Shortly afterwards the comrades were wrapt in slumber, and the man

with the evil conscience slept the sounder of the two. A little after

midnight he rose and without disturbing Basil, started for the cattle

station. It was a warm starlit night, and he pondered upon matters as

he made his way through the bush. Indeed, during the past two days he

had thought deeply of the situation in which he was placed. Old

Corrie's proposition to take Basil to England had greatly alarmed him,

and had opened his eyes more clearly to its gravity. It was this which

had caused him to hurry Basil away from the vicinity of Old Corrie,

for it was quite likely that Corrie would make another attempt to

prevail upon Basil before he took his departure, and the second time

Basil might yield. At all hazards this must be prevented; step by step

he had descended the abyss of crime, and it was too late for him now

to turn back. In entering upon an evil enterprise men seldom see the

cost at which success must be purchased; it is only when they are face

to face with consequences that they tremble at their own danger.

By daybreak Chaytor was at the cattle station and had made his

purchases; by noon he had rejoined Basil. His purchases, at the

station had attracted no attention; it was a common enough proceeding,

and now they had food for a week. Fifteen miles beyond the cattle

station was a small township where they could also obtain supplies; a

pilgrimage once a week to station or township would keep them going.

In the township such gold as they obtained and wished to dispose of

could also be turned into money. Thus, although they were quite alone,

they were within hail of all that was necessary. Shortly after

Chaytor's return they set to work on the banks of the river. Basil

showed his mate some pieces of quartz with fair-sized specks of gold

in them, but Chaytor decided to try the river first, alluvial digging

being so much easier. They found gold in the sand, and sufficient to

pay, but not sufficient to satisfy Chaytor's cupidity. The result of a

week's labour was between two and three ounces.

"This is better than we have done yet," said Basil.

"It is only the washings from the hills," said Chaytor, "and at any

unexpected moment a flood of rain would swamp us. There are too many

trees about to please me; wood draws water from the clouds. If we

don't do better than this by the end of next week we'll mark out a

claim on the range yonder, where the blue slate peeps out of the

quartz."

Another journey had to be made for food, and this time Chaytor went to

the township, where he obtained what he required and sold exactly

seven pennyweights of gold. He put on an appearance of great anxiety

while the gold was being weighed, and sighed when the weight was

announced. This was to throw the storekeeper off the scent; any

considerable quantity of gold disposed of proudly would have excited

suspicion of a Tom Tiddler's ground somewhere near, and Chaytor, had

he so behaved, would certainly have been shadowed by men who were ever

watchful for signs of the discovery of a new goldfield. It was in

Chaytor's power to sell some fourteen ounces of gold had he been so

inclined, for the matchbox which Old Corrie had furtively dropped at

Basil's feet, and which Chaytor had slyly picked up unknown to his

mate, contained twelve ounces of the precious metal, but he knew

better than to attempt it. There was a post-office in the township,

from which he dispatched a letter to the Sydney office, requesting

that any letters lying there for Basil Whittingham might be forwarded

on to him. He wrote and signed the order in Basil's name. He could not

very well go to Sydney at present to fetch them; there would be a risk

in leaving Basil so long alone, for there being no coaches running

from the township, the journey to Sydney and back could not be

accomplished in less than nine or ten days. Easier to obtain the

letters from England, if any arrived, by the means he adopted, and it

was the easiest of tasks to keep the affair from the knowledge of

Basil, who never dreamed of asking at any post-office whether there

were any letters for him.

They worked a second week on the river-bank, at the end of which they

had washed out over three ounces.

"An improvement," remarked Basil.

Chaytor shook his head discontentedly.

"Let us mark off a prospector's claim up the hill," he said. "We can

always come back to the river."

This was done, and they commenced to sink. The difficulty they now

encountered was the want of a windlass. Chaytor would not venture to

purchase one in the township, whither he went regularly, being well

aware that he could have done nothing that would more surely have

drawn attention upon him. At odd times he bought some pieces of rope

which he and Basil spliced till they had a length of about eighty

feet. This rope, properly secured, enabled them to ascend and descend

the shaft, foot-holes in the sides assisting them. The labour of

digging a shaft in this manner was increased fourfold at least, but

they could not be too cautious, Chaytor said. He remarked also that

they seemed to be haunted by coincidences, and upon Basil asking for

an explanation reproached him for his bad memory.

"How many of us were there upon Gum Flat," he said, "after your horse

was stolen? Two. You and I alone. How many are there here? Two. You

and I alone. When you fell down the shaft how did I get you up? By

means of a rope secured at the top. How do we get up and down this

shaft? By the same means. There was no windlass there; there is no

windlass here. Don't you call these coincidences?"

"Yes," said Basil, "it is very singular."

"It would be very singular," thought Chaytor, "if you were at the

bottom of this shaft one of these fine days and never got out of it

alive. In that case coincidence would not hold good."

He drew a mental picture of the scene: Basil helpless below, the rope

lying loose on the top, and he sitting by it waiting to assure himself

that the mate by whom he had dealt so foully could never rise in

evidence against him. He saw this mental picture at the very moment

that Basil, with his sad earnest face, was in sight.

In the shaft they were sinking they were following a thin vein of

gold-bearing quartz which luckily for them was not devious in its

bearings, but ran down perpendicularly. It was very narrow, not more

than an inch in width, but the deeper they sank the richer it grew.

The vein was more rubble than stone, and the stuff was easily pounded

and washed. The first week they discovered it they obtained four

ounces of gold, the second week seven, the third week twelve, the

fourth and fifth weeks the same, and then there was a jump to twenty

ounces. They had reached a depth of forty odd feet, and not a living

being but themselves had been seen near the spot.

This lucky break in their fortunes gave Chaytor serious and

discomforting food for thought. He was convinced that their better

luck would continue for some time, and was almost sure that the thin

vein they were following would lead them to a richer and wider reef.

What would be the effect of wealth upon Basil? Would it alter his

views? Would it turn his thoughts homewards? He became hot and cold

when this last thought suggested itself, and that night he was visited

in his sleep by a dream so startling that he jumped up in affright and

sat in the dark trembling like a leaf in a strong wind. He dreamt that

Basil had discovered his treachery, and had torn open his secret

pocket in which he kept not only the letters from Annette and Basil's

uncle he had received from England, but the documents he had stolen

from Basil on Gum Flat, and the locket which Annette had given to

Basil at their last meeting. "You monster!" Basil had cried. "You have

ruined my life and shall pay the penalty!" It was at this point that

Chaytor awoke, trembling and in great fear. Presently, when the pulses

of his heart beat more regularly, he heard Basil's soft breathing. He

struck a match, and rising, quietly looked down upon his comrade. The

young fellow was sleeping calmly, with no thought of the evil genius

standing over him. Convincing himself that his stolen treasures were

safe, Chaytor crept back to his stretcher, but he had little more

sleep that night. His sense of security was shaken; the earth was

trembling beneath his feet.

CHAPTER XXI.

When a man evilly inclined turns from the path of evil, it is

generally because he fears for his own safety. He does not choose the

straight road or relinquish a bad purpose from the awakening of the

moral principle, but from a conviction that the deviation will best

serve his own interests. In the initial stages of a bad scheme the

prime mover seldom counts the cost; it is only when he is deeply

involved that the consequences of his evil-doing stare him in the

face, and warn him to halt. True repentance is rare; but there have

been instances where a man, suddenly appalled by the enormity of his

career of crime, conscientiously resolves to turn before it is too

late, and to expiate, as far as lies in his power, for his misdeeds.

There is something of heroism in this, and the sinner may hope for

forgiveness at the divine throne, if not from human hands. Of such

heroism Newman Chaytor was not capable. If he wavered, it was purely

from selfish reasons, and because he saw before him a path in which

lay greater chances of safety for himself. That he did waver is true,

and the more wholesome and more merciful course which suggested itself

to him was due, not to conscientious motives, but to circumstances

quite independent of his original design. On the day following his

disturbing dream he and Basil struck a wonderfully rich patch in the

claim they were working. The stuff which was raised to the surface was

literally studded with gold, and by nightfall they had washed out

fifty ounces. The excitements of a gold-digger's life when fortune

smiles upon him are all-absorbing. Marvellous possibilities dazzle and

distort his mind; delirious visions rise to his imagination. In the

early days of the goldfields it was a belief with numbers of miners

that, at some time or other, gold would be discovered in such

quantities that it could be hewn out like coal. A favourite phrase

was, "We shall be able to cut it out with a cold chisel." Of course

every man hoped that this wonderful thing would happen to him. He held

a chance in the lottery, and why should _he_ not draw the grand prize

which would astonish the world?

These possibilities flitted through Chaytor's mind as he and Basil sat

at the door of their tent, smoking their pipes after their day's

labour. The chairs they sat on were stumps of trees. Furniture they

had none, inside their tent or out of it. For their beds they had

gathered quantities of dry leaves, over which they spread a blanket,

with another to roll themselves in. Rough living, but healthier than

life in civilised cities. Early to bed and early to rise, plain food,

moderate drinking, exercising their muscles for a dozen hours a

day--all this was conducive to a healthy physical state. Their faces

were embrowned, their limbs were hardened, their beards had grown

long--they looked like men. This may be said of Chaytor as well as of

Basil, for such play of expression as would have revealed the cunning

of his nature was hidden by his abundant hair. A stranger, observing

them, would have been astonished at the likeness of one to the other,

and could have formed no other conclusion than that they were

twin-born; but no stranger had seen them thus, for it was only during

their late seclusion that Chaytor, had copied Basil so exactly. Basil

took but little note of this resemblance, and if he referred to it at

all it was in a manner so slight as to show that he attached no

importance to it. But it was seldom absent from Chaytor's mind; he had

brooded constantly upon it, and had studied it as a lesson which,

perfectly answered, was to bring with it the rich reward for which he

had schemed.

