Chapter Twenty Seven.
San Francisco again—A Terrible Misfortune—An Old Friend in surprisingly New Circumstances—Several Remarkable Discoveries and New Lights.
There is no time or place, perhaps, more suitable for indulging in ruminations, cogitations, and reminiscences, than the quiet hours of a calm night out upon the sea, when the watchful stars look down upon the bosom of the deep, and twinkle at their reflections in placid brilliancy.
Late at night, when all the noisy inmates of the steamer had ceased to eat, and drink, and laugh, and had sought repose in their berths, Edward Sinton walked the deck alone, meditating on the past, the present, and the future. When he looked up at the serene heavens, and down at the tranquil sea, whose surface was unruffled, save by the long pure white track of the vessel, he could scarcely bring himself to believe that the whirl of incident and adventure in which he had been involved during the last few and short months was real. It seemed like a brilliant dream. As long as he was on shore it all appeared real enough, and the constant pressure of something to be done, either immediately, or in an hour, or to-morrow, kept his mind perpetually chained down to the consideration of visible, and tangible, and passing events; but now the cord of connexion with land had been suddenly and completely severed. The very land itself was out of sight. Nothing around him tended to recall recent events; and, as he had nothing in the world to do but wait until the voyage should come to an end, his mind was left free to bound over the recent-past into the region of the long-past, and revel there at pleasure.
But Ned Sinton was not altogether without anxieties. He felt a little uneasy as to the high-handed manner in which he had carried off Nelly Morgan from her late guardian; and he was a good deal perplexed as to what the important affairs could be for which he had so hastily overturned all the gold-digging plans of his whole party. With these thoughts mingled many philosophic inquiries as to the amount of advantage that lay—if, indeed, there was any advantage at all—in making one’s fortune suddenly and at the imminent hazard of one’s life. Overpowering sleep at last put an end to Ned’s wandering thoughts, and he too bade the stars good-night, and sought his pillow. In due course the vessel cast anchor off the town of San Francisco.
“There is many a slip ’tween the cup and the lip.” It is an old proverb that, but one which is proved, by frequent use, on the part of authors in all ages, to be a salutary reminder to humanity. Its truth was unpleasantly exemplified on the arrival of the steamer. As the tide was out at the time, the captain ordered the boats to be lowered, in order to land the passengers. The moment they touched the water they were filled by impatient miners, who struggled to be first ashore. The boat into which Ned and his friends got was soon overloaded with passengers, and the captain ordered her to be shoved off.
“Hold on!” shouted a big coarse-looking fellow, in a rough blue jacket and wide-awake, who was evidently drunk; “let me in first.”
“There’s no room!” cried several voices. “Shove off.”
“There’s room enough!” cried the man, with an oath; at the same time seizing the rope.
“If ye do come down,” said a sailor, sternly, “I’ll pitch ye overboard.”
“Will ye!” growled the man; and the next instant he sprang upon the edge of the boat, which upset, and left its freight struggling in the water. The other boats immediately picked them all up; and, beyond a wetting, they were physically none the worse. But, alas! the bags of gold which our adventurers were carrying ashore with them, sank to the bottom of the sea! They were landed on the wharf at San Francisco as penniless as they were on the day of their arrival in California.
This reverse of fortune was too tremendous to be realised in a moment. As they stood on the wharf; dripping wet, and gazing at each other in dismay, they suddenly, as if by one consent, burst into a loud laugh. But the laugh had a strong dash of bitterness in its tone; and when it passed, the expression of their countenances was not cheerful.
Bill Jones was the first to speak, as they wandered, almost helplessly, through the crowded streets, while little Nelly ever and anon looked wistfully up into Larry’s face, as he led her by the hand.
“It’s a stunnin’ smash,” said Bill, fetching a deep sigh. “But w’en a thing’s done, an’ can’t be undone, then it’s unpossible, that’s wot it is; and wot’s unpossible there’s no use o’ tryin’ for to do. ’Cause why? it only wastes yer time an’ frets yer sperrit—that’s my opinion.”
Not one of the party ventured to smile—as was their wont in happier circumstances—at the philosophy of their comrade’s remark. They wandered on in silence till they reached—they scarce knew how or why—the centre plaza of the town.
“It’s of no use giving way to it,” said Ned Sinton, at last, making a mighty effort to recover: “we must face our reverses like men; and, after all, it might have been worse. We might have lost our lives as well as our gold, so we ought to be thankful instead of depressed.”
“What shall we do now?” inquired Captain Bunting, in a tone that proved sufficiently that he at least could not benefit by Ned’s advice.
“Sure we’ll have to go an’ work, capting,” replied Larry, in a tone of facetious desperation; “but first of all we’ll have to go an’ see Mr Thompson, and git dry clo’se for Nelly, poor thing—are ye cowld, darlin’?”
“No, not in the least,” answered the child, sadly. “I think my things will dry soon, if we walk in the sun.”
Nelly’s voice seemed to rouse the energies of the party more effectually than Ned’s moralising.
“Yes,” cried the latter, “let us away to old Thompson’s. His daughter, Lizette, will put you all to rights, dear, in a short time. Come along.”
So saying, Ned led the way, and the whole party speedily stood at the door of Mr Thompson’s cottage.
The door was merely fastened by a latch, and as no notice was taken of their first knock, Ned lifted it and entered the hall, then advancing to the parlour door, he opened it and looked in.
The sight that met his gaze was well calculated to make him open his eyes, and his mouth too, if that would in any way have relieved his feelings.
Seated in old Mr Thompson’s easy-chair, with one leg stretched upon an ottoman, and the other reposing on a stool, reclined Tom Collins, looking, perhaps, a little paler than was his wont, as if still suffering from the effects of recent illness, but evidently quite happy and comfortable.
Beside Tom, on another stool, with her arm resting on Tom’s knee, and looking up in his face with a quiet smile, sat Elizabeth Thompson.
“Tom! Miss Thompson!” cried Ned Sinton, standing absolutely aghast.
Miss Thompson sprang up with a face of crimson, but Tom sat coolly still, and said, while a broad grin overspread his handsome countenance, “No, Ned, not Miss Thompson—Mrs Collins, who, I know, is rejoiced to see you.”
“You are jesting, Tom,” said Ned, as he advanced quickly, and took the lady’s hand, while Tom rose and heartily welcomed his old companions.
