SHAKING OFF THE YOKE.
It was dusk one evening when Frank was plodding his weary way home; as
he passed through Landfarn he met the doctor.
“Ah, Maynard, how are you?”
“Well enough, Morgan, but amazingly tired.”
“Come in and have a cup of tea.”
“I can’t, doctor, my wife is expecting me, and will be anxious till I
get home. Walk part of the way with me.”
The kindly little doctor walked along with him.
“You can’t go on like this, Maynard; you will never do any good with
this little brute of a cousin of yours. Your wife, too, is getting
thinner and paler. The wear and anxiety are too much for her.”
“Do you think I don’t see it, Morgan?” Frank exclaimed, passionately; “I
do nothing but think of it. I don’t care for the work, hard as it is;
but it’s the thought of her sitting there alone all the day. I’ve been
thinking to-day, I must make an end of it. I can’t stand it any longer.
I shall kill that fellow. I was nearly breaking out to-day. The only
thing is, he’s afraid of me now. He knows he’s gone too far. He comes
down and blows up; but he daren’t say a word to me. He’s no fool, and he
knows that if he gave me a chance—just a chance, I would thrash him to
within an inch of his life before the men; ay, and I would, too. It’s as
much as I can do to keep my fingers still when I see him coming.”
“I wish he’d break his neck,” said the doctor; “but I’d rather he did it
himself than that you should do it for him. I tell you who I pity more
than I do you, Maynard.”
“Who’s that, doctor?”
“His wife. Poor thing, she won’t last long; and it will be a merciful
release for her.”
“Ay, indeed,” Frank said; “I have heard of entertaining an angel
unawares, but if ever a woman married a devil unawares, she did.”
“Well, Maynard, I must turn back. My patients will be wanting me. Keep
your heart up, man, and get out of this as soon as you can.”
“I will,” Frank said to himself, as he strode on in the darkness. “No
one can say I have not stuck to it like a man. It’s nearly two years
since I came down. By Jove, it seems to me I have been here an age. I’ll
tell Katie to-night that I give it up. Australia will be a joke to this.
Thank God, here I am home.”
A bright light streamed out through the door, and a bright face came to
open it as her ears caught the sound of his tread on the gravel.
“Well, dear, how are you?—very tired, poor old boy. There, sit down,
Frank; I’ll unlace your boots. Hannah, bring some hot water for your
master. Tea is all ready, Frank, and I’ve got some sausages for you.
Here’s your coat, dear, and your slippers. Now you look comfortable.”
“And what did you have for dinner, Katie?”
“I?” Kate asked. “Oh, Charley and I had cold meat. He’s such a good
little fellow, Frank,” she added, hastily, but Frank paid no attention
to the latter remark.
“Cold meat!” he half groaned to himself; “there was not a scrap left; I
had to pick the bones last night.”
“There was plenty, Frank,” Kate said, anxiously, “and we had rice
pudding, too. By-the-bye, Frank,” she said, suddenly, “there is a parcel
come for you. I’ve been wondering all day what it could be. No, I won’t
open it till you’ve begun your tea. There, now I’ll open it. Two covers,
three covers; how carefully it is done up, Frank. There—why, it is a
jewel-case. Oh, Frank, what a splendid chain—what a superb chain!”
It was a magnificent chain, of full length for a lady, made of rough
gold, alternated with large pearls, and as thick as a man’s little
finger. Frank and Kate both gazed at it in astonishment.
“Good gracious,” Frank said, “who in the world has sent you that, Katie?
What a present for a woman whose husband can’t earn a dinner for her!”
he added bitterly.
“Frank, you shan’t talk like that,” Kate said, forgetting all about the
chain, and going round to Frank. “Oh, Frank, you will break my heart if
you do. Let us only hope for the best, dear, and all will come right.”
“I’ve made up my mind to-day, Katie, that I won’t stay here any longer.”
