All the arrangements were conducted with the same sense of propriety and taste, that appeared to have guided the previous conduct of the principal parties concerned.
My brother’s honeymoon tour, was to be a voyage in the first ship that should sail for England. As I did not much like the idea of separating from him so soon; and, having no great desire to return to the diggings, I resolved to accompany him.
Olliphant and Martha only remained in Melbourne, until they should see us off, when they intended returning to Sydney to reside permanently in that city. The Elephant had gathered gold enough to set him up in some respectable business; and it was but natural he should prefer New South Wales—his native country—to any other. I knew that to my sister, all places were now alike; so long as she should be with her husband.
I do not much like travelling in a ship, where there is a large number of passengers. It is something like going out for a walk, along a street crowded with people. When there are many passengers in a vessel, there are likely to be some of a very disagreeable disposition, that will be sure to make itself manifest during the voyage. Moreover, in a crowded ship, the regulations require to be more rigidly enforced—thus rendering the passage more irksome to all. There is much greater freedom of action, and generally more amusement, on board a ship carrying only a limited number of passengers. For this reason, we took passage in the first cabin of a small vessel—where we knew there would be only about twenty others besides ourselves.
The ship was bound direct for the port of London; the captain, whose name was Nowell, was to all appearance a gentleman; the accommodation, as regarded room and other necessary requirements, was satisfactory; and we set sail, with every prospect of a pleasant voyage.
As Captain Nowell was a man of sociable inclinings, he soon became a favourite with all his passengers. Between him and myself an intimacy arose; and I passed much of my time in his company—either at chess, or in talking about subjects connected with his calling, which I had not altogether forgotten. He appeared to take an interest in my future welfare; so much so, as frequently to converse with me on the subject of my getting married.
“Lucky gold-diggers,” said he, “often go home in my ship in search of a wife; and not unfrequently get cheated in the quality of the article. As I have some experience in matrimonial matters, you can’t do better than let me choose a wife for you. Besides,” he continued, “I have a young lady in view, that I think would just suit you. I have long been in search of a good husband for her; but have not yet met with a man, to whom I should think of confiding her happiness. From what I have seen of you, Mr Stone, I fancy I could trust her to your keeping.”
Though perfectly indifferent about the captain’s protégée, I could not help acknowledging the compliment.
“I only ask of you,” he continued, “to make no rash engagements, after you arrive in England. Do nothing in that line till you have seen the girl; and then if you don’t like her, there’s no harm done.”
I thanked the captain for his offer; and sighed, as I thought of the cruel fate, that had placed an impassible barrier between me and Lenore.
There is one thing in my narrative, that may appear remarkable to the reader—perhaps scarce truthful; and that is, the facility with which I made so many friends. An explanation of this may not be out of place.
I was always in earnest in what little I had to say. No one could converse long with me, without discovering that I was sincere in what I said. I do not claim this as a trait of character peculiar to myself; but I do affirm—as far as my experience has instructed me—that it is not so with the majority of mankind. Language is too often used, as the means for concealing thoughts—instead of expressing them.
Thousands of people say what they do not mean; and sometimes gain friends by it. But it is a friendship false as it is fleeting; and often confers on him who obtains it, more disappointment and trouble, than he would be likely to have with avowed enemies.
Nothing transpired during our home voyage, worthy of particular notice. After passing some small islands, that lie near the coast of Port Philip, we never sighted land again for three months!
On the ninety-second day of our voyage, the cheering cry of “Land ho!” resounded through the ship; and, hastening on deck, we looked upon the white cliffs of Dover.
Great was the joy of Mrs Morell and her daughter, at once more beholding their native shores; and I could envy my brother, who had contributed so much to the happiness of others, and at the same time so successfully established his own.
We landed at Portsmouth; and proceeded to London by rail. Before parting with Captain Nowell—who had to remain a few days with his ship—I promised to visit him in his London house—the address of which he had already made known to me.