"A good day's work," said Basil, holding out his hand for the tin dish

which Chaytor held.

This tin dish contained the gold which they had gathered since

sunrise, and Chaytor was turning it over with his knife. The moisture

had dried out of it, and the gold lay loose. Chaytor passed the dish

to Basil, who, in his turn, played with the shining metal with

somewhat more than usual interest.

"Nearly as much," said Chaytor, "as we've got these last five weeks.

It is a rare good day's work--if only it will last."

"That's the question," said Basil; "I should like to weigh it."

They entered the tent, and weighed the gold in the gold scales, which

form part of a miner's working implements. It turned the fifty ounces.

"Honestly paid for," said Basil, "it represents a couple of hundred

pounds. A hundred pounds each."

Chaytor merely nodded, and made no comment upon the remark, but it

dwelt in his mind. Not so very long ago Basil had expressed

indifference regarding their possessions of gold, and had gone the

length of saying that Chaytor might have his share, for all he cared

for it. Now he expressed an interest in it, and reckoned their day's

work at "a hundred pounds each." That indicated that he looked upon

half as his fair share. What did this newly-awakened interest portend?

With his instinctive cunning Chaytor felt that this was not a

favourable time to open up the subject; far better to let it work

quietly until it came to a natural head. Besides, he was feverishly

engrossed in the question he had suggested, whether the rich patch

they had struck would last. Time alone could answer that question.

They retired to their beds of dry leaves a little earlier than usual,

and were at work in the morning with the rising of the sun. Basil

worked chiefly at the bottom of the shaft, Chaytor at the top, and the

honest man of this ill-assorted pair sent up two buckets of stuff

before breakfast, which was even richer than they had raised on the

previous day. Basil climbed to earth's surface hand over hand.

"He uses the rope like a cat," thought Chaytor.

The two buckets of stuff were emptied into a tub.

"Let us wash it out before breakfast," said Basil.

They went down to the river, carrying the tub between them. On the top

of the auriferous soil were two tin basins, and, after puddling the

tub well and letting the worthless refuse flow over the brim, they set

to work washing what remained in the basins, with that rotary motion

in which gold-diggers are so skilful, and which enables them to get

rid of the loosened earth, and keep the heavy precious metal at a safe

angle in the bottom of the dish. It had hitherto been Basil's practice

to leave this delicate operation to Chaytor, but on this morning he

took part in it, using one dish, while Chaytor used the other. Chaytor

took, note of every small circumstance; nothing escaped him.

"This is a new move of yours, Basil," he said.

"I am beginning to take a real interest in the work," admitted Basil.

"In a manner of speaking, it is waking me up."

"Glad to hear it," said Chaytor. "These two buckets are worth

something. There's not less than twenty ounces."

There was more; the stuff they had washed yielded twenty-three ounces,

and the whole day's yield was worth four hundred pounds.

"Nothing to complain of now, Chaytor," observed Basil in the evening.

"Nothing." Basil was busy with paper and pencil. "What are you up to

there? Figuring?"

"Yes," replied Basil. "I am reckoning how much four hundred pounds a

day would bring us in at the end of the year. Here it is. Three

hundred and twelve working days in the year, leaving Sundays free."

"Why should we do that?" asked Chaytor. "There's no one to see us. It

would be a sheer waste of so much money."

Basil looked up in surprise; the remark was not agreeable to him, the

tone in which it was spoken was still less so.

"I am old-fashioned perhaps," he said. "I do not choose to work on the

Sabbath day."

"Growing particular."

"No; I have always held the same notion."

"We'll not argue. What is your reckoning?"

"Three hundred and twelve working days a year," continued Basil.

"Twelve days for sickness, leaving three hundred. At four hundreds

pound a day we get a total of a hundred and twenty thousand--in

pounds. Sixty thousand pounds each. Truly, a great fortune."

"If it lasts," again said Chaytor.

"Of course, if it lasts. There's the chance of its getting better. How

does it look to you--as if it will hold out?"

Chaytor had been down the claim for some hours during the day, and had

pocketed between forty and fifty ounces, which he chose to regard as

his own special treasure trove.

"There's no saying," he said. "The vein runs sideways into the rock.

It may peg out at any moment."

"We shall not have done badly by the time it does. I have to thank you

for bringing me here."

"Yes," said Chaytor, ungraciously; "it was my discovery. Don't forget

that."

"I shall never forget it, Chaytor, nor any of the other good turns you

have done me. I don't know whether it is a healthy or an unhealthy

sign that this better luck should have aroused me from the apathy in

which I have been so long plunged. It has softened me; the crust of

indifference, of disbelief in human goodness, is melting away, I am

glad to say. That this is due to the prospect of becoming rich is not

very creditable; I would rather that the change in me had sprung from

a less worldly cause; it would have made me better satisfied with

myself. But we mortals are very much of the earth, earthy, and we take

too readily the impressions of immediate circumstances and of our

surroundings. They mould our characters, as it were, and change them

for better or worse."

"You can do a lot of thinking in a little time, Basil."

"How so, Chaytor?"

"Because yesterday you were black, to-day you are white. Yesterday it

was a bad world; to-day it is a good one. A rapid transformation,

savouring somewhat of fickleness."

"A just reproof, but I cannot alter my nature. I have never given

myself credit for much stability except in my affections, and there, I

think, I am constant. As you say, a little reflection has effected a

great change in me. We judge the world too much from our own

stand-point. We are fortunate, we trust and are not deceived, we love

and are loved in return, our daily labour is rewarded--it is a good

world, a bright world. We are unfortunate, we trust and are deceived,

we love and are not loved in return, we toil and reap dead leaves--it

is a bad world, a black world. That is the way with us."

"All of which wise philosophy has sprung from our discovery of a rich

patch of gold."

"I am afraid I can ascribe these better and juster feelings to no

other cause."

"Basil," said Chaytor, toying with his pipe and tobacco, "say that

your reckoning should be justified by results. Say that we work here

undiscovered for a year--for there is the contingency of our being

tracked to be thought of----"

"Of course."

"Say that we do not fall ill or meet with an accident which disables

us, say that to-day is but a sample of all the other days to follow in

the next twelve months, say that we make a hundred thousand pounds,

what would you do with your share? For I suppose," said Chaytor, with

a light laugh, "that the offer you once made of letting me keep the

lot if we struck gold rich, is now withdrawn."

"I am properly reproved. Yes, Chaytor, I should expect my share."

Basil said this in a rather shamefaced voice. "It proves in the first

place that I am not a very dependable fellow, and in the second place

it proves my philosophy, that we are moulded by immediate

circumstances."

"Oh, it is natural enough; I never expected to meet with a man who

would step out of the ordinary grooves. There are temptations which it

is impossible to resist, and you and I are no different from the rest

of mankind."

"I should place you above the majority, Chaytor."

"I am obliged to you, but I am as modest as yourself, and cannot

accept the distinction. Well, Basil, say that everything happened as I

have described, what would you do at the end of the year, with its

wonderful result of overflowing purses?" Basil was silent and Chaytor

continued: "You said once that you intended to live and die in the

colonies. Do you stick to that?"

"No."

"What would you do?"

"I should return to England."

Chaytor shivered. This good fortune, then, which he had bestowed upon

Basil, was to be the means of his own destruction. Basil in England,

nothing could prevent his treachery being discovered. He had led to

his own ruin. With assumed unconcern he asked:

"For any specific purpose, Basil?"

"It has dawned upon me, Chaytor, that in my thoughts I may have done

injustice to one whom I loved and who loved me."

"The little girl, Annette?"

"The little girl, Annette."

"But, speaking of love as you do, one would suppose that she was a

woman. Whereas she was a mere child when you last saw her."

"That is true, and I speak of her only as a child. Chaytor, there was

something so sweet in Annette's nature that she grew in my heart as a

beloved sister might have done. To that length I went; no farther.

Have you ever felt the influence of a child's innocent love? It

purifies you; it is a charm against evil thoughts and evil promptings.

Annette's affection was like an amulet lying on my heart."

"Your object in returning to England would be to seek her out?"

"I should endeavour to find her. Her silence may have been enforced.

She may be unhappy; I might be of service to her. There are other

reasons. I seem in this far-off country to be cut off from sympathy,

from humanizing influences. The life does not suit me. A man, after

all, is not a stone; he has duties, obligations, which he should

endeavour to fulfil. You have heard me speak of my uncle. He was kind

to me for a great many years, up to the point of my offending him. He

is old: consideration is due to him. I should go to him and say, 'I do

not want your money; give it to whom you will, but let us be

friends.'"

"A hundred to one that he would show you the door," said Chaytor, who

found in these revelations more than sufficient food for thought.

"At all events I should have done my duty; but I think you are

mistaken. He has a tender heart under a rough exterior, and was always

fond of me, even, I believe, when he cast me off. I should not wonder

if he has not sometimes thought, 'Why did Basil take me at my word?

Why did he not make advances towards me?' He would be right in so

thinking; I ought to have striven for a reconcilement. But I was as

obstinate as he was himself, and perhaps prouder because I was poor.

In a sort of way I defied him, and as good as said I could do without

him. I was wrong; I should have acted differently.

"You seem to me, Basil," said Chaytor, slowly, "to fall somewhat into

the same error in speaking of him as you do when you speak of Annette.

You speak of the little girl as if she was a woman; you speak of your

uncle as if he is living."

"If he is dead I should learn the truth."

"I suppose that you would not leave the colony unless you were rich?"