“Thank God,” Kate said fervently. “Anything—anything will be better than
this. Oh, Frank,” and she cried on his neck, “I am so glad, dear. I
would not propose it, but oh, I have so wished you would. What are you
thinking of doing?”
“We will talk it over, Katie, after tea. You are forgetting your chain.
Who can have sent it?”
Kate took it out of its case, and held it up.
“Oh, Frank, what a magnificent chain to be sure; and what a curious one,
with such rough gold and such splendid pearls. Can it be real, Frank?”
“I don’t know, Kate; is there no letter? look in the top of the case.”
“Oh, yes, Frank, here is a little note, addressed to me—Mrs. Frank
Maynard.
“BALLAARAT.
“MRS. MAYNARD,—
“It is now three years since your husband helped a
broken-hearted woman in the time of her greatest distress. When
she was friendless and hopeless—when it seemed to her that her
husband was to be parted from her for ever—when to both it
seemed that God had forsaken them, your husband, on whom they
had no claim, even of the slightest, came to them. He gave them
hope and life; he restored them to each other and to the world.
Buoyed up by hope, the husband gained the approbation of those
above him, and the term of his punishment was remitted. He came
to the gold fields; there he worked at his trade. He first built
wooden huts, then took contracts, and bought land. A town sprang
up. That land is worth a hundred times what he gave for it. He
is now a rich man. He can never repay, we can never repay him
whose kindness has made us what we are. My husband wishes me to
say that he has heard from his brother that Mr. Maynard is down
in Yorkshire, at work upon a railway. If you would not think it
presuming on our part, we would say, why not come out here? Work
of that kind is abundant, and well paid for. My husband can
procure contracts, and would be only too glad and too proud to
find the necessary capital, and to work in concert with and
under Mr. Maynard’s directions. Accept a small remembrance of
the grateful regard which is borne by her, who, with her
husband, prays God daily to bless our benefactor and those he
loves.
“BESSY HOLL.”
Frank fairly sobbed aloud. Kate, when she could speak, laid her hand
upon his, and said reverently, “Cast thy bread upon the waters, and
after many days it shall return again unto thy bosom.”
Frank took her in his arms. “Dear wife, at last there is a future for
us—at last there is an end to our anxiety and care. Let us thank God for
it. This man means what he says, and from him, at least, I am not too
proud to receive assistance. He has already made a position there, and
with a staunch and able friend like that, we may rely upon making our
way.”
“Does it not seem strangely providential, Frank, that just as you helped
him and his wife, when everything seemed at its worst, so he now holds
out hope for us when we were ready nearly to despair.”
“It is so, Katie. I accept it as God’s providence, and we will act upon
it. Now, dear, give me some fresh tea; mine is quite cold, and even joy
does not do away with hunger.”
“What a heavy chain, Frank, and the pearls are really magnificent.”
“They have sent the chain with an object, Katie. They had heard from the
Holls of our circumstances down here, no doubt. They were too delicate
to send money, so they have sent this chain. They have almost pointed
out that it is not meant to wear. It would be equally out of place here
as at Ballaarat; besides the roughness of the work is out of all
proportion to its value. No, Katie, these noble people have sent the
chain to pay our passage out there, just as I paid hers. What a strange
coincidence, and how delicately they have done it. The intrinsic value
of that chain, Katie, with such pearls as those, must be at least three
or four hundred pounds.”
“When will you do something, Frank?” Kate said, when, tea over, Frank
had taken his seat in his easy chair by the fire, and had lighted his
pipe. “You don’t mean to go to work to-morrow, do you?”
“Yes, Katie; I will turn out as usual. It will be a real pleasure, for I
shall know it is for the last time. I shall go there, and stick at it
until he comes round as usual in the middle of the day, and then I shall
tell him I’m going. I know it will rile him tremendously, for in the
first place I am very useful to him; in the second, he will lose the
gratification he has in seeing me under him; and, in the third place, he
is bound under heavy penalties to have the first bit of the line ready
in three weeks, and it’s as much as he can possibly do to get it
finished. I should not be surprised if half the men leave when they hear
I’m going. They hate him nearly as much as I do; and if they leave, the
line can’t be open in time, and the directors are sure to enforce the
penalty, for I know he has quarrelled with them.”