A few hours after, I entered, for the first time, within the limits of the world’s metropolis.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Three.
Life in London.
After staying one night at a hotel, we went into private lodgings at Brompton.
For several days after our arrival, my brother was employed in the pleasant duty of escorting his wife and mother-in-law—on a round of visits to their numerous old acquaintances, while I was left to wander alone through the streets of the stupendous city. I had anticipated some little pleasure in visiting the far-famed metropolis; but in this I was disappointed; and soon began to feel regret for having left behind me the free life I had been pursuing on the gold-fields.
I had some business, however, to transact, even in London. The gold I had obtained in California—along with that bequeathed to me by poor old Stormy Jack—had been forwarded to the Bank of England; and about a week after my arrival, I went down to the city, to draw out the money deposit that was due to me. On presenting myself to the cashier, I was told that it would be necessary for me to bring some responsible person, to say that my name was Rowland Stone. This individual must be known to the authorities of the Bank.
This requirement placed me in a little dilemma. Where was I to find a sponsor? I was a perfect stranger in London. So were my travelling companions. I knew not a soul belonging to the great city—much less one who should be known to the magnates of the Bank.
To whom should I apply?
When I had mentally repeated this question, for the twentieth time, I bethought me of Captain Nowell. He should be the very man.
I at once hailed a cab; and drove to the address he had given me. Fortunately he had arrived from Portsmouth; and was at home.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he accompanied me to the Bank, where everything was satisfactorily arranged. Instead of drawing out the deposit, I added to it, by paying in an additional sum—consisting of the gold I had gathered in Australia. My only object in troubling myself about it at the time, was to make sure that the gold I had forwarded from California had arrived safely, and was otherwise “all right.”
Before parting with Captain Nowell, he requested to know why I had not gone to his house to see him sooner.
“Your coming to-day,” he said, “was not a visit; and I shan’t take it as such. You only came to trouble me on business for which you needed me, or probably I should not have seen you at all. You must pay me a regular visit. Come to-morrow; or any time that best suits your convenience. You know my style at sea? You’ll find me just the same ashore. Don’t forget that I’ve something to show you—something you had better have a look at, before you choose elsewhere.”
I gave the kind-hearted Captain my promise to call upon him—though not from any inclination to be assisted by him in the way he seemed to wish. The finding a wife was a thing that was far—very far from my thoughts.
Several days had elapsed after my interview with Captain Nowell; and each day I was becoming more discontented, with the life I was leading in London. My brother, his wife, and Mrs Morell, were very kind to me; and strove to make me as happy as possible. But much of their time was taken up in paying visits, or spent in amusements, in which I could feel no interest. I soon found that to be contented, it would be necessary for me, either to take an active part in the busy scenes of life, or be in possession of great domestic happiness. The latter I could never expect to attain; and London appeared to present no employment so well suited to my disposition and habits, as that I had followed upon the gold-fields.
I might have passed some of my time very pleasantly in the company of Captain Nowell; but I was prevented from availing myself of that pleasure—even of paying my promised visit to him—by the very thing that might otherwise have attracted me. I had no desire to form the acquaintance of the young lady, he had spoken of; and for me to call at his house might give occasion for him, as well as others, to think differently.
I admit that I may have been over-scrupulous in this matter: since Captain Nowell and I had become fast, and intimate friends. But from what he had already said, I could not visit the young lady, and remain indifferent to her, without the conclusion being come to, that I thought her unworthy of my regard, and that, after seeing, I had formed an unfavourable opinion of her. It may have been silliness on my part; allowing such a thought to prevent my visiting a friend; but, as I had not come to London wife-hunting, I did not desire others to think that I had. To me, matrimony was no more a pleasant subject for contemplation—especially when it referred to myself—and the few words, spoken to me by the captain on that theme, had been sufficient to defeat the only object he probably had any particular wish to attain: that I should call upon him and partake of his hospitality.