“Not a bit of it, my dear fellow,” he repeated. “This, I assure you, is my wife. Pray, dear Lizette, corroborate my statement, else our friends won’t believe me. But sit down, sit down, and let’s hear all about you. Go, Lizette, get ’em something to eat. I knew you would make your appearance ere long. Old Thompson’s letter—halloo! why what’s this? You’re wet! and who’s this—a wet little girl?”
“Faix, ye may well be surprised, Mister Tom,” said Larry, “for we’re all wet beggars, ivery wan o’ us—without a dollar to bless ourselves with.”
Tom Collins looked perplexed, as he turned from one to the other. “Stay,” he shouted; “wife, come here. There’s a mystery going on. Take this moist little one to your room; and there,” he added, throwing open a door, “you fellows will all find dry apparel to put on—though I don’t say to fit. Come along with me, Ned, and while you change, give an account of yourself.”
Ned did as he was desired; and, in the course of a lengthened conversation, detailed to Tom the present condition of himself and his friends.
“It’s unfortunate,” said Tom, after a pause; “ill-luck seems to follow us wherever we go.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself;” cried Ned, “for saying so, considering the wife you have got.”
“True, my boy,” replied the other, “I ought indeed to be ashamed, but I spoke in reference to money matters. What say you to the fact, that I am as much a beggar as yourself?”
“Outward appearances would seem to contradict you.”
“Nevertheless, it is true, I assure you. When you left me, Ned, in the hotel at Sacramento, I became so lonely that I grew desperate; and, feeling much stronger in body, I set off for this town in the new steamer—that in which you arrived. I came straight up here, re-introduced myself to Mr Thompson; and, two days after—for I count it folly to waste time in such matters when one’s mind is made up—I proposed to Lizette, and was accepted conditionally. Of course, the condition was that papa should be willing. But papa was not willing. He said that three thousand dollars, all I possessed, was a capital sum, but not sufficient to marry on, and that he could not risk his daughter’s happiness, etcetera, etcetera—you know the rest. Well, the very next day news came that one of Thompson’s best ships had been wrecked off Cape Horn. This was a terrible blow, for the old man’s affairs were in a rickety condition at any rate, and this sank him altogether. His creditors were willing enough to wait, but one rascal refused to do so, and swore he would sequestrate him. I found that the sum due him was exactly three thousand dollars, so I paid him the amount in full, and handed Thompson the discharged account. ‘Now,’ said I, ‘I’m off to the diggings, so good-bye!’ for, you see, Ned, I felt that I could not urge my suit at that time, as it would be like putting on the screw—taking an unfair advantage of him.
“‘Why, what do you mean, my lad?’ said he.
“‘That I’m off to-morrow,’ replied I.
“‘That you must not do,’ said he.
“‘Why not?’ said I.
“‘Because,’ said he, ‘now that things are going smooth, I must go to England by the first ship that sails, and get my affairs there put on a better footing, so you must stay here to look after my business, and to—to—take care of Lizette.’
“‘Eh! what!’ said I, ‘what do you mean? You know that is impossible.’
“‘Not at all, boy, if you marry her!’
“Of course I could not refuse, and so, to cut it short, we were married right off and here we are, the representatives of the great firm of Thompson and Company, of California.”
“Then, do you mean to say that Thompson is gone?” Inquired Ned, with a look of horror.
“Near the Horn, I should think, by this time; but why so anxious?”
“Because,” sighed Ned, sitting down on the edge of the bed, with a look of despair, “I came here by his invitation; and—”
“Oh! it’s all right,” interrupted Tom; “I know all about it, and am commissioned by him to settle the affair for you.”
“But what is the affair?” inquired Ned, eagerly.
“Ah! my dear boy, do try to exercise patience. If I tell you everything before we go down to our comrades, I fear we shall have to send a message to say that we are not coming till to-morrow morning.”
Tom rose as he spoke, and led the way to the parlour, where bread and cheese were spread out for them.
“The only drawback to my felicity,” whispered Tom to Sinton, as they entered, “is that I find Thompson’s affairs far worse than he himself was aware of; and it’s a fact, that at this moment I can scarcely draw enough out of the business to supply the necessaries of life.”
There was a slight bitterness in Tom’s tone as he said this, but the next moment he was jesting with his old companions as lightheartedly as ever. During the meal he refused, however, to talk business, and, when it was concluded, he proposed that they should go out for a stroll through the town.
“By the way,” remarked Ned, as they walked along, “what of Captain Bunting’s old ship?”
“Ay!” echoed the captain, “that’s the uppermost thing in my mind; but master Tom seems determined to keep us in the dark. I do believe the Roving Bess has been burned, an’ he’s afraid to tell us.”
“You’re a desperately inquisitive set,” cried Tom Collins, laughing. “Could you not suppose that I wanted to give you a surprise, by shewing you how curiously she has been surrounded by houses since you last saw her. You’ll think nothing of it, now that I have told you.”
“Why, where are ye goin’?” cried Larry, as Tom turned up a street that led a little away from the shore, towards which they had been walking!
Tom made no reply, but led on. They were now in that densely-crowded part of the town where shops were less numerous, warehouses more plentiful, and disagreeable odours more abundant, than elsewhere. A dense mass of buildings lay between them and the sea, and in the centre of these was a square or plaza, on one side of which stood a large hotel, out of the roof of which rose a gigantic flag-staff. A broad and magnificent flight of wooden steps led up to the door of this house of entertainment, over which, on a large board, was written its name—“The Roving Bess Tavern.”
“Dear me! that’s a strange coincidence,” exclaimed the captain, as his eye caught the name.
“Tare an’ ages!” yelled Larry, “av it isn’t the owld ship! Don’t I know the mizzen-mast as well as I know me right leg?”
“The Roving Bess Tavern!” muttered Captain Bunting, while his eyes stared incredulously at the remarkable edifice before him.
Bill Jones, who, up to this point, had walked beside his comrades in silent meditation, here lost presence of mind and, putting both hands to his mouth, sang out, in true stentorian boatswain tones, “All hands ahoy! tumble up there—tumble up!”
“Ay, ay, sir!” roared half-a-dozen jack tars, who chanced to be regaling themselves within, and who rushed out, hat in hand, ready for a spree, at the unexpected but well-known summons.