“Oh, Frank,” Kate said, earnestly, “how I hate that man! It is very
wicked, I know; but I hate him with all my heart. I should like to see
you say good-bye to him, and, oh, Frank, I would give all I have in the
world, and that’s not saying much, to see you take the little wretch by
the collar, and thrash him—I should, Frank. Yes, you may shake your
head, I know it is wrong, but think how he has treated you all these
months.”
“I do think, Katie, and, what is much more, I think how you have
suffered all these months; and yet I will go away without thrashing him.
It is not from want of good will, Katie, but I am just afraid—no, not of
him, dear, but I am afraid of the law; for there’s nothing would give
him such pleasure as to get me put in gaol for six months. I believe he
would not grudge the thrashing; and in the next place, Katie, I am
afraid of myself. If I once lost my temper with him—if I once touched
him”—and there was such an intense menace in Frank’s tone that Katie was
frightened—“if I once touched Fred Bingham, I should kill him.”
“No, no, Frank,” Katie said, anxiously; “I was only joking. I do hate
him, but I would not have you touch him for anything. No, no, dear.
Promise me you will keep your temper with him.”
“Yes, Katie; I won’t touch him. I shall probably express my sentiments
somewhat forcibly; but, if I know him, when he sees that I am no longer
under his thumb, he will know better than to say a word which would give
me an excuse for doing it. And now, Katie, it’s half-past nine, and I
must go off to bed. Thank God, to-morrow is the last morning. I shall go
up to London with the chain the day after to-morrow, pet. I dare not
trust it by post.”
Very quickly the next morning’s work passed over Frank. He walked up and
down the length of the work, watching the men at work at the various
smaller cuttings. He gave a direction here, and asked a question there;
but all the time the thought was dancing in his brain, “For the last
time, for the last time.” Then he went back to the great cutting. It was
a busy sight, with the swarms of men, each working like a part of a
great machine, without confusion and without noise, each man knowing
what he had to do, and doing it with all his might. The speed with which
the long lines of waggons were filled by men below, and men on the bank
beside them, and by men wheeling the stuff from points beyond. Sometimes
the silence would be broken by the sound of mallets striking upon great
wedges, and by a cry of “Look out, lads! she’s moving,” and then down
with a crash would come a portion of the face of the high clay wall,
previously holed at its foot, as deeply as the men could swing their
picks; and then dozens of men would swarm upon the fallen mass and tear
it to pieces with picks and spear-headed crowbars, called devils.
Sometimes, too, from where the clay was toughest would come a warning
cry, and then the dull report of a heavy shot, used instead of the
wedges for tearing it asunder.
“It’s jolly work,” Frank said to himself. “With any other master, I
should have liked it very much; and, above all, if I were the master
myself. Well, I may be some day; who knows?”
It was just twelve o’clock when Fred Bingham was seen coming along the
line, on foot, as usual, but with his pretty pony led after him by one
of the boys. He looked at everything sharply as he came along, and
addressed a few unpleasant remarks to the men at the tip. Then he came
on to the entry of the cutting.
“Have the men knocked off?” he asked the ganger.
“Yes, sir; about two minutes since.”
“Hum,” Fred Bingham said, producing his watch. “It wants two minutes to
twelve yet by my time.”
“We went to work, sir, by Mr. Maynard’s watch, and we knocked off
exactly at twelve.”
“Whether it had been exactly twelve or not, I should have knocked the
men off when I did,” said Frank, whom his cousin had not noticed except
by a slight nod when he arrived. “I always stop when I have filled a set
of waggons, whether it’s five minutes to twelve, or five minutes past.”
“How many sets have you filled to-day?” Fred asked.
“Eleven.”
“And how many are you working a day?”
“Seventeen.”
“Then the men will have done by four o’clock?”
“Somewhere about that,” Frank said.