About a month after our arrival in London, I inquired at the General Post Office for letters from Australia; and had the pleasure of receiving two. One was from Olliphant, the other from my sister. Martha’s was a true woman’s letter: that could be read once by the recipient, and then easily forgotten. It was full of kind words for all of us in London; but the only information to be obtained from it was, that she thought well of everybody, and was herself exceedingly happy.
Perhaps I was more gratified with the contents of Olliphant’s letter, from which I select the following extract:—
“On our return to Sydney, I learnt that my father had just got back from a visit to England—which he had long before determined on making. I was very anxious to see him, in the hope that we might become friends again; but, knowing that the first advances towards a reconciliation must come from himself, I would not go to him. I could not think of acknowledging myself sorry, for having done that which I knew to be right. The only step I could make, towards the accomplishment of my wishes, was to put myself in communication with a mutual friend; and let him know that I had returned to Sydney. I did not omit to add, that I had returned from the diggings with a full purse: for I knew that this would also be communicated to my father, and might have some effect upon him of a favourable character.
“It appeared as if I had not been mistaken. Three days after, the governor called at the hotel where I was staying; and met me as a father should meet a son, whom he has not seen for more than three years. I was no little surprised at the turn things had taken: for, knowing the old gentleman’s obstinate disposition, I did not expect a settlement either so prompt, or satisfactory. I presumed it would take some time and trouble, to get on good terms with him again.
“He seemed greatly pleased with Martha’s appearance; and they became fast friends all at once.
“‘I like the look of you,’ said he to her, ‘and am willing to believe that you are worthy of Alex; and that is saying a good deal for you. Ah, my son,’ continued he, addressing himself to me, ‘had you brought home your London cousin for a wife—as I commanded you to do—should certainly have horsewhipped you on your return. When I came to see her in London, I soon changed my mind about her. She is nothing but an ugly silly fool; and too conceited to know it. I admire your spirit for disobeying orders, and marrying a girl, whom I am not ashamed to acknowledge as my daughter.’
“We shall leave town to-morrow for my father’s station; and the only thing we require now to make us perfectly happy, is the company of yourself, William and his wife, I hope that after you have tried the ‘Old Country’ for a few weeks, you will believe, as I do, that it is only a place for flunkeys and snobs; and that every young man of enterprise and energy should come out here, where life can be spent to some purpose—worthy of the toil that all ought to endure. I shall expect to see you in Sydney within the next year.”
There was a strong suspicion in my mind, that “The Elephant” was right, in believing I would soon return to the colonies. Why should I remain in London? I could be nothing there. It was different with my brother. He might now be happy anywhere. He only wanted a spot, where he might tranquilly await his final departure from the world, while I was a Rolling Stone that must roll on—or be miserable.
The more consideration I gave to the circumstance, the more determined did I become to part from London: and go to some land, where youth and health were worth possessing. I could feel that the blessings, Nature had bestowed on me were not worth much in London, where men are enslaved by customs and laws that subject the million to the dominion of the few. I determined, therefore, on going, where I should be regarded as the equal of those around me, where there was room for me to move, without the danger of being crushed by a crowd of self-sufficient creatures—most of whom were in reality more insignificant than myself. I should join “The Elephant” in New South Wales; and perhaps become a man of some influence in a land where the sun is to be seen every day.
I at this time regretted, that I had ever been a Rolling Stone. I believed that a man may be happier who has never wandered from home to learn lessons of discontent, and become the slave of desires, that in one place can never be gratified. Each spot of earth has its peculiar advantages, and is in some respects superior to all others. By wandering in many lands, and partaking of their respective pleasures, we become imbued with many desires to which we look back with regret when they can no longer be gratified. After residing in a tropical climate, who can encounter the chilling blasts of a northern winter, without longing:
“For green verandahs hung with flowers,
For marble founts, and orange bowers?”