"I think not; I should be placing myself in a false position. We will

not talk of it any more to-night, Chaytor. I am tired and shall go to

bed."

"So shall I. The conversation has been a bit too sentimental for me.

Besides, when you say that you are cut off from sympathy and human

influences here, you are not paying me a very great compliment, after

the sacrifices I have made for you. But it is the way of the world."

"Why, Chaytor," said Basil, with affectionate emphasis, "I never

proposed that we should part. My hope was that we should go home

together. You are as much out of place here as I am. With your

capacities and with money in your pocket, you could carve a career in

England which would make you renowned."

"It is worth thinking of; but I must have your renewed promise, Basil,

that you will not throw up our partnership here till we have made our

fortune."

"I give you the promise. It would be folly to land in the old country

penniless."

"So that the upshot of it is, that it all depends upon money. In my

opinion everything in life does."

"You do yourself an injustice, and are not speaking in your usual

vein. I daresay I am to blame for it. Forgive me, friend."

"Oh, there's nothing to forgive; but it _is_ strange, isn't it, that

the first difference we have had should have sprung from the prospect

of our making our pile? Good night, old fellow."

"Good night, Chaytor."

CHAPTER XXII.

Chaytor lay awake that night, brooding. He found himself on the horns

of a dilemma, and all the cunning of his nature was needed to meet the

difficulty and overcome it successfully. The scheme he had laid, and

very nearly matured, had been formed and carried out in the

expectation that the run of ill-luck which had pursued him on the

goldfields would continue. But now the prospect was suddenly altered.

Gold floated before his eyes; he saw the stuff in the claim they were

working more thickly studded than ever with the precious metal;

extravagant as were the calculations which Basil had worked out they

were not too extravagant for his imagination, and certainly not

sufficiently extravagant for his cupidity. There was no reason in the

world why these anticipations should not be more than fulfilled.

Fabulous fortunes had been realised on the goldfields before

to-day--why should not the greatest that had ever been made be theirs?

He was compelled to take Basil into this calculation. He could not

work alone in the claim; a mate was necessary, and where should he

find one so docile as Basil? With all his heart he hated Basil, who

seemed to hold in his hands the fate of the man who had schemed to

destroy him. Luck had changed and the end he had in view must be

postponed, must even, perhaps, be ultimately abandoned. To turn his

back upon the fortune within his grasp for a problematical fortune in

the old country was not to be dreamt of. The bird he had in hand was

worth infinitely more than the two he had in the bush--these two being

Annette and Basil's uncle. The result of his cogitations was that the

scheme upon which he had been engaged should remain in abeyance until

it was proved whether the gold they had struck in their claim was a

flash in the pan, or would hold out till their fortunes were made. In

the former case he would carry out his scheme to the bitter end: in

the latter he would amass as much money as he could, and then fly to

America, where life would be almost as enjoyable as in England. It was

hardly likely, if Basil discovered his treachery, that he would follow

him for the mere purpose of revenge. "He is not vindictive," thought

the rogue; "he is a soft-hearted fool, and will let me alone." Thus

resolved, Chaytor waited for events. It is an example of the tortuous

reasoning by which villainy frequently seeks to justify itself that

Chaytor threw from his soul the responsibility of a contemplated

crime, by arguing that the result did not depend upon him but upon

nature. If the claim proved to be as rich as they hoped, Basil would

be spared; if the gold ran out, he must take the consequences. Having

thus established that circumstance would be the criminal, the

evil-hearted man disposed himself for sleep.

He had not long to wait to decide which road he was to tread. During

the week they learned that their anticipations of wealth were not to

be realised. Each bucket of earth that was sent up from the shaft

became poorer and poorer, and from the last they obtained but a few

grains of gold. The following day they met with no better fortune; the

rich patch was exhausted; the pocket in which they had found the gold

was empty.

"Down tumble our castles," said Basil, with a certain bitterness.

"We may strike another rich patch," said Chaytor, and thought, "I will

not wait much longer. I am sick of fortune's freaks; I will take the

helm again, and steer my ship into pleasure's bay."

He went to the township, openly for provisions and secretly to see if

there was any news from England. There were letters at the Post Office

awaiting Basil Whittingham, Esq. Chaytor put them in his pocket

without opening them, purchased some provisions, and set forth to

rejoin Basil. He was more careful in his movements than he had ever

been. He had a premonition that the unopened letters contained news of

more than ordinary importance, and if he were tracked and followed now

his plans would be upset and all the trouble he had taken thrown away.

Basil and he were hidden from the world; no one knew of their

whereabouts, no person had any knowledge of their proceedings. Should

Basil disappear, who would suspect? Not a soul. Basil had not a friend

or acquaintance in all the colonies who was anxious for his safety or

would be curious to know what had become of him.

Midway between the township at which he had obtained Basil's letters

and the claim which had animated him with delusive hopes the schemer

halted for rest. He listened and looked about warily to make sure that

no one had followed him. Not a sound fell upon his ears, no living

thing was within hail. There are parts of the Australian woods which

are absolutely voiceless for twenty-three out of every twenty-four

hours. This one hour, maybe, is rendered discordant by the crows,

whose harsh cries grate ominously upon the ear. At the present moment,

however, these pestilential birds were far away, and satisfied that

there was no witness of his proceedings, Chaytor threw himself upon

the earth and opened the letters. The first he read was from the

lawyers, who had already written to Basil in reply to the letters his

false friend had forged. It was to the following effect:--

"Dear Sir,

"We write at the request of your uncle, Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham,

who, we regret to say, is seriously ill. He desires us to inform you

that he has abandoned the intention as to the disposition of his

property with which he made you acquainted before your departure from

England. A will has been drawn out and duly signed, constituting you

his sole heir. Ordinarily this would not have been made known to you

until the occurrence of a certain event which appears imminent, but

our client wished it otherwise, and as doctors happily are not

invariably correct in their prognostications it may happen that you

will yet be in time to see him if you use dispatch upon the receipt of

this communication, and take ship for England without delay. To enable

you to do this we enclose a sight draft upon the Union Bank of Australia

for five hundred pounds, and should advise you to lose not a day in

putting it to the use desired by our client. It is our duty at the same

time to say that we hold out no hope that you will arrive in time.

In the expectation of seeing you within a reasonable period, and

receiving your instructions, we have the honour to remain,

"Your obedient servants,

"Bulfinch & Bulfinch."

There was another letter from the lawyers:

"Dear Sir,

"Following our letter of yesterday's date we write to say that we have

been directed by your uncle Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham, to forward to

you the sealed enclosure which you will find herewith. We regret to

inform you that our client is sinking fast, and that the doctors who

are attending him fear that he cannot last through the week.

"We have the honour to remain,

"Your obedient servants,

"Bulfinch & Bulfinch."

Before unfastening the "sealed enclosure," Chaytor rose in a state of

great excitement, and allowed his thoughts to find audible expression:

"At last! Here is the certainty. No more Will-o'-the-wisps. Fortune is

mine--do you hear?--mine. Truly, justly mine. Who has worked for it

but I? Tell me that. Would the idiot Basil ever have humbled himself

as I did; would he ever have worked his old uncle as I have done? What

is the result? I softened the old fellow's heart, and the money he

would have left to some charity has fallen to me. Every labourer is

worthy of his hire, and I am worthy of mine. Basil would never have

had one penny of the fortune, and therefore it is my righteous due. At

last, at last! No more sweating and toiling. The world is before me,

and I shall live the life of a gentleman. There is work still to be

done, both here and at home, and _I will do it_. No blenching,

Chaytor; no flinching now. What has to be done _must_ and _shall_ be

done. There is less danger in making the winning move than in

upsetting the board after the game I have played. Hurrah! Let me see

what the precious 'enclosure' has to say for itself."

He broke the seal, and read:

"My Dear Nephew Basil,

"My sands of life are running out, and before it is too late I write

to you, probably for the last time. You will be glad to hear from me

direct, I know, for your nature is different from mine, and your heart

has always been open to tender impressions. When I cast you from me I

dare say you suffered, but after my first unjust feeling of resentment

was over my sufferings have been far greater than yours could have

been. It is the honest truth that in abandoning you I abandoned the

only real pleasure which life had for me; but my obstinacy, dear lad,

would not allow me to take steps towards a reconcilement. It may be

that had you done so I should still have hardened my heart against

you, and should have done you the injustice of thinking that you

wished to propitiate me for selfish motives. In these, as I believe

them to be, the last hours of my life, I have no wish to spare myself;

I can see more clearly now than I have done for many a long year, and

my pride deserves no excuse. This 'pride' has been the bane of my

life; it has sapped the fountains of innocent enjoyment; it has

enveloped me in a steel shroud which shut me out from love and

sympathy. You, and you alone, since I was a young man, were able to

penetrate this shroud, and even to you I showed only that worse side

of myself by which the world must have judged me. I did not give

myself the trouble of inquiring whether the counsel I was instilling

into you was true or false; I see now that it was false, and it is

some comfort to me to know that your nature was too simple and

honourable, too loving and sympathetic, to be warped by it. Early in

life I met with a disappointment which soured me. There is no need to

inscribe that page in this letter--a loving letter, I beg you to

believe. It was a disappointment in love, and from the day I

experienced it I became soured and embittered. I was a poor man at the

time, and I devoted myself to the task of making money; I made it, and

much good has it done me. With wealth at my command I set up two dark

starting points, which I allowed to influence me in every question

under consideration--one, money, the other human selfishness. These,

with a dogged and obstinate belief in the correctness of my own

judgment on every matter which came before me, made me what I have

been. I had no faith, I had no religion; my life was godless, and the

attribute of selfishness which I ascribed to the actions of all other

men guided and controlled me in mine. You never really saw me in my

true character. That I regarded money as the greatest good I did not

conceal from you, but other sides of me, even more objectionable than

this, were not, I think, revealed to you. The mischief I would have

done you glanced off harmlessly, as the action you took in ruining

yourself to pay your father's debts proved. You were armed with an

shield, my dear lad, a shield in which shone the religious principle,

honourable conduct, and faith in human nature. Be thankful for that

armour, Basil; it is not every man who is so blessed. And let me tell

you this. It is often an inheritance, and if not that, it is often

furnished by a mother's loving teaching and influence. You had the

sweetest of mothers; mine was of harder grain. I lay no blame upon

her, nor, I repeat, do I seek to excuse myself, but I would point out

to you, as a small measure of extenuation, that some of us are more

fortunate than others in the early training we receive, and in the

possession of inherited virtues.