“If they can get seventeen sets filled by four o’clock,” Fred Bingham
said, “they ought to do twenty.”
“I differ from you,” Frank said, coolly; “men who are working piece work
expect to get away by four. I am certain if they were working day work
they would not get fifteen sets full by six. They do a very good day’s
work.”
“That’s your opinion, Maynard. I am master here, and I insist upon
twenty sets being filled in future.”
“You may insist till you’re black in the face,” Frank said, “but you
won’t get it done. I know what a fair day’s work is, and I consider
twenty sets to be more than a fair day’s work, and I won’t ask the men
to do it.”
“You won’t, eh?” Fred Bingham said, turning sharp upon him. “You will do
as I order you, Maynard, or you leave these works.”
“Very well,” Frank said, calmly; “then I do leave them. I have worked
here, Fred, as I don’t believe any other man in the world would have
worked for the same pay. You know that I have got your work done more
cheaply for you than you could have got it done any other way.”
“I suppose the pay suited you, or you would not have stayed,” Fred
Bingham answered. “Do you mean what you say? Because if you do, you can
go to the office and get your money.”
“I quite mean it,” Frank said, calmly. “From this moment I am no longer
in your employ. And now, Fred Bingham, as you are no longer my master, I
can speak out. You have treated me, as I believe never was man treated
before. Your father persuaded me to come down here. You took advantage
of the delay in the works to grind me down to a salary you would not
have offered to the commonest man. Worse, you have taken advantage of my
position, knowing my circumstances, and that I was under your thumb, to
say things to me, and to treat me as you no more dare have done under
other circumstances, than you dare have flown. I know why: you hated me,
because I was popular here and you are not; because people were ready to
be friends with your paid inspector, who would not be friends with you;
because I was liked and you were hated. You hated me for this. I have
put up with it in silence; I have borne your petty insults, and you
dared not, no, dared not, go beyond a certain point; but now, thank God,
I am free. You thought you were to be a petty god here, and you hated me
because I would not bow down at your feet. You petty tyrant, you
miserable, insignificant little despot, I have done with you for ever,
and you may thank your fates that I go without giving you the thrashing
you so richly merit.”
Fred Bingham had grown very white as Frank spoke, but he only said,
“Keep your heroics, Frank. The sooner you go the better I shall be
pleased. Don’t you lay a hand on me, Maynard, or you will regret it,” he
said, as Frank made a step towards him.
“You miserable, paltry little cur,” Frank said, contemptuously, “I
should despise myself if I were to touch you. Lads, come here!” he
shouted in a loud voice; and the men, many of whom had looked curiously
on during the evidently warm colloquy between the man they looked upon
as their master and the contractor, drew round. “Look here, my lads,”
Frank said, “you see this miserable, little undersized cur. He is my
cousin; you would hardly think it, but it’s a fact. He has cheated and
deceived, and insulted me, time after time, lads. Thank God, I am able
at last to leave him; and I want you all to hear me tell him, that he is
a loathsome little blackguard. I don’t thrash him now as my fingers itch
to do, because he would have the law upon me, and I have other things to
see to; but I warn him solemnly, if ever I get the chance, I will thrash
him to within the last inch of his life. And now, lads, good-bye. We
have got on, I hope, well together; I have liked you, and I hope you
have liked me. I am sorry to leave you all, but I can’t stand this any
longer. I wish you all well, lads, and I never expect to get a better
lot of men under me. Good-bye, lads, I leave at once.”
Amidst a chorus of “Good-bye, your honour,” and many a hearty shake of a
rough hand, Frank moved out of the crowd of men who surrounded him, and
strode homewards.
Fred Bingham had stood without saying a word while this scene was going
on, and without one of the men paying the slightest attention to him.
The men, after a few words to each other, separated to finish their
dinners. Fred Bingham stood by the side of the cutting and looked down.
Presently he saw one or two of the men put on their jackets, and the
following colloquy ensued, evidently intended for his ears:—
“What are you up to, Bill?”