And when nearly cooked by the scorching sun—when tortured at every turn by reptiles, and maddened by the worry of winged insects—we sigh for the bracing breezes of a northern clime, and the social joys of the homes which are there found—a happiness such as my brother might now be permitted to enjoy, but which was for ever denied to me.
With such reflections constantly passing through my mind, I felt that London, large as it was, could not contain me much longer; and I only waited, until some slight turning of Fortune’s wheel would bestir me to make a fresh start for the Antipodes.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Four.
Old Acquaintances.
One day, while riding inside a “bus” along the Strand, and gazing out through the slides, I amused myself by looking at the “fares” seated upon the “knife-board,” or rather their images, reflected in the plate-glass windows of the shops in front of which we were passing.
While thus engaged, my attention became more especially fixed upon one of my fellow passengers so reflected; and, on continuing my second-hand scrutiny, I became convinced that an old acquaintance was directly over my head. I requested the conductor to stop the “bus,” and, upon his doing so, I got out, and climbed to the top of it. On raising my eyes to a level with the roof, I saw that I had not been mistaken. Cannon, whom I had last seen in Melbourne, was one of the row of individuals that occupied the knife-board.
We got off the “bus” at Charing Cross, stepped into Morley’s Hotel, and ordered “dinner for two.”
“Cannon,” said I, “how came you to be here? I left you in Melbourne, without any money. How did you get a passage home?”
“Well,” replied Cannon, with a peculiar grin, “it’s easily explained. My well-wishing friends here sent me a little money, which came to hand, shortly after I saw you. I knew why they did it. They were afraid, that I might get hard up out there, and, someway or other find my way home. They weren’t so cunning as they thought themselves. On receiving their cheque, I did with it, just what they didn’t intend I should do. I paid my passage home with the money, for fear I mightn’t have the chance again; and I’ll take precious good care, they don’t send me out of England a second time—not if I can help it.”
“What has become of Vane?” I asked.
“Vane! the damned insidious viper! I don’t like to say anything about him. He had some money left him here; and got back to England, before I did. He’s here now.”
“And how are our friends up the Yarra Yarra. Have you heard anything of them, since we were there together?”
“Yes; and seen them, too—several times. They were well the last time I saw them. I mean well in bodily health; but I think a little wrong in the mind. They became great friends with that fellow Vane.”
I noticed that Cannon, although he had said that he did not like to say anything about Vane, kept continually alluding to him during the two or three hours that we were together; and always spoke of him with some show of animosity.
I could see that the two men were friends no longer. I was not inquisitive as to the cause of their misunderstanding—probably for the reason, that I took very little interest in the affairs of either.
“Are you in any business here?” asked Cannon, when we were about to separate.
“No,” I replied, “I don’t desire to go into business in London; and, as I can find but little to amuse me, I am thinking of returning to Australia.”
“Ah! that’s strange,” rejoined Cannon. “Perhaps the reason why you are not amused, is because you are a stranger here, and have but little society. Come along with me, and I will introduce you to some of my friends, who can show you some London life. Will you promise to meet me here to-morrow, at half-past ten o’clock?”
I did not like giving the promise; but Cannon would take no denial; and, having nothing else to do, I agreed to meet him, at the time and place he had mentioned. After that we shook hands, and parted.
Though not particularly caring about either of them, I liked Vane less than I did Cannon. I was not at all surprised to find that a disagreement had sprung up between them. In fact, I would rather have felt surprised, to hear that they had remained so long in each other’s society without having had a quarrel. Cannon, with all his faults, had some good qualities about him, enough to have rendered him unsuitable as a “chum” for the other; and I had anticipated a speedy termination of their friendship. I knew that Vane must have done something very displeasing to Cannon, else the other would scarce have made use of such strong expressions, while speaking of his old associate. Cannon, when not excited by passion, was rather guarded in his language; and rarely expressed his opinions in a rash or inconsiderate manner.