"Basil, my dear lad, you did right in paying your father's debts,

despite the base view I expressed of your action. Angry that a step so

important should have been taken without my consent being asked,

angry, indeed, that it should have been taken at all, I said to

myself, 'I will punish him for it; I will teach him a lesson.' So I

wrote you a heartless letter, informing you that I had resolved to

disinherit you, and suggesting that you should return the money I had

freely given you and which was justly yours. There are few men in the

world who would have treated that request as you did, and you could

not have dealt me a harder blow than when you forwarded me a cheque

for the amount, with interest added. Your independence, your

manliness, hardened instead of softened me; 'He does it to defy me,' I

thought, and I allowed you to leave England under the impression that

the ties which had bound us together were irrevocably destroyed. But

the blow I aimed at you recoiled upon myself; your reply to my mean

and sordid request has been a bitter sting to me, and had you sought

to revenge yourself upon me you could not have accomplished your

purpose more effectually. I have always lived a lonely life, as you

know; since I lost you my home has been still more cheerless and

lonesome; but I would not call you back--no, my pride stopped me: I

could not endure the thought that you or any man should triumph over

me. You see, my boy, I am showing you the contemptible motives by

which I was actuated; it is a punishment I inflict upon myself; and I

deserve the harshest judgment you could pass upon me. If my time were

to come over again, would I act differently? I cannot say. A man's

matured character is not easily twisted out of its usual grooves. I am

as I have been made, or, to speak more correctly, as I chose to make

myself, and I have been justly punished.

"But, Basil, if the harvest I have gathered has been worthless to me

and to others, some good may result from it in the future. Not at my

hands, at yours. You are my sole heir, and you will worthily use the

money I leave you. I look forward to the years to come, and I see you

in a happy home, with wife and children around you, and it may be then

that you will give me a kind thought and that you will place a flower

on my grave.

"I am greatly relieved by this confession. Good-bye, my lad, and God

bless you.

"Your affectionate Uncle.

"Bartholomew Whittingham."

"Sentimental old party," mused Newman Chaytor, as he replaced the

letter in its envelope. "If this had fallen into Basil's hands it

would have touched him up considerably. The old fellow had to give in

after all, but it was my letters that worked the oracle. The credit of

the whole affair is mine, and Mr. Bartholomew Whittingham ought to be

very much obliged to me for soothing his last hours." He laughed--a

cruel laugh. "As for the harvest he has gathered, I promise him that

it shall be worthily spent. He sees in the future his heir in a happy

home, with wife and children around him. Well!--perhaps. If all goes

smooth with the charming Annette, we'll see what we can do to oblige

him. Now let me read the little puss's letter; there may be something

interesting in it."

"My dear Basil" (wrote Annette), "I have something to tell you. Uncle

Gilbert has discovered that we have been corresponding with each

other, and there has been a scene. It came through aunt. The day

before yesterday they went out and left me and Emily together. From

what they said I thought they would have been gone a good many hours,

and I got out my desk and began to read your letters all over again.

Do you know how many you have written me? Seven; and I have every one

of them, and mean to keep them always. After reading them I sat down

to write to you--a letter you will not receive, because this will take

its place, and because I had not written a dozen words before aunt

came in suddenly, and caught me bending over my desk. Seeing her, I

was putting my letter away (I never write to you when she is with me)

when she came close up to me and laid her hand on mine. 'What is that

you are writing?' she asked. 'A letter,' I replied. It was not very

clever of me, but I did not for the moment know what other answer to

give. 'To whom?' she asked. 'To a friend,' I said. 'Oh, you have

friends,' she said; 'tell me who they are.' 'I have only one,' I said,

'and I am writing to him.' 'And he has written to you?' she said.

'Yes,' I said, 'he has written to me.' 'Who is this only friend?' she

asked; 'do I know him?' 'Yes,' I said, 'you knew him slightly. There

is no reason for concealment; it is Basil, my dear father's friend.'

'Oh,' she said, 'your dear father's friend. Is he in England, then?'

'No,' I answered, 'he is in Australia.' 'His letters should have been

addressed to the care of your uncle,' she said, 'and that, I am sure,

has not been the case, or they would have passed through our hands.

How have you obtained them?' 'It is my secret,' I replied. Fortunately

Emily was not in the room, and I do not think they have any suspicion

that she has been assisting me; if they had they would discharge her,

though I should fight against that. 'Your answers are evasive,' she

said. 'They are not, aunt,' I said; 'they are truthful answers.' 'Are

you afraid,' she asked, 'if the letters had been addressed to our

care, as they ought to have been, that they would not have been given

to you?' I did not answer her, and she turned away, and said she would

inform Uncle Gilbert of the discovery she had made. I did not go on

with my first letter to you when she was gone; I thought I would wait

till Uncle Gilbert spoke to me. He did the same evening. 'Your aunt

has informed me,' he said, 'that you have been carrying on a

correspondence with that man named Basil, who so very nearly imposed

upon your father in Australia.' 'That man, uncle,' I said, 'is a

gentleman, and he did not try to impose upon my father.' 'It will be

to your advantage, my dear niece,' said Uncle Gilbert, very quietly,

'not to bandy words with me, nor say things which may interfere with

your freedom and comfort. I am your guardian, and dispute it as you

may, I stand in your father's place. To carry on a clandestine

correspondence with a young man who is no way related to you is

improper and unmaidenly. May I inquire if there is any likelihood of

your correspondent favouring us with a visit?' 'I hope I shall see him

one day,' I said. 'There is a chance of it then,' he said, 'and you

can probably inform me when we may expect him.' 'No, I cannot tell you

that,' I said. 'Your aunt believes,' he said, 'that you are not

speaking the truth when you answer questions we put to you.' 'All my

answers are truthful ones,' I said. 'You refuse to tell us,' he said,

'by what means this secret correspondence has been carried on.' 'I

refuse to tell you,' I answered. 'I will not press you,' he said, 'but

it will be my duty to discover what you are hiding from me. I shall

succeed; I never undertake a task and fail. I always carry it out

successfully to the end. In the meantime this correspondence must

cease.' 'I will not promise,' I said, 'anything I do not mean to

fulfil.' 'That is an honest admission,' he said, 'and I admire you for

it. Nevertheless, the correspondence must cease, and if you persist in

it I shall find a way to put a stop to it. Your reputation, your good

name is at stake, and I must guard you from the consequences of your

imprudence. My dear niece, I fear that you are bent upon opposing my

wishes. It is an unequal battle between you and me--I tell you so

frankly. You are under my control, and I intend to exercise my

authority. We will now let the matter drop.' And it did drop there and

then, and not another word has been spoken on the subject.

"There, Basil, I have told you everything as far as I can recollect

it. I might be much worse off than I am. But it would be different if

I did not have you to think of, if I did not feel that I have a dear,

dear friend in the world, though he is so many thousands of miles

away, and that some day I shall see him again. It is something to look

forward to, and not a day passes that I do not think of it. You

remember the books you used to tell me of on the plantation. I have

read them all again and again, and they are all delightful. If the

choice were mine, and you were to be near me, or with me as my dear

father wished, I should dearly like to live the old life on the

plantation; but there would be a difference, Basil; I could not live

it now without books, and I do not see how anybody could. Often do I

believe them to be real, and when I have laid down one which has made

me laugh and cry I feel as if I had made new friends with whom I can

rejoice and sympathise. There will be plenty to talk of when we meet,

for that we shall meet some day I have not the least doubt. Only if

you would grow rich, and come home soon, it would be so beautiful.

Really and truly, Basil, I want a friend, a true friend to talk to

about things. 'About what things, Annette?' perhaps you ask. How shall

I explain? I will try--only you must remember that I am older than

when we were together on the plantation, and that, as Uncle Gilbert

implied, in a year or two I shall be a woman.

"Basil, when that time comes I want to have more freedom than I have

now; I do not want to feel as if I were in chains; but how shall I be

able to set myself free without a friend like you by my side? I do not

think I am clever, but one can't help thinking of things. I understand

that when my dear father died Uncle Gilbert was doing what he had a

right to do in becoming my guardian and taking care of the money that

was left. Emily says it is all mine, but I do not know. If it is, I

should be glad to give half of it to Uncle Gilbert if he would agree

to shake hands with me and bid me good-bye. We should be ever so much

better friends apart from each other. I did venture timidly to speak

to him once about my dear father's property, but he only said, 'Time

enough, time enough; there is no need to trouble yourself about it;

wait till you are a good many years older.' But, Basil, I want to be

free before I am a good many years older, and how is that to be

managed without your assistance? That is what I mean when I say I want

a true friend to talk about things."