“I’ve jacked up,” the man said; “I’m off to the office, Bob, to get
what’s owing to me. After working for a real gentleman, I ain’t going to
work for such a —— as that thing on the top there.”
“Ay, ay, Bill, I expect most of us are of one mind there; wait a minute,
and I am with you.”
“Ay, ay,” said a chorus of men round; and in little groups they put on
their coats, and went off towards the town, until not a single being was
left, and the great cutting, which half an hour before had been so full
of life, stood idle and deserted, with the picks, and shovels, and tools
strewn idly about, and the teams munching their oats without a driver.
For a long time Fred Bingham stood immoveable; then, with a deep curse,
he turned away.
“I’ll be even with you yet, Maynard; this is one for you, but I’ve had
the best of it yet.”
The news rapidly spread over the works that Mr. Maynard had left; and
the next morning, out of the thousand men previously at work, not twenty
answered to their names.
Fred Bingham was riding moodily homewards, when he came up to a young
navvy, who was walking in the same direction. Fred Bingham wanted to go
up to one of the cuttings which was close to the road, and so he
dismounted, and called to the lad, in his usual sharp, imperious way,
“Here, you boy, hold my horse for me.”
The lad looked round—“Hold it yourself,” he said.
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Holl? don’t give me any of your insolence, or I’ll
lay my whip over your back.”
“It’s more than you dare do,” the lad said.
Fred Bingham was personally not a coward, and in his present state of
sullen fury he did not hesitate a moment, but struck the boy across the
cheek with all his force with the riding-whip.
Evan had not been a navvy for two years and a half without having his
share of fighting. He was not tall, but he was broad and powerful, and
he sprang forward, and before Fred Bingham could get his hands up, he
struck him a tremendous right-handed blow in the face, which knocked him
off his feet, as if struck with a thunderbolt. Then, smarting with the
pain of the blow on his cheek, he caught up the riding-whip, and lashed
Fred Bingham mercilessly over the head and body, exclaiming, “The first
was for me, but that’s for master; that’s for master, curse you!” Then
throwing down the broken whip, he said, “There, you won’t forget that in
a hurry; now you may go.”
Fred Bingham rose to his feet, half blinded with rage and pain.
“Twenty pounds if you’ll bring him into the town,” he shrieked, to two
navvies who had come up just as the affair began.
“Not if you made it a hundred,” one of the men said, grinning. “You hit
him first, and it serves you d——d well right.”
Fred jumped on to his horse with a curse, and galloped furiously towards
the town.
“You have just about served him out, young one. My eye! how you did lay
it on. You’ve spoilt his beauty for some time; there’s two of his front
teeth gone; and his lips, my crikey! He won’t go grinning about for some
time. Now, if you take my advice, you’ll make yourself scarce. Have you
got any money in your pocket?”
“Only fourpence,” Evan said.
The two men consulted together.
“Here’s three bob; that’s all we’ve got between us. All right—you take
it; we’ve got a few shillings to get at the office.”
Evan took the money. “Will you see Mr. Maynard, and tell him I’m going
to start at once for Sheffield. It’s thirty miles off, and I’ll be there
by morning. He’s going up to town, and I’ll meet him at the station and
come on with him.”
“All right, lad, we’ll tell him. You’d better keep in the fields for the
first few miles.”
Frank had been home about an hour, when the servant told him that one of
his men wished to speak to him. Frank went to the door. “Ah, Baker,” he
said, “what is it?”
“Well, Gaffer, I’ve come up to speak to you about Evan; but I don’t want
any one to hear me”—and he looked round mysteriously.
“Nonsense, man, there’s no one to hear you here; but come in.”
The man followed into the sitting-room.
“This is Baker, Katie, one of my best plate-layers.”
Kate smiled at the man, who bowed confusedly.
“Now, what is it, Baker?”
“Well, sir, young Holl’s got himself into a scrape, surely.”
“Has he?” Frank said, much vexed. “What the deuce has he been up to now?
he’s never got into a scrape before since I had him.”