Next morning, I met him according to appointment; and we drove to a cottage in Saint John’s Wood—where he proposed introducing me to some of his English acquaintances. We were conducted into a parlour; and the servant was requested to announce, “Mr Cannon and friend.”
The door was soon after opened; and Jessie H— stood before me!
On seeing me, she did not speak; but dropped down into a sofa; and for some time seemed unconscious, that there was anyone in the room.
It was cruel of Cannon thus to bring us again together; and yet he did not appear to be the least punished, although present at a scene that was painful to both of us. On the contrary, he seemed rather pleased at the emotion called forth upon the occasion.
Jessie soon recovered command of herself, but I could easily perceive, that her tranquil demeanour was artificial and assumed—altogether unlike her natural bearing, when I knew her on the banks of the Yarra Yarra.
Cannon strove hard to keep alive a conversation; but the task of doing so was left altogether to himself. I could give him but little help; and from Jessie he received no assistance whatever. The painful interview was interrupted by the entrance of Mr H—, whose deportment towards us, seemed even more altered than that of his daughter.
I could easily perceive, that he did not regard either Cannon, or myself, with any feeling of cordiality.
We were soon after joined by Mrs H—, who met us in a more friendly manner than her husband; and yet she, too, seemed acting under some restraint.
While Cannon engaged the attention of Mr and Mrs H—, I had a few words with Jessie.
She requested me to call, and see them again; but, not liking the manner in which her father had received me, I declined making a promise. To my surprise—and a little to my regret—she insisted upon it; and appointed the next morning, at eleven o’clock—when she and her mother would be alone.
“I am very unhappy, Rowland,” muttered she, in an undertone. “I seldom see anyone whom I care for. Do come, and see us to-morrow. Will you promise?”
I could not be so rude—might I say cruel—as to refuse.
Our stay was not prolonged. Before we came away, Mrs H— also invited us to call again; but I noticed that this invitation, when given, was not intended to be heard by her husband.
“Little Rose is at school,” said she, “and you must come to see her. She is always talking of you. When she hears that you are in London, she will be wild to see you.”
After our departure, my companion, who already knew my address, gave me his; and we separated, under a mutual agreement to meet soon again.
There was much, in what had just transpired, that I could not comprehend.
Why had Cannon not told me that Mr H— and his family were in London, before taking me to see them? Why had he pretended that he was going to introduce me to some of his London friends? I could answer these questions only by supposing, that he believed I would not have accompanied him, had I known on whom we were about to call.
He might well have believed this—remembering the unceremonious manner in which I had parted from his friends, at the time we visited them on the Yarra Yarra. But why should he wish me to visit them again—if he thought that I had no desire to do so?
This was a question for which I could find no reasonable answer. I felt certain he must have acted from some motive, but what it was, I could not surmise. Perhaps I should learn something about it next day, during the visit I had promised to make to Jessie. She was artless and confiding; so much so, that I felt certain she would tell me all that had taken place, since that painful parting on the banks of the Yarra Yarra.
Long after leaving the house in Saint John’s Wood, I found occupation for my thoughts. I was the victim of reflections, both varied and vexatious.
By causing us to come together again, Fate seemed to intend the infliction of a curse, and not the bestowal of a blessing!
I asked myself many questions. Would a further acquaintance with Jessie subdue within my soul the memories of Lenore? Did I wish that such should be the case?
Over these questions I pondered long, and painfully—only to find them unanswered.
Jessie H— was beautiful beyond a doubt. There was a charm in her beauty that might have won many a heart; and mine had not been in different to it. There was music in her voice—as it gave utterance to the thoughts of her pure, artless mind to which I liked to listen. And yet there was something in my remembrance of Lenore—who had never loved me, and who could never be mine—sweeter and more enchanting than the music of Jessie’s voice, or the beauty of her person!
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Five.
Jessie’s Suitor.