"I must leave off soon; Emily says the mail for Australia leaves

to-day, and this letter has to be posted. I am writing it very early

in the morning in my bedroom, before uncle and aunt are up; it is

fortunate that they do not rise till late. But to be compelled to

write in this way--do you understand now what I mean when I say that I

do not want to feel as if I were in chains? Emily says she will manage

to post the letter for me without uncle and aunt knowing, and I hope

she will be able to. Of course it would be ridiculous for me to

suppose that Emily and I can be a match for Uncle Gilbert, for I am

certain he is watching me, though there is no appearance of it. The

way he talks and the way he looks sometimes puts me in mind of a fox.

"Good-bye, Basil. Do not forget me, and if you do not hear from me for

a long time do not think I have forgotten you. I can never, never, do

that. Oh, how I wish time would pass quickly!

"Always yours affectionately,

"Annette."

When he finished reading Annette's letter Newman Chaytor looked at the

date and saw that it had been written a month earlier than the letter

from the lawyers. Examining the postmark on the envelope he saw that

it could not have been posted till three weeks after it had been

written, and that it bore a French stamp.

"The little puss was not in England," he thought, "when she contrived

to get this letter popped into the post. That shows that she was right

in supposing that Uncle Gilbert was watching her. Sly old fox, Uncle

Gilbert. He means to keep tight hold of the pretty Annette. Saint

George to the rescue! I feel quite chivalrous, and as if I were about

to set forth to rescue maidens in distress. She is not quite devoid of

sense, this Annette; it will be an entertainment to have a bout with

Uncle Gilbert on her behalf. He saw very little of Basil, and if we

resembled each other much less than we do it would be scarcely

possible for him to suspect that another man was playing Basil's part

in this rather remarkable drama. Time, circumstance, everything is in

my favour--but I wish the next few weeks were over."

The harsh cawing of crows aroused him from his musings. Their grating

voices were a fit accompaniment to his cruel thoughts. With a set,

determined face, and with a heart in which dwelt no compunction for

the deed he was about to do, he turned his face towards the spot where

Basil, unsuspicious of the fate in store for him, was awaiting the

comrade in whom he had put his trust.

CHAPTER XXIII.

In Australia, as in all new countries where treasure is discovered or

where land is not monopolised by the few, townships spring up like

mushrooms. Some grow apace, and become places of importance; others,

in which the promise which brought them into existence is unfulfilled,

languish and die out, to share the fate of the township of Gum Flat,

in which Basil had met the man who played him false. Shortly after the

events which have been recorded, a party of prospectors halted in a

valley some eight miles from the valley where Basil and Newman Chaytor

had been working, and began to look for gold. Their search was

rewarded, the precious metal was found in paying quantities, and

miners flocked to the valley and spread themselves over the adjacent

country. The name of one of the early prospectors was Prince, and a

township being swiftly formed, there was a certain fitness in dubbing

it Princetown. All the adjuncts of a town which bade fair to be

prosperous were soon gathered together. At the heels of the

gold-diggers came the storekeepers, with tents in which to transact

their business, and drayloads of goods wherewith to stock their

stores. The tide, set going, flowed rapidly, and in less than a

fortnight Princetown was a recognised centre of the rough civilisation

which reigns in such-like places. Storekeepers, publicans,

auctioneers, plied their trade from morning till night, and the gold,

easily obtained, was as easily parted with by the busy bees, who lived

only for the day and thought not of the morrow. The scene, from early

morning till midnight, was one of remarkable animation, replete with

strange features which a denizen of old-time civilisation, being set

suddenly in its midst, would have gazed upon with astonishment. Here

was a cattle-yard, in which horses for puddling machines and drays,

and sheep and oxen for consumption, were being knocked down to the

highest bidder during ten hours of the day. A large proportion of the

horses purchased by the miners were jibbers and buckjumpers, and a

very Babel of confusion reigned in the High Street as they strove to

lead away their purchases. Around each little knot of mates who had

bought a jibber or a buckjumper a number of idlers gathered, shouting

with derision or approval when the horse or the man was triumphant.

Exciting struggles between the two were witnessed; men jumped upon

unsaddled horses and were thrown into the air amid the yells of the

spectators, only to jump on again and renew the contest. Here an

attempt was being made to pull along a jibber, whose forelegs were

firmly planted before it, while twenty whips were being cracked at its

heels to urge it on in the desired direction. A dozen yards off, up

and out went the heels of a buckjumping brute, scattering the crowd,

and for a moment victorious. Nobody was seriously hurt, bruises being

reckoned of no account by these wanderers from the home-land, who for

the first time in their lives were breathing the air of untrammelled

freedom. It was wonderful to observe the effects of the newer life

which was pulsing in the veins of the adventurers. At home they would

have walked to and from their work, or idled in the streets because

work was not to be obtained, listless and spiritless, mere commonplace

mortals with pale faces, and often hopeless eyes. Here it was as if

fresh, vigorous young blood had been infused into them. The careless,

easy dress, the manly belt with its fossicking knife in sheath, the

ragged and graceful billycock hat, the lissome movements of their

limbs, the hair flowing upon their breasts, transformed them from

drudges into something very like heroes. Seldom anywhere in the world

can finer specimens of manhood be seen than on these new goldfields;

it is impossible to withhold admiration of the manlier qualities which

have sprung into life with the free labour in which their days are

engaged. It is true that liberty often degenerates into lawless

licence, but the vicious attributes of humanity must be taken into

account, and they are as conspicuous in these new scenes, mayhap, as

in the older grooves; and although crime and vice are met with, their

proportion is no larger--indeed, it is not so large--than is made

manifest by statistics in the older orders of civilisation. Next to

the cattle sale-yard is a small store in which the wily gold-buyer is

fleecing and joking with the miner who comes to change virgin gold

into coined sovereigns or the ragged bank notes of Australian banks.

Next to the gold-buyer's tent is a stationer who, for the modest sum

of half-a-crown, will give a man an envelope, a sheet of notepaper,

and pen and ink, with which he can write a letter to a distant friend.

It was an amazing charge, but it was not uncommon during the first few

weeks of life on a new goldfield, and the wonder of it was that men

who toiled in the old countries for little more than half-a-crown a

day slapped down the coin without a murmur against the extortion. Next

to the stationer was a canvas hotel, wherein thimblefuls of brandy and

whiskey were retailed at a shilling the nobbler, and Bass's pale ale

at two shillings the pint bottle. Then clothes stores, provision

stores, general stores, dancing and billiard saloons, branches of

great banks, with flags waving over their fronts, and all driving a

roaring trade. The joyousness of prosperity was apparent in every

animate sign that met the view, and a rollicking freedom of manner was

established, very much as if it were an order of freemasonry which

made all men brothers. Here was a man who in England never had three

sovereigns to "bless himself with" (a favourite saying, which has its

meaning) calling upon every person in sight--strangers to him, every

man Jack of them--to come and drink at his expense at the usual

shilling a thimbleful, throwing to the bartender a dirty banknote, and

pocketing the change without condescending to count it. At present the

circulation was confined to bank notes, sovereigns and silver money.

Coppers were conspicuous by their absence, and, falling into miners'

hands, would very likely be pitched away with scorn. The lowest price

for anything was sixpence, whether it was a packet of pins or a yard

of tape--a very paradise for haberdashers with their eternal three

farthings. The man who was standing treat all round, and the more the

merrier, had been a dockyard labourer in London, a grovelling grub,

who at the end of the week had not twopence to spare, and probably

would have been glad to accept that much charity from the hands of the

kindly-hearted. In Princetown he was a lord, and just now seemed bent

upon getting as drunk as one. He had struck a new lead, and on this

day had washed out more than he would have received for two years'

labour at home. Small wonder that his head was turned; small wonder

for his belief that he was in possession of a Midas mine of wealth

which would prove inexhaustible. Thus in varied form ran the story of

these newly-opened goldfields with their delirious excitements and

golden hopes. A new era had dawned upon mankind, and bone and muscle

were the valuable commodities. So believed the miners, the kings of

the land; the bush roads teemed with them, and a tramp of a hundred

miles was thought nothing of. Their swags on their backs, they marched

through bush and forest, and lit their camp fires at night, and sat

round the blazing logs, smoking, singing, and telling bush yarns

until, healthfully tired out with their day's labour, they wrapped

themselves in their blankets and slept soundly with the stars shining

on them. Up they rose in the morning, as merry as Robin Hood's men,

and drawing water from the creek in which they washed, made their tea

and baked their "damper," then shouldered their swags again, and

resumed their cheerful march. Soldiers of civilisation they, opening

up a new country in which fortunes were made and work honestly paid

for. No room for that pestilential brood, the hydra-headed middleman,

who pays the producer a shilling for his wares, and, passing it on

from hand to hand delivers it to the consumer at six times its proper

value. It is this multiplying process which makes life so hard to

hundreds of thousands in the overcrowded countries of the old-world.

Some passing features of the sudden creation of Princetown have been

given, but one remains to be introduced. Exactly twelve days from the

discovery of gold in the valley, an ancient horse of lean proportions,

dragging a crazy old waggon behind it, halted in the High Street in

the early part of the day. By the side of the tired animal was a

pale-faced man, who never once used his worn-out whip, but gave kindly

words to his steed in the place of lashes. He was poorly dressed and

looked wan and anxious. When he halted there descended from the waggon

a woman as pale-faced and anxious as himself and a little girl

brimming over with life and spirits. The woman was his wife, the

little girl his daughter. The frontages to the most desirable

allotments had been pegged out a long way north and south, and there

were speculators who had no intention of occupying those allotments

themselves, but were prepared to sell their rights to newcomers.

After a few inquiries and some shrewd examination of the allotments,

the man bargained for one in a suitable position, and became its

owner. Then from the waggon was taken a tent of stout canvas, and

while the old horse ate its corn and bent its head to have its nose

stroked by the little girl, the man and woman set to work to build

their habitation. In the course of the afternoon this was done, and

then, after an _al fresco_ repast, the waggon was unloaded of its

contents. This process aroused the curiosity of the loungers in High

Street, Princetown, the goods being of an unusual character.