“Well, sir, it’s a bad job this, too,” the man said, with a twinkle in
his eye; for he had heard the colloquy at the cutting, and guessed that
Frank would be the reverse of angry.
“Well, out with it, man; what’s he been doing?” Frank said,
impatiently—“fighting?”
“Fighting ain’t no name for it, gaffer—knocking a gentleman down,
knocking two of his front teeth out, and then giving it him with his own
whip, till there ain’t a whole place on his face where I could lay the
top of my little finger.”
“Good gracious!” Frank exclaimed; “why he must have gone mad. He
couldn’t have been drinking. There was not time for that; besides, I
never knew him drink. What the deuce could have possessed him? What had
the gentleman done?”
“Well, it was all the gent’s own fault, gaffer; I must say that for
Holl. The gentleman asked Holl to hold his horse, and the lad wouldn’t
do it, and gave him cheek. So the gentleman, he up with his whip and hit
Holl across the face, and Holl went at him like mad, and gave him one on
the mouth which, as I said, master, knocked two of his teeth out, and
cut his face right open; and then he took the whip, and he cut him about
with it, till his face is—my eye! I can’t tell you what his face isn’t
like.”
“Well, it served him right; that is, a thrashing would have served him
right; but not such a tremendous licking as this. And what’s become of
Evan?”
“He started across the fields for Sheffield, master. He said he would be
at the station to meet you in the morning; and it’s well he is, for the
police are out all over the place for him.”
“It’s very tiresome,” said Frank; “but who is this unfortunate man who
has got this tremendous licking?”
“Well, master,” and again the man’s eyes twinkled; “his name is Mr.
Frederick Bingham.”
“What!” shouted Frank; “do you mean to say it’s Fred Bingham?”
“That’s him, gaffer, sure enough.”
“Hurrah!” Frank shouted; “do you hear that, Katie? Thrashed like a sack,
and two of those front teeth he was so fond of showing down his throat!”
“I’m glad,” Kate said, heartily; “I’m glad. I’d have given anything to
have seen it.”
“So would I, Katie. Why didn’t you tell me at once it was Fred Bingham?”
he asked the man.
“I always like to keep my good news for the last, master,” the man said,
with a grin.
Frank and Kate both laughed.
“Here, my lad,” Frank said; “here’s five shillings to drink my health.
Be sure you don’t let out where Holl is gone.”
“Trust me, Gaffer,” the man said; “I’m as close as a mole. Good-bye,
your honour. I wish you luck wherever you go.”
Frank gave the man a warm shake of the hand. “Good-bye, lad; keep
yourself steady.”
“Well, Katie,” he said, when he went back to the parlour; “I am pleased.
To think of that rascal getting his deserts after all.”
“So am I, Frank. It’s very unwomanly, I have no doubt, but I’m
delighted.”
About an hour later there was a noise on the gravel in front, and Frank
went to the door. There was an inspector and three policemen; while
behind them, on his horse, with his face bound up in a complete mat of
bandages, sat Fred Bingham.
“What do you want, inspector?” Frank, who knew the man, said.
“We have come up, Mr. Maynard, in search of a lad who has committed an
aggravated assault upon Mr. Bingham, and who is supposed to be here.”
“I have heard another version of the story,” Frank said. “The boy was
struck first, and he only gave the fellow who hit him what he richly
deserved. But he is not here, inspector; I have not seen him since I
left work.”
“Do your duty, inspector, and search the house!” Fred Bingham exclaimed,
speaking thickly, and with difficulty.
“Hold your tongue, you Bingham,” Frank said; “and get off my property
this instant. I warn you—you are trespassing. You can search the house,
if you like, inspector; but I give you my word of honour that Holl is
not here, that he has not been here, and that I am perfectly unaware
where he is at the present time. If he were here I should advise him at
once to give this ruffian who struck him in charge for the assault.
There are witnesses who saw it.”