Next morning I repeated my visit to Saint John’s Wood. I again saw Jessie. She expressed herself much pleased to see me; but upon her features was an expression that pained me to behold. That face, once bright and joyous, and still beautiful, gave evidence that some secret sorrow was weighing upon her heart.
“I know not whether I ought to be glad, or grieved, Rowland,” said she. “I am certainly pleased to see you. Nothing could give me greater joy; and yet I know that our meeting again must bring me much sorrow.”
“How can this be?” I asked, pretending not to understand her.
“Ever since you left us on the Yarra Yarra, I have been trying to forget you. I had resolved not to see you again. And now, alas! my resolves have all been in vain. I know it is a misfortune for me to have met you; and yet I seem to welcome it. It was wrong of you to come here yesterday; and yet I could bless you for coming.”
“My calling here yesterday,” said I, “may have been an unfortunate circumstance, though not any fault of mine. I knew not, until I entered this house, but that you were still in Australia. Mr Cannon deceived me; he proposed introducing me to some of his London friends who lived here. Had I known on whom we were going to call, for my own happiness, I should not have accompanied him.”
“Rowland, you are cruel!”
“How can you say so, when you’ve told me it was wrong for me to come? Jessie! there is something in this I do not understand. Tell me, why it is wrong for me to have seen you, while, at the same time, you say you are pleased at it?”
“Rowland, spare me! Speak no more of this. Let us talk of other things.”
I did my best to obey her; and we conversed nearly an hour, upon such topics as suggested themselves, until our tête-à-tête was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs H—.
I could not well bid adieu to them, without promising to call again: for I had not yet seen little Rosa.
After my return home, I sate down to reflect upon the conversation I had had with Jessie—as also to seek some explanation of what had appeared mysterious in the conduct, not only of Cannon, but of Jessie’s father and mother.
I had learnt that Mr H—, like many of the Australian wool growers, after having made his fortune in the colonies, had returned to his native land—intending to end his days in London.
I had also learnt that Vane—after that occasion on which he accompanied Cannon and myself, had often revisited the family on the Yarra Yarra; and had become a professed candidate for the hand of Jessie.
In the colony he had received but little encouragement to continue his advances, either from her father or mother. Since their arrival in London, however, Vane had come into possession of some property; and Mr H— had not only listened with favour to his proposals, but was strongly urging his daughter to do the same.
A matrimonial alliance with Vane would have been considered advantageous by most people in the social position of the H— family; and Jessie, like many other young ladies, was likely to be married to a man, who held but a second place in her affections.
Thousands do this, without surrendering themselves to a life of misery; and Jessie H— could scarce be expected to differ from others of her age and sex. In fact, as I soon afterwards learnt, she had yielded to her father’s solicitations, rather than to the suit of the wooer; and had given a reluctant consent to the marriage. It was to take place in about ten days from that time.
I also learnt that Vane and Cannon had quarrelled, before leaving Melbourne. I did not ascertain the exact cause. It was no business of mine; and I did not care to be made acquainted with it. With the conduct of the latter I had some reason to be dissatisfied. He had endeavoured to make use of me, as a means of obtaining revenge against his enemy—Vane.
I could not think of any other object he might have, in bringing me once more into the presence of Jessie.
To a certain extent he had succeeded in his design. Without vanity I could not shut my eyes to the fact of Jessie’s aversion to her marriage with Vane; and I was convinced that, after seeing me, it became stronger.
I was by no means pleased at the idea of being made a cat’s paw for the gratification of Cannon’s revenge; and, next day, when his name was announced at my lodgings, I resolved that that meeting should be our last.
“Mr Cannon,” said I, before he had even seated himself, “will you tell me why you took me to see Jessie H—, when you had reason to believe that neither of us desired to meet the other again?”