Mysterious looking articles were taken out of the waggon and conveyed

with great care into the tent, and presently one onlooker, better

informed than his comrades, cried:

"Why, it's a printing-office!"

A printing-office it was, of the most modest description, but still, a

printing-office; that engine of enlightenment without which the wheels

of civilisation would cease to revolve. The word was passed round, the

news spread, and brought other contingents of spectators, and the

canvas tent became a temple, and the pale-faced man a man of mark.

Inside the temple the woman was arranging the type and cases, putting

up without assistance two single frames and a double one; outside the

man was answering, or endeavouring to answer, the eager questions

asked of him, extracting at the same time, for his own behoof, such

scraps of information as would prove useful to him. Pale as was his

face, and anxious as was the look in his eyes, he was a man of energy

and resource.

"Mates," he cried, "look out to-morrow morning for the first number of

the _Princetown Argus_. Who'll subscribe?"

"I will," and "I will," answered a dozen voices, and the enterprising

printer, who had staked his all on the venture, was immediately

engaged in receiving subscriptions for his newspaper, and entering the

names in a memorandum book. His face became flushed, the anxious look

fled from his eyes; in less than half an hour he had thirty pounds in

his pockets.

"Go and get me some news," he said, addressing his audience generally.

"Never mind what it is, I'll put it into shape."

"William," cried the woman from the tent, "you must come and help me

to put up the press."

While the two were thus engaged, a good-natured fellow in the

open took upon himself the task of receiving additional subscribers

and when the press was set up, and the master printer made his

appearance again, a matter of twenty pounds was handed to him by his

self-constituted lieutenant.

"Fifty pounds," whispered the adventurer to his wife. "A good start."

She nodded, beaming, and proceeded with her work, assisted by her

husband. He had announced the initial number of the _Princetown Argus_

for the next morning, and out it would have to come. This would

necessitate their stopping up all night, but what did the matter? They

were establishing a property, and, were already regarded as perhaps

the most important arrival in the new township. In the middle of their

work a visitor presented himself. The printer was spreading ink upon

the ink table and getting his roller in order, when his visitor opened

up a conversation.

"The _Princetown Argus_, eh?"

"Yes."

"A good move. The first number to-morrow morning?"

"Yes."

"Can it be done?"

"Oh, yes," said the printer confidently. "When I say done, done it

is."

"That's your sort. How many pages?"

"Two. The second number four."

"What do you ask for the whole of the front page in the first four

numbers? I've a mind to advertise."

The proposal staggered the printer, but he did not show it; the woman

pricked up her ears.

"A hundred pounds," replied the printer, amazed at his own boldness.

The visitor nodded, as if a hundred pounds for an advertisement were

an every-day occurrence with him.

"With the option," he said, "of the next four numbers at the same

price."

"You can have the option," said the printer, who could not yet be

called a newspaper proprietor, because his journal was in embryo.

"Have you got some bold type? Big letters?"

"Yes. My plant is small at present, but I can do job printing as well

as newspaper work. That's what I'm here for. I shall be getting new

type sent out in a week or two."

"Show me 'John Jones' in big letters."

It was done almost instantaneously, and the visitor gazed at the name

approvingly. It was his own.

"Now, underneath, 'Beehive Stores.'"

The letters were put together, and the printer said, "That will look

well, right across the page."

John Jones nodded again. "Now, underneath that, 'The Beehive, the

Beehive, The Only Beehive. John Jones John Jones, The only John Jones.

Look out for the Flag, Painted by the Finest Artist of the Age.'"

"Go slow," said the printer. "All right, I'm up to you."

"Buy everything you Want," proceeded John Jones, watching the nimble

fingers with admiration, "'at the only Beehive, of the only John

Jones. Groceries, Provisions, Clothing of every description, Picks and

Shovels, Powder and Fuse, Candles, Tubs and Dishes, Crockery, Bottled

Ale and Stout, Everything of the Very Best. The highest price given

for Gold. Come One, Come All. The Only Beehive. The Only John Jones.

The Flag that's Braved a Thousand Years the Battle and the Breeze.

Good luck to all.' There, that's the advertisement. Spread it out, you

know. Here's the hundred pounds. You might give me a paragraph."

"I'll do that," said the printer. "Something in this style: 'We have

much pleasure in directing our readers' attention to the advertisement

of out enterprising townsman, John Jones, the Beehive Stores, at whose

emporium gold-diggers and others will find the finest stock of goods,'

&c., &c., &c. Will that do?"

"Capitally," said John Jones. "Put me down as a subscriber." And off

went the enterprising storekeeper, satisfied with his outlay and that

it would bring him a good return. Both he and William Simmons, the

founder of _The Princetown Argus_, are types. It is opportunity that

makes the man.

The midnight oil was burned in the new printing-office until the sun

rose next morning. Not a wink of sleep did William Simmons or his wife

have; she was almost as expert a compositor as her husband, and she is

presented to the reader standing before her case, composing-stick in

hand, picking up stamps, as a woman worthy of the highest admiration.

When she paused in her work it was to have a peep at her little girl,

who was sleeping soundly, and to stoop and give her darling a kiss.

William Simmons was the busiest of men the whole of the time, in and

out of the tent, running here and there to pick up scraps, of

information for paragraphs and short articles, and setting up his

leading article, introducing _The Princetown Argus_ to the world,

literally "out of his head," for he did not write it first and put it

in type afterwards, but performed the feat, of which few compositors

are capable, that of making his thoughts take the place of "copy." At

ten o'clock in the morning the first copy of the newspaper was

produced, William Simmons being the pressman and Mrs. Simmons the

roller boy. It is a curiosity in its way, and readers at the British

Museum should look it up. There was a great demand for copies, and

Simmons and his wife did their best to supply it, but they could not

hold out longer than twelve o'clock, at which hour they shut up shop,

and, throwing themselves upon some blankets on the ground, enjoyed the

repose which they had so worthily earned. Before they awoke something

took place which created a great stir in the township, and news of it

was conveyed to the office of _The Princetown Argus_. Aroused from

their sleep, the printer and his wife were up and astir again, and

getting his material together, William Simmons, on the following day,

issued an "extra edition" of his paper, the principal item of which is

given in the next chapter.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"A sad discovery" (wrote the editor and proprietor of _The Princetown

Argus_) "was yesterday made on a spot some dozen miles from

Princetown, which we hasten to place before our readers in the shape

of an extra edition of our journal, the success of the first number of

which, we are happy to say, has exceeded our most glowing

anticipations. We ask the inhabitants of Princetown to accept the

issue of this our first extra edition as a guarantee of the spirit

with which we intend to conduct the newspaper which will represent

their interests. The facts of the discovery we refer to are as

follows:

"At the distance we have named from Princetown runs the Plenteous

river, towards which the eyes of our enterprising miners have been

already turned as the source from which, when our creeks run dry, we

shall have to obtain our water supply. The party of miners who have

formed themselves into a company for the purpose of sluicing a portion

of the ground in Fairman's Flat, deputed two of their number, Joseph

Porter and Steve Fairfax to make an inspection of the lay of the land

between Plenteous River and Fairman's Flat, to decide upon the

feasibility of cutting a water race, and upon the best means of

carrying out the design. The ground they hold has been proved to be

highly auriferous, and there is no doubt that rich washings-out will

reward their enterprise. It was not to be expected that they would

make their examination without prospecting the ground here and there,

and the reports they have brought in seem to establish the fact that

the whole of the country between Princetown and the Plenteous River

constitutes one vast goldfield. The future of our township is assured,

and within a short time its position will be second to none in all

Australia. The report of Porter and Fairfax is also highly favourable

to the contemplated water race, and the work will be commenced at

once. It is calculated that there are already six thousand miners in

Princetown. We have room for five times six thousand, and we extend

the hand of welcome to our new comrades.

"Upon the arrival of Porter and Fairfax at the Plenteous River they

naturally concluded they were the first on the ground, no accounts of

any gold workings thereabouts having been published in any of the

Australian journals. They soon discovered their error. Work had been

done on the banks of the river, as was shown by the heaps of tailings

in different places, and on one of the ranges sloping upwards from the

banks a shaft had been sunk. At no great distance from the shaft a

small tent was set up, and the two men proceeded to it for the purpose

of making inquiries. Although the tent presented evidences of having

been quite recently occupied, no person was visible, and they came to

the conclusion that its owner was at work in another direction and

would return at the close of day. Their curiosity induced them to

examine the shaft which had been sunk on the range, and this

examination led to an important result. There was no windlass over the

shaft, but a rope securely fastened at the top hung down the mouth.

They shook the rope, and ascertained that it hung loose. To their

repeated calls down the shaft they received no reply, and they pulled

up the rope. To their surprise there were not more than twelve feet of

rope hanging down, whereas the stuff that had been hauled up indicated

a depth of some forty or fifty feet. A closer examination of the rope

showed that it had been broken at a part where it had got frayed and

unable to bear a heavy weight. Being provided with a considerable

length of rope the men resolved to descend the shaft and ascertain

whether an accident had occurred. Having made their rope fast, Fairfax

descended, and reaching the bottom was horrified to discover a man

lying there senseless and apparently dead. As little time as possible

was lost in getting him to the top, a work of considerable difficulty

and danger, but it was accomplished safely after great labour. Then

came the task of ascertaining whether the man was dead. He was not;

but although he exhibited signs of life the injuries he received were

of such a nature that they feared there was little hope for him. It

was impossible for Fairfax and Porter to convey him to Princetown

without a horse and cart, and Fairfax hurried back to the township to

obtain what was necessary, while Porter remained at the Plenteous

River to nurse the injured man. He has been brought here, and is now

being well looked after. The latest reports of him are more

favourable, and hopes are entertained that his life may be saved. He

has not yet, however, recovered consciousness, and nothing is known as

to his name. Neither is anything absolutely precise known of the

circumstances of the accident, except that it was caused by the

breaking of the rope, a portion of which was found at the bottom of

the shaft, tightly clenched in the stranger's hand.