“Major Whitlaw,” said Tom Collins, springing up the steps, and addressing a tall, cadaverous-looking Yankee, “allow me to introduce to you your landlord, Captain Bunting—your tenant, captain. I dare say you have almost forgotten each other.”
The captain held out his hand mechanically and gazed at his tenant unbelievingly, while the major said—
“Glad to see ye, cap’n, I guess. Wanted to for a long time. Couldn’t come to terms with old Thompson. Won’t you step in and take a cocktail or a gin-sling? I’d like to have a private talk—this way.”
The landlord of the Roving Bess Tavern led the captain to what was once his own cabin, and begged him to be seated on his own locker at the head of his own table. He accepted these civilities, staring round him in mute wonder all the time, as if he thought it was a dream, out of which he should wake in due course, while, from all parts of the tavern, came sounds of mirth, and clatter of knives and forks and dishes, and odours of gin-slings and bear-steaks and pork-pies.
“Jist sit there a minute,” said the Yankee, “till I see to your friends bein’ fixed off comfortable; of course, Mr Collins may stay, for he knows all about it.”
When he was gone, the captain rose and looked into his old berth. It had been converted into a pantry, so he shut the door quickly and returned to his seat.
“Tom,” said he, in a low whisper, as if he feared to break the spell, “how did they get her up here!”
“She’s never been moved since you left her,” answered Tom, laughing; “the town has gradually surrounded her, as you see, and crept out upon the shore, filling up the sea with rubbish, till it has left her nearly a quarter of a mile inland.”
The captain’s eyes opened wider than ever, but before he could find words again to speak, Major Whitlaw returned.
“They’re all square now, gentlemen, so, if you please, we’ll proceed to business. I suppose your friend has told you how the land lies?”
“He certainly has,” replied the captain, who accepted the phrase literally.
“Wall, I reckon your property’s riz since ye wor here; now, if you give me leave to make the alterations I want to, I’ll give you 1000 dollars a month, payable in advance.”
“You’d better tell Captain Bunting what the alterations you refer to are,” suggested Tom Collins, who saw that the captain’s state of mind rendered him totally incapable of transacting business.
“That’s soon done. I’ll give it ye slick off. I want to cut away the companion-hatch and run up a regular stair to the deck; then it’s advisable to cut away at least half o’ the main deck to heighten the gamin’ saloon. But I guess the main point is to knock out half-a-dozen windows in the hold, for gas-light is plaguey dear, when it’s goin’ full blast day and night. Besides, I must cut the entrance-door down to the ground, for this tree-mendous flight o’ stairs’ll be the ruin o’ the business. It’s only a week since a man was shot by a comrade here in the cabin, an’ as they rushed out after him, two customers fell down the stair and broke their arms. And I calc’late the gentlemen that’s overtaken by liquor every night won’t stand it much longer. There isn’t a single man that quits this house after 12 p.m. but goes down that flight head-foremost. If you don’t sanction that change, I guess I’ll have to get ’em padded, and spread feather-beds at the foot. Now, cap’n, if you agrees to this right off, I’ll give the sum named.”
Captain Bunting’s astonishment had now reached that point at which extremes are supposed to meet, and a reaction began to take place.
“How much did you propose?” he inquired, taking out a pencil and an old letter, as if he were about to make notes, at the same time knitting his brows, and endeavouring to look intensely sagacious.
“One thousand dollars a month,” answered the Yankee; “I railly can’t stand more.”
“Let me see,” muttered the captain slowly, in an under tone, while he pressed his forehead with his fore-finger; “one thousand dollars—200 pounds sterling—hum, equal to about 2400 pounds a year. Well,” he added, raising his voice, “I don’t mind if I do. I suppose, Tom, it’s not much below the thing, as rents go!”
“It’s a fair offer,” said Tom, carelessly; “we might, perhaps, get a higher, but Major Whitlaw is in possession, and is, besides, a good tenant.”
“Then I’ll conclude the bargain—pray get pen, ink, and paper.”
While the major turned for a moment to procure writing materials, the captain looked at Tom and winked expressively. Then, a document was drawn up, signed, and witnessed, and then the captain, politely declining a brandy-smash, or any other smash whatever, left the Roving Bess Tavern with his friends, and with 200 pounds—the first month’s rent—in his pocket.
It is needless to remark, that his comrades congratulated him heartily, and that the worthy captain walked along the streets of San Francisco chuckling.
In a few minutes, Tom Collins stopped before a row of immense warehouses. There was one gap in the row, a space of several yards square, that might have held two good-sized houses. Four wooden posts stood at the corners of the plot, and an old boat, turned keel up, lay in the middle of it.
“I know it!” cried Ned Sinton, laughing in gleeful surprise; “it’s my old boat, isn’t it? Well, I can scarcely credit my eyes! I saw it last on the sea-shore, and now it’s a quarter of a mile into the town!”
“More than that, Ned,” said Tom Collins, “the plot of ground is worth ten thousand dollars at this moment. Had it been a little further south, it would have been worth ten times that sum. And more than that still, the Irish family you lent the boat to—you remember them—well, they dug up a bag from under the boat which contained five thousand dollars; the honest people at once gave it up, and Mr Thompson rewarded them well; but they did not live to enjoy it long, they’re all dead now. So you see, Ned, you’re just 3000 pounds richer than you thought you were this morning.”
“It’s a great day!” remarked Larry O’Neil, looking round upon his comrades, who received all this information with an expression of doubting surprise; “a great day intirely! Faix, I’m only hopin’ we won’t waken up an’ find it’s all a dhrame!”
Larry’s companions quite agreed with him. They did not indeed say so, but, as they returned home after that stroll, talking eagerly of future plans and prospects, the ever-recurring sentiment broke from their lips, in every style of phrase, “It’s a great day, intirely!”
Chapter Twenty Eight.
More Unexpected Discoveries—Captain Bunting makes Bill Jones A First Mate—Larry O’Neil Makes himself a First Mate—The Parting—Ned Sinton proves himself, a Second Time, to be a Friend in Need and in Deed.
“It never rains but it pours,” saith the proverb. We are fond of proverbs. We confess to a weakness that way. There is a depth of meaning in them which courts investigation from the strongest intellects. Even when they are nonsensical, which is not unfrequently the case, their nonsense is unfathomable, and, therefore, invested with all the zest which attaches, metaphysically speaking, to the incomprehensible.