“I had no reason for thinking anything of the kind,” replied he. “On the contrary, there was much to make me believe differently. I have a great respect for Mr H— and his family; and I don’t mean to flatter, when I tell you, I have the same for yourself. What harm was there in bringing together those whom I respect? and desire to see friends? But you want some explanation. You shall have it. It is this:—you have seen Vane, and know something about him. I know more of him, than you. He is a conceited, trifling fellow, without the slightest truth or principle in him. True, his society was amusing. I overlooked his faults; and bore with him for a long time. When I saw that he was trying to take advantage of the introduction I had given him to the daughter of my friend—a young lady of whom he is in no sense worthy—I then became his enemy. I acknowledge having taken you to see her in a somewhat surreptitious fashion; and, moreover, that I did it with a design: that of thwarting the intentions of Vane. But I deny having done it as you suppose, because he is my enemy. It was not that; but my friendship to Mr H—, and his family, that induced me to act as I did. While we were on the Yarra Yarra, I could not fail to notice that you were not wholly indifferent to the beauty of Miss H—; and also, that she had the discernment to see, that you were worthy of her esteem. Where was the harm, then, in my bringing you once more together? You are mistaken in thinking, that I was using you to give annoyance to an enemy. On the contrary, I claim to have been only guilty of studying the happiness of my friends.”
To Cannon’s explanation I could make no answer. He was better in an argument than I; and what he had said, left me without any reason to believe, that he knew either of Jessie’s being engaged to Vane, or that their marriage was shortly to take place. From his point of view, I could not much blame him for what he had done.
I had received Cannon with the resolve to have nothing more to do with him, after our interview should end; but he had given me a fair explanation of his conduct, and we parted without any ill-will.
I had promised to call again upon Jessie. It was after my last visit to her, that I had learnt of her approaching marriage with Vane; and, on receiving this intelligence, I regretted having made the promise. I had two reasons for regretting it. To see her again could only add to her unhappiness; and perhaps to me might be a cause of self-reproach.
Nothing but sorrow could spring from our again seeing one another—a sorrow that might be mutual—and, in spite of the promise I had given, I determined we should meet no more.
Volume Three—Chapter Twenty Six.
Mrs Nagger.
My brother William had rented a house in Brompton, engaged two female servants, and commenced house-keeping after the manner of most Londoners.
In his house I was permitted to occupy two apartments—a parlour, and bed-room.
The servant, who attended to these rooms, possessed a character, marked by some peculiarities that were rather amusing. She was over fifty years of age; and carried about the house a face that most people would have considered unpleasant.
I did not. I only believed that Mrs Nagger—such was her name—might have experienced several disappointments in her life; and that the expression, caused by the latest and last of them, had become so indelibly stamped upon her features, as not to be removed by any hope of future happiness.
Like a good many of her sex, Mrs Nagger’s tongue was seldom at rest, though the words she uttered were but few, and generally limited to the exclamatory phrase, “More’s the pity!” followed by the confession, “That’s all I can say.”
I had, sometimes, cause to complain of the coffee, which the old housekeeper used to set before me—fancying it inferior to any, I had met elsewhere.
“Mrs Nagger,” I would say—laying an emphasis on the Mrs, of which she seemed no little vain—“I do not think this is coffee at all. What do you suppose it to be?”
“Indeed I don’t know, sir; and more’s the pity!”
“And this milk,” I would continue, “I fancy it must have been taken from an iron-tailed cow.”
“Yes, sir; and more’s the pity! That’s all I can say.”
I soon learnt that the old creature was quite right in her simple confession. “More’s the pity” was about all she could say; and I was not sorry that it was so.
One day I was honoured by a visit from Cannon, who, being some years older than myself, and having rather an elevated opinion of his own wisdom, volunteered to offer me a little advice.
“Stone,” said he, “why don’t you settle down, and live happily like your brother? If I had your opportunity of doing so, I wouldn’t put up with the miserable life I am leading, a week longer.”
“What opportunity do you speak of?”