“I believe you paid him to assault me, Maynard,” Fred Bingham said,
furiously.
“No you don’t, Bingham,” Frank said, calmly. “These sort of things I am
in the habit of taking into my own hands; and I warn you, you are in my
debt still, and that if ever I have a chance I will clear it off. No;
this time you brought it upon yourself for daring to insult some one who
was not bound hand and foot to you.”
“I don’t know about the rights of the case, sir,” the inspector said;
“however, of course I will take your word about his being here, Mr.
Maynard. Come, boys, we must search somewhere else.”
And the whole party went off down the drive. Another week, and Frank
Maynard, Kate, and the children were in London. Jane, the nurse, had
also accompanied them to London, she having expressed her willingness to
accompany her master and mistress to the end of the world. But Kate
confided her private opinion to Frank that the fact of Evan deciding
also to go with them to Australia exercised a not inconsiderable
influence in her decision. Mr. and Mrs. Holl would have wished Evan to
stay at home to assist his father in the business; but Evan, although
much struck with the dignity and comfort of the position of John Holl,
Dust Contractor, refused to leave Frank; and neither John nor Sarah
would say a word to shake his fidelity. He took up his abode, however,
with his father and mother up to the time for sailing. Prescott had
taken lodgings for the party at Kensington, met them at the station, and
went home with them. Frank and Kate were both in high spirits, for Kate
had written to Mrs. Drake, saying that she had not wished to weary her
by telling her how badly things had gone with them since the time of the
stoppage of the “Great Indian Bank,” but that Frank had been for two
years down in Yorkshire, learning railway work, and that they had now
made up their minds to emigrate to Australia, where they had a friend
who would be enabled to push them. She concluded by asking Mrs. Drake if
she would advance them two or three hundred pounds. The reply came by
return of post, gently upbraiding Kate for not having written before to
say how they were situated, and enclosing a cheque from Mr. Drake for
five hundred pounds. The next day Teddy himself came up. He was as full
of fun and life as ever. Sarah, he said, would have come too; but she
could not leave her baby, who was only a month old, but she, as well as
Mr. and Mrs. Drake, sent every kind message.
Frank had at once consulted the papers, and had found that the
“Tasmania,” a first-class packet, would sail in ten days for Melbourne.
A passage was at once taken for the whole party, and for the next week
Frank and Kate, accompanied by Teddy, had an immense deal of work to get
through.
Kate was quite another woman now. She had never shown before her husband
how anxious she was, but the strain had told upon her severely. Now,
however, it was over, and with the hope of a bright future before her,
she almost regained her former cheerful brightness during the ten days
of their stay in London. Formerly she had dreaded the thought of
emigrating. It had all seemed so vague and dim, and the chance of ever
returning had been so slight; but now there was every hope of success,
and as Kate was taking all she loved with her, she would not have
fretted had she known they were never to return.
At last the day of sailing arrived. Prescott and Teddy Drake went on
board at the docks, and remained with them until the pilot went ashore
at the Downs. Very hearty were the adieux and good wishes; but Kate
kissed her cousin, and her husband’s faithful friend, with scarce a tear
in her eye; and, with Charley held up in her arms, and her husband
standing with his arm round her, watched the boat until its occupants
were no longer distinguishable.
“Now, Frank,” she said, as she turned away from the bulwark after the
last wave of her handkerchief; “we are fairly off at last, and I’ve got
you all to myself for the next five months. I suppose I ought to be very
miserable at leaving England, but it has treated me so badly lately that
I am not so sorry as I ought to be. You keep hold of me, Charley; the
vessel is beginning to roll a little, and you will be down if you don’t
mind. Here, Frank, you take him up; I will go and see after Jane and
baby. I do not expect she is such a good sailor as I am, and I must look
after baby for the next day or two. I feel very happy; don’t you,
husband?”
“Very, darling; and I have every reason to do so. The past has been a
sort of bad dream, Katie; we mustn’t think any more of it. Now, dear,
you go down, and I will light my pipe, and look after Charley.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------