Astonishing circumstances had been raining for some time past around our bewildered adventurers, and, latterly, they had begun to pour. On the afternoon of the day, the events of which have been recorded in the last chapter, there was, metaphorically speaking, a regular thunder-plump. No sooner had the party returned to old Mr Thompson’s cottage, than down it came again, heavy as ever.
On entering the porch, Lizette ran up to Tom, in that pretty tripping style peculiar to herself, and whispered in his ear.
“Well, you baggage,” said he, “I’ll go with you; but I don’t like secrets. Walk into the parlour, friends; I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Tom,” said Lizette, pursing up her little mouth and elevating her pert nose; “you can’t guess what an interesting discovery I’ve made.”
“Of course I can’t,” replied Tom, with affected impatience; “now, pray, don’t ask me to try, else I shall leave you instantly.”
“What an impatient creature you are!” said Lizette. “Only think! I have discovered that my maid, whom we hired only two days ago, has—”
“Bolted with the black cook, or somebody else, and married him,” interrupted Tom, with a look of horror, as he threw himself into any easy-chair.
“Not at all,” rejoined Lizette, hurriedly; “nothing of the sort; she has discovered that the little girl Mr Sinton brought with him is her sister.”
“What! Kate Morgan’s sister!” cried Tom, with a look of surprise. “I knew it; I was sure I had heard the name before, but I couldn’t remember when or where; I see it now; she must be the girl Larry O’Neil used to talk about up at the diggin’s; but as I never saw her there, of course I couldn’t know her.”
“Well, I don’t know about that; I suppose you’re right,” replied Lizette; “but isn’t it nice? They’re kissing and hugging each other, and crying, in the kitchen at this moment. Oh! I’m so happy—the dear little thing!”
If Lizette was happy she took a strange way to shew it, for she sat down beside Tom and began to sob.
While the above conversation was going on up-stairs, another conversation—interesting enough to deserve special notice—was going on in the parlour.
“Sure don’t I know me own feelin’s best?” remarked Larry, addressing Ned Sinton. “It’s all very well at the diggin’s; but when it comes to drawin’-rooms and parlours, I feels—an’ so does Bill Jones here—that we’re out ’o place. In the matter o’ diggin’ we’re all equals, no doubt; but we feels that we ain’t gintlemen born, and that it’s a’k’ard to the lady to be havin’ sich rough customers at her table, so Bill an’ me has agreed to make the most o’ ourselves in the kitchen.”
“Larry, you’re talking nonsense. We have messed together on equal terms for many months; and, whatever course we may follow after this, you must sup with us to-night, as usual. I know Tom will be angry if you don’t.”
“Ay, sir, but it ain’t ‘as oosual,’” suggested Bill Jones, turning the quid in his cheek; “it’s quite on-oosual for the likes o’ us to sup with a lady.”
“That’s it,” chimed in Larry; “so, Mister Ned, ye’ll jist plaise to make our excuges to Mrs Tom, and tell her where we’ve gone to lo-cate, as the Yankees say. Come away, Bill.”
Larry took his friend by the arm, and, leading him out of the room, shut the door.
Five seconds after that there came an appalling female shriek, and a dreadful masculine yell, from the region of the kitchen, accompanied by a subdued squeak of such extreme sweetness, that it could have come only from the throat of Mademoiselle Nelina. Ned and the captain sprang to the door, and dashed violently against Tom and his wife, whom they unexpectedly met also rushing towards the kitchen. In another moment a curious and deeply interesting tableau vivant was revealed to their astonished gaze.
In the middle of the room was Larry O’Neil, down on one knee, while with both arms he supported the fainting form of Kate Morgan. By Kate’s side knelt her sister Nelly, who bent over her pale face with anxious, tearful countenance, while, presiding over the group, like an amiable ogre, stood Bill Jones, with his hands in his breeches-pockets, his legs apart, one eye tightly screwed up, and his mouth expanded from ear to ear.
“That’s yer sort!” cried Bill, in ecstatic glee. “W’en a thing comes all right, an’ tight, an’ ship-shape, why, wot then? In coorse it’s all square—that’s wot I say.”
“She’s comin’ to,” whispered Larry. “Ah! thin, spake, won’t ye, darlin’? It’ll do ye good, maybe, an’ help to open yer two purty eyes.”
Kate Morgan recovered—we need scarcely tell our reader that—and Nelly dried her eyes, and that evening was spent in a fashion that conduced to the well-being, and comfort, and good humour of all parties concerned. Perhaps it is also needless to inform our reader that Larry O’Neil and Bill Jones carried their point. They supped in the kitchen that night. Our informant does not say whether Kate Morgan and her sister Nelly supped with them—but we rather think they did.
A week afterwards, Captain Bunting had matured his future plans. He resolved to purchase a clipper-brig that was lying at that time useless in the harbour, and embark in the coasting trade of California. He made Bill Jones his first mate, and offered to make Larry O’Neil his second, but Larry wanted a mate himself, and declined the honour; so the captain gave him five hundred pounds to set him up in any line he chose. Ned Sinton sold his property, and also presented his old comrade with a goodly sum of money, saying, that as he, (Ned), had been the means of dragging him away from the diggings, he felt bound to assist him in the hour of need. So Kate Morgan became Mrs O’Neil the week following; and she, with her husband and her little sister, started off for the interior of the country to look after a farm.
About the same time, Captain Bunting having completed the lading of his brig, succeeded in manning her by offering a high wage, and, bidding adieu to Ned and Tom, set sail for the Sacramento.
Two days afterwards, Ned got a letter from old Mr Shirley—the first that he had received since leaving England. It began thus:—
“My Dearest Boy,—What has become of you? I have written six letters, at least, but have never got a single line in reply. You must come home immediately, as affairs here require your assistance, and I’m getting too old to attend to business matters. Do come at once, my dear Ned, unless you wish me to reprove you. Moxton says only a young and vigorous man of business can manage things properly; but when I mentioned you, he shook his head gravely. ‘Too wild and absurd in his notions,’ said he. I stopped him, however, by saying that I was fully aware of your faults—”
The letter then went rambling on in a quaint, prosy, but interesting style; and Ned sat long in his room in old Mr Thompson’s cottage poring over its contents, and gradually maturing his future plans.