“Why that of marrying Jessie H—. Do not think me meddlesome, or impertinent. I take it for granted that you and I are sufficiently acquainted for me to take the liberty I am doing. The girl likes you; I know it, and it is a deuced shame to see a fine girl like her thrown away on such a puppy as Vane. Why don’t you save her? She is everything a man could wish for—although she is a little different from most of the young ladies of London. In my opinion, she’s all the better for that.”
In thus addressing me, Cannon acted in a more ungentlemanly manner than I had ever known him to do, for he was not a man to intrude advice upon his friends—especially on matters of so serious a nature, as the one he had introduced.
Believing him to have some friendship for myself, more for the H— family, and a great antipathy to Vane, I listened to him without feeling offended.
“I am not insensible to the attractions of Miss H—,” said I, “but the happiness, you speak of, can never be mine.”
“Oh! I understand you,” rejoined he. “You have been disappointed in love by some one else? So was I, once on a time—madly in love with a girl who married another, whom I suppose she liked better than me. At first I thought of committing suicide; but was prevented—I suppose, by fear. I was afflicted with very unpleasant thoughts, springing from this disappointment. They stuck to me for nearly three years. I got over them last, and I’ll tell you how. I accidentally met the object of my affections. She was the mother of two rosy, apple-cheeked children; and presented a personal appearance that immediately disenchanted me. She was nearly as broad as she was long. I wondered how the deuce I could ever have been such a fool as to love the woman—more especially to have made myself so miserable about her. If you have been disappointed in the same manner, take my advice, and seek the remedy that restored me.”
Absurd as Cannon’s proposition might appear, I could not help thinking that there was some philosophy in it; and, without telling him of my intention, I determined on giving it further consideration.
To change the conversation, I rang the bell. I knew that Cannon was fond of a glass of Scotch whiskey; and, when Mrs Nagger made her appearance, I requested her to bring a bottle of Glenlivet into the room—along with some hot water and sugar. The “materials” were produced; and we proceeded to mixing the “toddy.”
“This is the right brand,” said Cannon, taking up the bottle, and scrutinising its label, “the very sort to my taste.”
I could see the lips of Mrs Nagger slightly moving; and I knew that she was muttering the words, “more’s the pity!” I have no doubt that she suffered a little at being deprived of the opportunity of giving her one idea a more audible manifestation.
Cannon did not suffer from any disappointment as to the quality of the liquor. At all events, he appeared to find it to his liking: for he became so exhilarated over it, that he did not leave until sunset; and not then, till he had prevailed upon me to accompany him—with the understanding, that we should spend the evening together.
“What’s the use of your living in London,” he asked, “if you stay all the time within doors? You appear even less inclined to see a little life, than when I met you in Melbourne. Why is it, Stone?”
“Because I came here to rest myself. A life spent in labour, has given me but few opportunities of acquiring that knowledge, that may be obtained from books; and now that I have a little leisure given me, I wish to make a good use of it.”
“That’s a very sensible design, no doubt,” said Cannon, “but you must not follow it to-night. Come along with me; and I’ll show you something of London.”
I consented to accompany Cannon—on the condition of his taking me to some place where I could be amused in a quiet, simple manner—any spectacle suitable to a sailor, or gold-digger, and at which there might be no disgrace in being present.
“Take me to some place,” said I, “that is neither too high nor too low. Let me see, or hear something I can understand—something that is popular with the majority of Londoners; so that I may be able to form an idea of their tastes and habits.”
“All right,” answered Cannon, “I’ll take you to several places of the sort; and you can judge for yourself. You wish to witness the amusements most popular among, what might be called, the middle classes? Well, we shall first visit a concert hall, or music room. The Londoners profess to be a musical people; and it must be admitted that much, both of their time and money, is expended in listening to vocal and instrumental performances. It is in the theatres and music halls, that one may best meet the people of London—not the very lowest class of them; but those who profess, and fancy themselves up to a high standard of civilisation. Come on!”
Yielding myself to the guidance of my sage companion, I followed him into the street.