"There is a certain element of mystery in the affair, and we shall

briefly allude to one or two points which seem to have a bearing upon

it.

"Fairfax and Porter, to whose timely arrival at Plenteous River the

stranger undoubtedly owes his life, if it is spared, are of the

opinion that there were two men working in the shaft and living

together in the tent. Upon the former point they may be mistaken, for

the rope was so fixed that a man working by himself could ascend and

descend the shaft with comparative ease, although the labour of

filling each bucket of stuff below and then ascending to the top to

draw it up, would have been excessive. But upon the latter point there

can be no doubt, for the reason that the tent contained two beds, both

of which must have been lain upon within the last week or two.

Inferring that there _were_ two men working in the shaft, is it

possible, when the accident occurred, that the man at the top of the

shaft made tracks from the place and left his mate to a cruel and

lingering death? This is a mere theory, and we present it for what it

is worth. An opinion has been expressed that the rope has been

tampered with, and that it did not break from natural wear and tear.

If so, it strengthens the theory we have presented. Nothing was found

in the pockets of the injured man which could lead to his identity,

nor was any gold found upon his person or in the tent. Thus, for the

present, the affair is wrapt in mystery."

In the next week's number of the _Princetown Argus_ the incident was

again referred to in a leading article, in which a number of other

matters found mention:

"The man who was found at the bottom of a shaft on a range at the

Plenteous River and was brought to Princetown to have his injuries

attended to, is now conscious and in a fair way of recovery. But,

whether from a set purpose or from the circumstance that his mental

powers have been impaired from the injuries he received, he is

singularly reticent about the affair. He has volunteered no

information, and his answers to questions addressed to him throw no

light upon the mystery. It is expected that several weeks will elapse

before he can recover his strength. Meanwhile we have to record that

gold has been found in paying quantities in the banks of the river and

in the adjacent ranges, and it is calculated that there are already

five hundred men at work there. Gold is also being discovered in

various parts of the country between Princetown and the river,

and a great many claims are being profitably worked. The rush of

gold-diggers to Princetown continues, and men are pouring in every

day. Yesterday the gold escort took down 4,300 ounces; it is expected

that this quantity will be doubled next week. Our enterprising

townsman, Mr. John Jones, of the famous Beehive Stores, is having a

wooden building erected in which his extensive business will in future

be transacted. We direct the attention of our readers to Mr. Jones'

advertisement on our front page. The enterprising proprietor of the

Royal Hotel has determined to construct a movable theatre, also of

wood, which will be put up every evening in the cattle sale-yards

adjoining his hotel when the sales of the day are over, and taken down

after every performance to allow of the sales being resumed the next

morning. This is a novel idea, and will be crowned with success. A

first-class company is on its way to Princetown, and it is announced

that the first performance will be given in a fortnight. Fuller

particulars of these matters will be found in other columns. Our

readers will observe that we have doubled the size of the _Princetown

Argus_, which now consists of four pages. We have ordered an entire

new plant, and upon its arrival shall still further enlarge our paper.

Our motto is Onward."

It will be seen from these extracts that Newman Chaytor had carried

out his cruel scheme to what he believed and hoped would be the end of

the comrade he had plotted against and betrayed. But what man proposes

sometimes fails in its purpose, and it was so in this instance. The

merciful arrival of the two gold-diggers upon the scene saved Basil's

life.

This last act of Chaytor's was easily accomplished. While Basil slept

he crawled to the shaft, and by the moon's light weakened the strands

of the rope some ten feet down. Then he crawled back to his bed, and

tossed to and fro till the dawn of day.

"We'll work the claim till the end of the week," he said to Basil over

breakfast, "and if it turns out no better, we will try the banks of

the river again."

"Very well," said Basil. "I am truly sorry I don't bring you better

luck, but we have something to go on with, at all events."

They walked to the shaft together, and Basil prepared to descend.

Grasping the rope, he looked up at Chaytor, and Chaytor smiled at him.

He responded with a cheerful look, for although the hopes in which he

had indulged of returning to England with a fortune were destroyed, he

had not abandoned his wish to leave the colony. He was sick of the

life he was leading, and he yearned for a closer human sympathy. His

share of the gold they had obtained would be close upon five hundred

pounds--that was something; it would enable him to take passage home,

to find Annette perhaps, to see and speak with her and renew the old

bond; and if the worst happened, if he could not find Annette, or

found her only to learn that the woman was different from the child,

he could come back to Australia and live out his life there.

"Don't lose heart," he said to Chaytor; "we may strike the vein again

this week. There's a bright future before you, I am certain."

"I half believe so myself," said Chaytor; "hoping against hope, you

know." And thought, "Will he never go down?"

Basil gave one upward look at the floating clouds and descended.

Chaytor bent over the mouth of the shaft, looked down, and listened.

"Is the rope firm?" Basil cried out.

"Quite firm," said Chaytor. Then there came a terrified scream, and

the sound of a heavy body falling. Then--silence.

Chaytor, with white face and lips tightly set, still bent over the

mouth of the shaft, still looked down the dark depths, still listened.

Not a sound--not even a groan.

"It is done," he muttered.

He pulled up the severed rope, and thought that it might have happened

without his intervention. He had read of a parallel instance, and of

the death of a miner in consequence.

"It was an accident," he said, "as this is. The rope would have given

way without my touching it. Such things occur all over the world. Look

at the colliery accidents at home--hundreds of men are killed in them,

here there is only one."

These thoughts were not prompted by compunction; he simply desired to

shift the responsibility from his own shoulders. It was a miserable

subterfuge, and did not succeed. In the first flush of his crime its

shadow haunted him.

He let the rope fall from his hand down the shaft. "I could not go to

him," he said, "if I wanted. How quiet he is!"

A mad impulse seized him.

"Basil Basil!" he cried in his loudest tone; and as no reply reached

him, he said, looking around, "Well, then, is it my fault that he does

not answer me?"

He paced to and fro, a dozen steps this way, a dozen that, counting

his steps. Fifty times at least he did this, always with the intention

of going to the tent or the river, and always being drawn back to the

mouth of the shaft, over which he hung and lingered. It possessed a

horrible fascination for him.

"I _will_ go this time," he said, but he could not. He remained an

hour--the longest hour in his life. At length he went down to the

river, and as he gazed upon it thought, "Men die by drowning. What

does it matter the kind of death? Death is death: it is always the

same."

The interminable hours lagged on till night came. He sat in the tent

weighing the gold and getting ready for flight. Once in Sydney he

would take the first ship for England. The flickering candle cast

monstrous shadows upon the walls and ceiling, and in his nervous state

he shrank shudderingly from them, and strove to ward them off, as

though they were living forms hovering about him with fell intent. The

silence appalled him; he would have given gold for the piping of a

little bird.

Thus passed the miserable night, and in the morning he visited the

shaft again. The same awful stillness reigned.

"It is all over," he said. "Newman Chaytor is dead; I, Basil

Whittingham, live. No one will ever know. Now for England!"

CHAPTER XXV.

Occasionally in a man's life comes a pause: as between the acts of a

drama action slumbers awhile--only that the march through life's

season never halts. The pulse of time throbs silently and steadily

until the natural span is reached, or is earlier snapped, and the

bridge between mortality and immortality is crossed. Meanwhile the man

grows older--that is all. For him upon the tree of experience there is

neither blossom nor bloom; bare branches spread out, naked of hope,

and he gazes upon them in dumb wonderment or despair. The hum of

woodland life, the panorama of wondrous colour, the unceasing growth

of life out of death, the warlike sun, the breath of peace in moon and

stars, the eternal pæn that all nature sings, bear no message to his

soul. He walks, he eats, he sleeps, and waits unconsciously for the

divine touch that shall arouse him from his trance.

Something of this kind occurred to Basil. Recovering from the physical

injuries he had sustained, he sank into an apathetic state which, but

for some powerful incentive, might have been morally fatal. Friends he

had none, or the effort might have been made; so for a year after

Newman Chaytor had left Australia he plodded aimlessly on, working for

wages which kept him in food, and desiring nothing more. Upon the

subject of his mate's desertion he preserved silence, as indeed he did

upon most other subjects, but it might reasonably have been expected

that upon this theme in which he was directly interested he would have

been willing to open his mind. It was not so. To questions addressed

to him he returned brief and unsatisfactory answers, and after a time

nothing further was asked of him. Curiosity died out; if he chose to

keep himself aloof it was his business, and in the new world, as in

the old, every man's affairs were sufficient to occupy him without

troubling himself about strangers. Thus it would appear that the

scheme upon which Newman Chaytor had bent all his energies was

destined to be in every way successful.

With respect to the desertion and the disappearance of the gold, an

equal share of which was rightfully and lawfully his, Basil had

arrived at a definite conclusion. He entertained no doubt that the

rope had broken naturally; suspicion of foul play did not cross his

mind. He argued that Chaytor, believing him to be dead, had taken the

gold and left the claim they had been working in disgust. "He made no

secret," thought Basil, "that he was sick of the life we were leading.