“It’s awkward,” soliloquised he, resting his head on both hands. “I shall have to go at once, and so won’t have a chance of seeing Bunting again, to tell him of poor Tom’s circumstances. He would only be too glad to give him a helping hand; but I know Tom will never let him know how hard-up he is. There’s nothing else for it,” he added, determinedly; “my uncle will laugh at my profitless tour—but, n’importe, I have learned much.—Come in!”
This last remark was addressed to some one who had tapped gently at the door.
“It’s only me, Ned; can I come in? I fear I interrupt you,” said Tom, as he entered the room.
“Not at all; sit down, my boy. I have just been perusing a letter from my good old uncle Shirley: he writes so urgently that I fear I must return to England by the first homeward-bound ship.”
“Return to England!” exclaimed Tom, in surprise. “What! leave the gold-fields just as the sun is beginning to shine on you?”
“Even so, Tom.”
“My dear Ned, you are mad! This is a splendid country. Just see what fortunes we should have made, but for the unfortunate accidents that have happened!” Tom sighed as he spoke.
“I know it,” replied his friend, with sadden energy. “This is a splendid country; gold exists all over it—not only in the streams, but on the hill-sides, and even on hill-tops, as you and I know from personal experience—but gold, Tom, is not everything in this world, and the getting of it should not be our chief aim. Moreover, I have come to the conclusion, that digging gold ought to be left entirely to such men as are accustomed to dig ditches and throw up railway embankments. Men whose intelligence is of a higher order ought not to ignore the faculties that have been given to them, and devote their time—too often, alas! their lives—to a species of work that the merest savage is equally capable of performing. Navvies may work at the mines with propriety; but educated men who devote themselves to such work are, I fear, among the number of those to whom Scripture specially speaks, when it says, ‘Make not haste to be rich.’”
“But there are other occupations here besides digging for gold,” said Tom.
“I know it; and I would be happy and proud to rank among the merchants, and engineers, and such men, of California; but duty calls me home, and, to say truth,” added Ned, with a smile, “inclination points the way.”
Tom Collins still for some time attempted to dissuade his friend from quitting the country, and his sweet little wife, Lizette, seconded his efforts with much earnestness; but Ned Sinton was immovable. He took passage in the first ship that sailed for England.
The night before he sailed, Ned, after retiring to his room for the last time in his friend’s house, locked his door, and went through a variety of little pieces of business that would have surprised his hosts had they seen him. He placed a large strong-box on the table, and cautiously drew from under his bed a carpet-bag, which, from the effort made to lift it, seemed to be filled with some weighty substance. Unlocking the bag, he proceeded to lift out handful after handful of shining dollars and gold pieces, interspersed here and there with massive nuggets. These he transferred into the wooden box until it was full. This was nearly the whole of Ned’s fortune. It amounted to a little more than 3000 pounds sterling. Having completed the transfer, Ned counted the surplus left in the bag, and found it to be about 500 pounds. This he secured in a leather purse, and then sat down to write a letter. The letter was short when finished, but it took him long to write, for he meditated much during the writing of it, and several times laid his head on his hands. At last it was completed, put into the box, and the lid screwed down above it. Then Ned read a chapter in the Bible, as was his wont, and retired to rest.
Next day Tom and Lizette stood on the wharf to see him embark for England. Long and earnest was the converse of the two friends, as they were about to part, probably for ever, and then, for the first time, they became aware how deep was the attachment which each had formed for the other. At last the mate of the ship came up, and touched his hat.
“Now, sir, boat’s ready, sir; and we don’t wish to lose the first of the ebb.”
“Good-bye, Lizette—good-bye, Tom! God be with and bless you, my dear fellow! Stay, I had almost forgotten. Tom, you will find a box on the table in my room; you can keep the contents—a letter in it will explain. Farewell!”
Tom’s heart was too full to speak. He squeezed his friend’s hand in silence, and, turning hurriedly round, walked away with Lizette the instant the boat left the shore.
Late in the evening, Tom and his wife remembered the box, and went up-stairs to open it. Their surprise at its rich contents may be imagined. Both at once understood its meaning; and Lizette sat down, and covered her face with her hands, to hide the tears that flowed, while her husband read the letter. It ran thus:—
“My Dearest Tom,—You must not be angry with me for leaving this trifle—it is a trifle compared with the amount of gold I would give you if I had it. But I need not apologise; the spirit of love in which it is given demands that it shall be unhesitatingly received in the same spirit. May God, who has blessed us and protected us in all our wanderings together, cause your worldly affairs to prosper, and especially may He bless your soul. Seas and continents may separate us, but I shall never forget you, Tom, or your dear wife. But I must not write as if I were saying farewell. I intend this epistle to be the opening of a correspondence that shall continue as long as we live. You shall hear from me again ere long.
“Your sincerely-attached friend,
“Edward Sinton.”
At the time Tom Collins was reading the above letter to Lizette, in a broken, husky voice, our hero was seated on the taffrail of the ship that bore him swiftly over the sea, gazing wistfully at the receding shore, and bidding a final adieu to California and all his golden dreams.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
Our Story comes to an End.
Home! What a host of old and deep and heart-stirring associations arise in every human breast at the sound of that old familiar word! How well we know it—how vividly it recalls certain scenes and faces—how pleasantly it falls on the ear, and slips from the tongue—yet how little do we appreciate home until we have left it, and longed for it, perhaps, for many years.
Our hero, Ned Sinton, is home at last. He sits in his old place beside the fire, with his feet on the fender. Opposite to him sits old Mr Shirley, with a bland smile on his kind, wrinkled visage, and two pair of spectacles on his brow. Mr Shirley, as we formerly stated, regularly loses one pair of spectacles, and always searches for them in vain, in consequence of his having pushed them too far up on his bald head; he, therefore, is frequently compelled to put on his second pair, and hence makes a spectacle, to some extent, of himself. Exactly between the uncle and the nephew, on a low stool, sits the cat—the cat, par excellence—Mr Shirley’s cat, a creature which he has always been passionately fond of since it was a kitten, and to which, after Ned’s departure for California, he had devoted himself so tenderly, that he felt half-ashamed of himself, and would not like to have been asked how much he loved it.
Yes, the cat sits there, looking neither at old Mr Shirley nor at young Mr Sinton, but bestowing its undivided attentions and affections on the fire, which it enjoys extremely, if we may judge from the placid manner in which it winks and purrs.
Ned has been a week at home, and he has just reached that point of experience at which the wild life of the diggings through which he has passed begins to seem like a vivid dream rather than reality.
Breakfast had just been concluded, although the cloth had not yet been removed.
“Do you know, uncle,” remarked Ned, settling his bulky frame more comfortably in the easy-chair, and twirling his watch-key, “I find it more difficult every day to believe that the events of the last few months of my life have actually occurred. When I sit here in my old seat, and look at you and the cat and the furniture—everything, in fact, just the same as when I left—I cannot realise that I have been nearly two years away.”
“I understand your feelings, my dear boy,” replied Mr Shirley, taking off his spectacles, (the lower pair,) wiping them with his handkerchief putting them on again, and looking over them at his nephew, with an expression of unmitigated admiration. “I can sympathise with you, Ned, for I have gone through the same experience more than once in the course of my life. It’s a strange life, boy, a very strange life this, as you’ll come to know, if you’re spared to be as old as I am.”
Ned thought that his knowledge was already pretty extended in reference to life, and even flattered himself that he had had some stranger views of it than his uncle, but he prudently did not give expression to his thoughts; and, after a short pause, Mr Shirley resumed—
“Yes, lad, it’s a very strange life; and the strangest part of it is, that the longer we live the stranger it gets. I travelled once in Switzerland—,” (the old gentleman paused, as if to allow the statement to have its full weight on Ned’s youthful mind,) “and it’s a curious fact, that when I had been some months there, home and all connected with it became like a dream to me, and Switzerland became a reality. But after I came back to England, and had spent some time here, home again became the reality, and Switzerland appeared like a dream, so that I sometimes said to myself, ‘Can it be possible that I have been there!’ Very odd, isn’t it?”
“It is, uncle; and I have very much the same feelings now.”
“Very odd, indeed,” repeated Mr Shirley. “By the way, that reminds me that we have to talk about that farm of which I spoke to you on the day of your arrival.”
We might feel surprised that the above conversation could in any way have the remotest connexion with “that farm” of which Mr Shirley was so suddenly reminded, did we not know that the subject was, in fact, never out of his mind.
“True, uncle, I had almost forgotten about it, but you know I’ve been so much engaged during the last few days in visiting my old friends and college companions, that—”
“I know it, I know it, Ned, and I don’t want to bother you with business matters sooner than I can help, but—”
“My dear uncle, how can you for a moment suppose that I could be ‘bothered’ by—”
“Of course not, boy,” interrupted Mr Shirley. “Well, now, let me ask you, Ned, how much gold have you brought back from the diggings?”
Ned fidgeted uncomfortably on his seat—the subject could no longer be avoided.
“I—I—must confess,” said he, with hesitation, “that I haven’t brought much.”
“Of course, you couldn’t be expected to have done much in so short a time; but how much?”
“Only 500 pounds,” replied Ned, with a sigh, while a slight blush shone through the deep bronze of his countenance.
“Oh!” said Mr Shirley, pursing up his mouth, while an arch twinkle lurked in the corners of each eye.
“Ah! but, uncle, you mustn’t quiz me. I had more, and might have brought it home too, if I had chosen.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Ned replied to this question by detailing how most of his money had been lost, and how, at the last, he gave nearly all that remained to his friend Tom Collins.
“You did quite right, Ned, quite right,” said Mr Shirley, when his nephew had concluded; “and now I’ll tell you what I want you to do. You told me the other day, I think, that you wished to become a farmer.”
“Yes, uncle. I do think that that life would suit me better than any other. I’m fond of the country and a quiet life, and I don’t like cities; but, then, I know nothing about farming, and I doubt whether I should succeed without being educated to it to some extent at least.”
“A very modest and proper feeling to entertain,” said Mr Shirley, with a smile; “particularly when it is considered that farming is an exceedingly difficult profession to acquire a knowledge of. But I have thought of that for you, Ned, and I think I see a way out of the difficulty.”
“What way is that?”
“I won’t tell you just yet, boy. But answer me this. Are you willing to take any farm I suggest to you, and henceforth to give up all notion of wandering over the face of the earth, and devote yourself steadily to your new profession?”
“I am, uncle; if you will point out to me how I am to pay the rent and stock the farm, and how I am to carry it on in the meantime without a knowledge of husbandry.”
“I’ll do that for you, all in good time; meanwhile, will you put on your hat, and run down to Moxton’s office—you remember it?”
“That I do,” replied Ned, with a smile.
“Well, go there, and ask him for the papers I wrote about to him two days ago. Bring them here as quickly as you can. We shall then take the train, and run down to Brixley, and look at the farm.”
“But are you really in earnest!” asked Ned, in some surprise.
“Never more so in my life,” replied the old gentleman, mildly. “Now be off; I want to read the paper.”
Ned rose and left the room, scarcely believing that his uncle did not jest. As he shut the door, old Mr Shirley took up the paper, pulled down the upper pair of spectacles—an act which knocked the lower pair off his nose, whereat he smiled more blandly than ever—and began to read.
Meanwhile, Edward Sinton put on his great-coat—the identical one he used to wear before he went away—and his hat and his gloves, and walked out into the crowded streets of London, with feelings somewhat akin, probably, to those of a somnambulist. Having been so long accustomed to the free-and-easy costume of the mines, Ned felt about as uncomfortable and stiff as a warrior of old must have felt when armed cap-à-pie. His stalwart frame was some what thinner and harder than when he last took the same walk; his fair moustache and whiskers were somewhat more decided, and less like wreaths of smoke, and his countenance was of a deep-brown colour; but in other respects Ned was the same dashing fellow that he used to be—dashing by nature, we may remark, not by affectation.
In half-an-hour he stood before Moxton’s door. There it was, as large as life, and as green as ever. Ned really found it impossible to believe that it was so long since he last saw it. He felt as if it had been yesterday. The brass knocker and the brass plate were there too, as dirty as ever—perhaps a thought dirtier—and the dirty house still retreated a little behind its fellows, and was still as much ashamed of itself—seemingly—as ever.
Ned raised the knocker, and smote the brass knob. The result was, as formerly, a disagreeable-looking old woman, who replied to the question, “Is Mr Moxton in?” with a sharp, short, “Yes.” The dingy little office, with its insufficient allowance of daylight, and its compensating mixture of yellow gas, was inhabited by the same identical small dishevelled clerk who, nearly two years before, was busily employed in writing his name interminably on scraps of paper, and who now, as then, answered to the question, “Can I see Mr Moxton?” by pointing to the door which opened into the inner apartment, and resuming his occupation—the same occupation—writing his name on scraps of paper.
Ned tapped—as of yore.
“Come in,” cried a stern voice—as of ditto.
Ned entered; and there, sure enough, was the same tall, gaunt man, with the sour cast of countenance, standing, (as formerly,) with his back to the fire.
“Ah!” exclaimed Moxton, “you’re young Sinton, I suppose?”
Ned almost started at the perfect reproduction of events, and questions, and answers. He felt a species of reckless incredulity in reference to everything steal over him, as he replied—
“Yes; I came, at my uncle’s request, for some papers that—”
“Ah, yes, they’re all ready,” interrupted the lawyer, advancing to the table. “Tell your uncle that I shall be glad to hear from him again in reference to the subject of those papers; and take care of them—they are of value. Good-morning!”
“Good-morning!” replied our hero, retreating.
“Stay!” said Moxton.
Ned stopped, and turned round.
“You’ve been in California, since I last saw you, I understand?”
“I have,” replied Ned.
“Umph! You haven’t made your fortune, I fancy?”
“No, not quite.”
“It’s a wild place, if all reports are true?”
“Rather,” replied Ned, smiling; “there’s a want of law there.”
“Ha! and lawyers,” remarked Moxton, sarcastically.
“Indeed there is,” replied Ned, with some enthusiasm, as he thought of the gold-hunting spirit that prevailed in the cities of California. “There is great need out there of men of learning—men who can resist the temptation to collect gold, and are capable of doing good to the colony in an intellectual and spiritual point of view. Clergymen, doctors, and lawyers are much wanted there. You’d find it worth your while to go, sir.”
Had Edward Sinton advised Mr Moxton to go and rent an office in the moon, he could scarcely have surprised that staid gentleman more than he did by this suggestion. The lawyer gazed at him for one moment in amazement. Then he said—
“These papers are of value, young man: be careful of them. Good-morning—” and sat down at his desk to write. Ned did not venture to reply, but instantly retired, and found himself in the street with—not, as formerly, an indistinct, but—a distinct impression that he had heard the dishevelled clerk chuckling vociferously as he passed through the office.
That afternoon Ned and old Mr Shirley alighted from the train at a small village not a hundred miles out of London, and wended their way leisurely—for it was a warm sunny day for the season—towards a large, quaint, old farm-house, about two miles distant from the station.
“What a very pleasant-looking house that is on the hill-top!” remarked Ned, as he gave his arm to his uncle.
“D’you think so? Well, I’m glad of it, because that’s the farm I wish you to take.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Ned, in surprise. “Surely the farm connected with such a house must be a large one?”
“So it is,” replied the other.
Ned laughed. “My dear uncle,” said he, “how can I manage such a place, without means or knowledge?”
“I said before, boy, that I would overcome both these difficulties for you.”
“You did, dear uncle; and if you were a rich man, I could understand how you might overcome the first; but you have often told me you had no money in the world except the rent of a small property.”
“Right, Ned; I said so; and I say it again. I shan’t leave you a sixpence when I die, and I can’t afford to give you one while I am alive.”
“Then I must just leave the matter in your own hands,” replied Ned, smiling, “for I cannot comprehend your plans.”
They had now reached the gate of the park that surrounded the fine old building of Brixley Hall.
The house was one of those rambling, picturesque old mansions, which, although not very large in reality, have a certain air of magnitude, and even grandeur, about them. The windows were modern and large, so that the rooms were well lighted, and the view in all directions was magnificent. Wherever the eye turned, it met knolls, and mounds, and fields, and picturesque groves, with here and there a substantial farm-steading, or a little hamlet, with its modest church-spire pointing ever upwards to the bright sky. Cattle and sheep lowed and bleated in the meadows, while gentle murmurs told that a rivulet flowed along its placid course at no great distance.
The spot was simply enchanting—and Ned said so, in the fulness of his heart, emphatically.
“’Tis a sweet spot!” remarked his uncle, in a low, sad tone, as he entered the open door of the dwelling, and walked deliberately into the drawing-room.
“Now, Ned, sit down—here, opposite that window, where you can see the view—and I’ll tell you how we shall manage. You tell me you have 500 pounds?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Well, your dear mother left you her fortune when she died—it amounts to the small sum of 200 pounds. I never told you of it before, my boy, for reasons of my own. That makes 700 pounds.”
“Will that suffice to stock and carry on so large a farm,” inquired Ned?
“Not quite,” replied Mr Shirley, “but the farm is partly stocked already, so it’ll do. Now, I’ve made arrangements with the proprietor to let you have it for the first year or two rent free. His last tenant’s lease happens to have expired six months ago, and he is anxious to have it let immediately.”
Ned opened his eyes very wide at this.
“He says,” continued the old gentleman, “that if you can’t manage to make the two ends meet in the course of a year or two, he will extend the gratis lease.”
Ned began to think his uncle had gone deranged. “Why, what do you mean,” said he, “who is this extraordinary proprietor?”
“He’s an eccentric old fellow, Ned, who lives in London—they call him Shirley, I believe.”
“Yourself, uncle!” cried Ned, starting up.
Dear reader, the conversation that followed was so abrupt, exclamatory, interjectional, and occasionally ungrammatical, as well as absurd, that it could not be reduced to writing. We therefore leave it to your imagination. After a time, the uncle and nephew subsided, and again became sane.
“But,” said Ned, “I shall have to get a steward—is that what you call him? or overseer, to manage affairs until I am able to do it myself.”
“True, Ned; but I have provided one already.”
“Indeed!—but I might have guessed that. What shall I have to pay him? a good round sum, I suppose.”
“No,” replied Mr Shirley; “he is very moderate in his expectations. He only expects his food and lodging, besides a little care, and attention, and love, particularly in his old age.”
“He must be a cautious fellow, to look so far forward,” said Ned, laughing. “What’s his name?”
“His name—is Shirley.”
“What! yourself again?”
“And why not, nephew? I’ve as much right to count myself fit to superintend a farm, as you had, a year ago, to think yourself able to manage a gold mine. Nay, I have a better right—for I was a farmer the greater part of my life before I went to reside in London. Now, boy, as I went to live in the Great City—which I don’t like—in order to give you a good education, I expect that you’ll take me to the country—which I do like—to be your overseer. I was born and bred here, Ned; this was my father’s property, and, when I am gone, it shall be yours. It is not much to boast of. You won’t be able to spend an idle life of it here; for, although a goodly place, it must be carefully tended if you would make it pay.”
“I don’t need to tell you,” replied Ned, “that I have no desire to lead an idle life. But, uncle, I think your terms are very high.”
“How so, boy?”
“Love is a very high price to pay for service,” replied Ned. “Your kindness and your generosity in this matter make me very happy and very grateful, and, perhaps, might make me very obedient and extremely attentive; but I cannot give you love at any price. I must refuse you as an overseer, but if you will come to me as old Uncle Shirley—”
“Well, well, Ned,” interrupted the old gentleman, with a benign smile, “we’ll not dispute about that. Let us now go and take a run round the grounds.”
It is needless, dear reader, to prolong our story. Perchance we have taxed your patience too much already—but we cannot close without a word or two regarding the subsequent life of those whose fortunes we have followed so long.
Ned Sinton and old Mr Shirley applied themselves with diligence and enthusiasm to the cultivation of their farm, and to the cultivation of the friendship and good-will of their neighbours all round. In both efforts they were eminently successful.
Ned made many interesting discoveries during his residence at Brixley Hall, chief among which was a certain Louisa Leslie, with whom he fell desperately in love—so desperately that his case was deemed hopeless. Louisa therefore took pity on him, and became Mrs Sinton, to the unutterable delight of old Mr Shirley—and the cat, both of whom benefited considerably by this addition to the household.
About the time this event occurred, Ned received a letter from Tom Collins, desiring him to purchase a farm for him as near to his own as possible. Tom had been successful as a merchant, and had made a large fortune—as was often the case in those days—in the course of a year or two. At first, indeed, he had had a hard struggle, and was more than once nearly driven, by desperation, to the gaming-table, but Ned’s advice and warnings came back upon him again and again—so he fought against the temptation manfully, and came off victorious. Improved trade soon removed the temptation—perhaps we should say that his heavenly Father took that means to remove it—and at last, as we have said, he made a fortune, as many had done, in like circumstances, before him. Ned bought a farm three miles from his own, and, in the course of a few months, Tom and he were once more walking together, arm in arm, recalling other days, and—arguing.
Lizette and Louisa drew together like two magnets, the instant they met. But the best of it was, Tom had brought home Larry O’Neil as his butler, and Mrs Kate O’Neil as his cook while Nelly became his wife’s maid.
Larry, it seems, had not taken kindly to farming in California, the more so that he pitched unluckily on an unproductive piece of land, which speedily swallowed up his little fortune, and refused to yield any return. Larry, therefore, like some men who thought themselves much wiser fellows, pronounced the country a wretched one, in reference to agriculture, and returned to San Francisco, where he found Tom Collins, prospering and ready to employ himself and his family.
As butler to an English squire, Larry O’Neil was, according to his own statement, “a continted man.” May he long remain so!
Nelly Morgan soon became, out of sight, the sweetest girl in the countryside, and, ere long, one of the best young fellows in the district carried her off triumphantly, and placed her at the head of affairs in his own cottage. We say he was one of the best young fellows—this husband of Nelly’s—but he was by no means the handsomest; many a handsome strapping youth there failed to obtain so good a wife as Nelly. Her husband was a steady, hard working, thriving, good man—and quite good-looking enough for her—so Nelly said.
As for Captain Bunting and Bill Jones, they stuck to each other to the last, like two limpets, and both of them stuck to the sea like fish. No shore-going felicities could tempt these hardy sons of Neptune to forsake their native element again. He had done it once, Bill Jones said, “in one o’ the splendidest countries goin’, where gold was to be had for the pickin’ up, and all sorts o’ agues and rheumatizes for nothin’; but w’en things didn’t somehow go all square, an’ the anchor got foul with a gale o’ adwerse circumstances springin’ up astarn, why, wot then?—go to sea again, of coorse, an’ stick to it; them wos his sentiments.” As these were also Captain Bunting’s sentiments, they naturally took to the same boat for life.
But, although Captain Bunting and Bill did not live on shore, they occasionally, at long intervals, condescended to revisit the terrestrial globe, and, at such seasons of weakness, made a point of running down to Brixley Hall to see Ned and Tom. Then, indeed, “the light of other days” shone again in retrospect on our adventurers with refulgent splendour; then Larry sank the butler, and came out as the miner—as one of the partners of the “R’yal Bank o’ Calyforny”—then Ned and Tom related marvellous adventures, to the admiration of their respective wives, and the captain smote his thigh with frequency and emphasis, to the terror of the cat, and Bill Jones gave utterance to deeply-pregnant sentences, and told how that, on his last voyage to China, he had been up at Pekin, and had heard that Ah-wow had dug up a nugget of gold three times the size of his own head, and had returned to his native land a millionnaire, and been made a mandarin, and after that something else, and at last became prime minister of China—so Bill had been told, but he wouldn’t vouch for it, no how.
All this, and a great deal more, was said and done on these great and rare occasions—and our quondam gold-hunters fought their battles o’er again, to the ineffable delight of old Mr Shirley, who sat in his easy-chair, and gazed, and smiled, and stared, and laughed, and even wept, and chuckled—but never spoke—he was past that.
In the course of time Ned and Tom became extremely intimate with the pastor of their village, and were at last his right and left-hand men. This pastor was a man whose aim was to live as his Master had lived before him—he went about doing good—and, of all the happy years our two friends spent, the happiest were those in which they followed in the footsteps and strengthened the hands of this good man, Lizette and Louisa were helpmates to their husbands in this respect, as in all others, and a blessing to the surrounding country.
Ned Sinton’s golden dream was over now, in one sense, but by no means over in another. His sleeping and his waking dreams were still, as of old, tinged with a golden hue, but they had not a metallic ring. The golden rule was the foundation on which his new visions were reared, and that which we are told is better than gold, “yea, than much fine gold,” was thenceforth eagerly sought for and coveted by him. As for other matters—he delighted chiefly in the sunshine of Louisa’s smile, and in fields of golden grain.