To have gone away and left my share of the gold behind him--I being,

as he supposed, dead--would have been an act of folly. I do not blame

him; good luck go with him. He stuck to me to the last, and proved

himself my friend when most I needed one. Let my life go on as it

will; I will think nothing and say nothing to his injury." A

vindictive man would have argued otherwise, would have thought that it

was at least a comrade's duty, before he left the spot, to convince

himself by ocular proof that the fall was fatal. But Basil was not

vindictive; he believed he had the best of reasons to be grateful to

Chaytor, and if the gold his mate had taken was any repayment for

services rendered in the past, he was welcome to it. The strong moral

principle in Basil's nature kept him from yielding to temptations

against which not all men struggle successfully when misfortune

persistently dogs them. He led an honest life of toil, without

ambition to lift himself to a higher level. But happily an awakening

was in store for him, and it came through the sweetest and most

humanising of influences.

Princetown throve apace; its promise was fulfilled, and twenty

thousand men found prosperous lodgment therein. The majority delved,

the minority traded, most of them throve. To be sure some were

unfortunate, and some idled and dissipated, but this must always be

expected. New leads were discovered, quartz reefs were opened,

crushing machines were put up, streets were formed, a fire brigade was

established, a benevolent institute and a lunatic asylum were founded.

Not even a mushroom town in these new countries can exist without

something in the shape of a municipal council, and one was formed in

Princetown, over the elections for which there was prodigious

excitement. Churches and chapels, even a synagogue, were erected by

voluntary contributions, and there were churchyards in which already

wanderers found rest. All the important buildings were now of wood,

and there was a talk of stone, the primal honour of erecting which was

presently to fall to John Jones, the enterprising proprietor of the

Only Beehive. The _Princetown Argus_ shared in the general prosperity.

First a weekly, then a bi-weekly, then a tri-weekly, finally a daily.

First, two pages, the size of the _Globe_, then four pages ditto,

finally four pages, the size of the _Times_. Not a bad sample of

enterprise this. The Saturday edition was eight pages, to serve the

purpose of a weekly as well as a daily, and in it was published a

novel, "to be continued in our next," which the editor took from a

London monthly magazine, and for which, in the innocence of his heart,

he paid nothing. Of course there was an opposition journal, but the

_Princetown Argus_ had taken the lead, and kept it in the face of all

newcomers. The shrewd editor and proprietor did one piece of business

with a more than usually obstinate rival which deserves to be

recorded. He bought up an opposition paper, the _Princetown Herald_,

whose politics were the reverse of those he advocated, and for a

considerable time he ran the two papers on their original lines, each

attacking the other's principles and policy with fierce zest and

vigour. Thus he occupied both fields of public opinion, and threw sops

to all who took an interest in local and colonial politics. And here a

word in the shape of information which will surprise many readers.

England is overrun with newspapers; the United States is more than

overrun, having nearly three to our one; but in journalistic

enterprise Australasia beats the record, having, in proportion to

population, more newspapers than any other country in the world. An

astonishing fact.

Two circumstances must be mentioned which bear upon our story. The

first is that Basil's surname was not known; he called himself Basil,

and was so called. The second is that in the column of the _Princetown

Argus_ in which births, marriages, and deaths were advertised, there

was recorded the birth and death of a baby, the child of the editor

and his wife, born one day and dying the next. This was the first

birth and burial in Princetown. The child left to them, the little

girl of whom we have already spoken, whose name was Edith, took the

loss of her baby sister much to heart, and never a week passed that

she did not visit the churchyard and sit by the tiny grave.

At the end of twelve months or so there came to Princetown a preacher

of extraordinary power. He was rough, he was uncultivated, he had not

been educated for the pulpit, but he could stir the masses and wake up

sleeping souls. He had a marvellous magnetism and tremendous

earnestness, which silenced the scoffer and made the sinner tremble;

the consequence was that sinners and scoffers went to hear him, and

some few were made better by his denunciations. There are souls which

can be reached only through fear. Happily there are more which can be

reached through love.

Amongst those who were drawn to listen to the preacher was Basil, and

being once present he did not miss a service. One Sabbath the preacher

took sluggishness for his theme which he denounced, in its physical

and moral attributes, as a sin, the consequences of which were not to

be avoided. Men were sent into the world to work, to fulfil duties,

and to seek both assiduously. It was not only sinful, it was cowardly,

to put on the armour of indolence and indifference, and to so intrench

oneself was destructive of the highest qualities of humanity, the

exercise of which lifted men above the level of the beasts of the

field. To say, because one is unfortunate, "Oh, what is the use of

striving?" tends to rob life of nobility and heroism. To fight the

battle manfully to the last, to keep one's heart open to humanising

influences, however poor the return which proffered love and sympathy

and charity may meet with, is the work of a man and brings its reward.

He has striven, he has proved himself, he has established his claim to

the higher life. To live only for the day, to be indifferent to the

morrow, is a quality by which animals without reason are

distinguished, and, to share with them in this respect is a cowardly

and sinful degradation. "If" (said the preacher) "there are any here

who have fallen so low, I say to them, Arouse yourselves; take down

the shutters which darken heart and soul; admit the light which

purifies and sweetens. Be men, not brutes."

This was the sum of his sermon. Few understood it, but they did not

perhaps value it the less highly on that account. To Basil it came as

a reproach; he quivered under the strokes and left the place of

worship with a beating heart, with tumultuous thoughts in his mind.

Scarcely noting whither he was going he walked towards the churchyard,

and there in the distance, sitting by a grave, he saw a child. It was

Edith sitting by the grave of her baby sister.

The scene, the attitude, brought Annette's form to his mind. So used

she to sit by her mother's grave on the plantation, and he had

accompanied her and sat by her side. He looked about for flowers;

there were none near; but when he approached Edith he saw that she had

some in her lap, and was weaving them into a garland, as Annette had

done in a time really not so very long ago, but which seemed to belong

to another life. She looked up at him, and the tenderness of her gaze

touched him deeply; instantly on her countenance was reflected the sad

wistfulness which dwelt on his. Children are peculiarly receptive;

they meet your smiles with smiles, your sadness with sadness. Edith

just shifted her little body, conveying in the slight movement an

invitation to Basil to sit beside her. He instantly took his place

close to her, and they fell naturally into conversation.

"What is your name, little one?"

"Edith. Tell me yours. I like you."

"My name is Basil."

"I like that, too. Here is a flower for you."

"Where did you gather them, Edith?"

"We have a garden. Father says it puts him in mind of home."

"Who is your father?"

"Don't you know? Everybody else does. He's the editor of the

_Princetown Argus_. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes. And you have a mother?"

"Oh, yes. She is very clever." Basil nodded. "Father says she is the

cleverest woman in the world. She can make clothes, she can cook, she

knows all about flowers, she can write paragraphs for the paper, and

when they are written she can print them."

"That is a great deal for your mother to do. Does she really help to

print the newspaper?"

"Not now. She did when we first came here. But father has a great many

gentlemen printers in the office, and they do all that. These are

English flowers. The seeds come all the way from England where I was

born; but I don't remember it because I was only a little baby when we

came over in a great big ship. I don't remember the ship either, but I

know all about it because mother has told me about the great storm,

and how we were nearly wrecked, and how the ship was battered to

pieces almost."

"The English flowers put your father in mind of home. That is

England?"

"Yes, that is England. When we're very rich we're going back there. Do

you know where it is?"

"I come from England."

"That is nice. Like us. Are you going back?"

"I cannot say."

"Why? Because you don't know?"

"That is the reason, perhaps."

"You see," said Edith, arranging some flowers on the grave in the

shape of a cross, "there are so many people there we love. Two

grandfathers, two grandmothers, and such a lot of cousins I've never

seen. England must be very, very beautiful. Father and mother call it

home, and when I write I always say, 'We are coming home one day.'

We're going to have a fig-tree; father says we shall sit under it."

Basil smiled. "I like you to smile; you don't look so unhappy then.

What makes you unhappy? You mustn't be. You must go home with us and

see the people you love."

"Suppose there are none, little Edith."

She gazed at him solemnly. "Not even an angel?" she asked.

"An angel!" he exclaimed somewhat startled.

"Yes, an angel. One was here once." She had completed the cross of

flowers, and she pointed to the grave. "Only for a little while, and

when we go home she is coming with us. She came from heaven to us just

for one night only; I was asleep and didn't see her; I was so sorry.

Then they brought her here, and she flew straight up to heaven. I

can't go up there to give her the English flowers, so I lay them here

where she can see them, and when I come again and the flowers are gone

I know that she has taken them away and put them in a jug of water--up

there. Mother says flowers never die in heaven, so baby sister must

have a lot. I dream of her sometimes; I wish you could see her as I

do. There's a picture of a baby angel over my bed, and she is just

like that. Such beautiful large grey eyes--my eyes are grey--and

shining wings. We love each other dearly."

"I hope that will always be, little Edith."

"Oh, it will be. When you love once you love always; that is what

mother says, and she never says anything wrong. I wish you had an

angel."

"I had one once."

"Why, then you have one now. Once means always. Was she a little

girl?"

"Yes."

"Like our angel. I am glad. Now you must come and see mother and

father." She rose and took his hand.

"They do not know me, Edith."

"But _I_ know you, and you know me. You must come."

"Yes, I will come. May I take one flower from your cross?"

"Yes."

He selected one and kissed it, and they walked together side by side.

The preacher had said, "Take down the shutters which darken heart and

soul; admit the light which purifies and sweetens." It was done, and

the light was shining in Basil's heart. He clung to the little hand

which was clasped in his. In that good hour it was indeed a Divine

link which re-united him once more to what was best and noblest. The

shadows were dying away. Dark days were before him, strange

experiences were to be his, but in the darkest day of the future a

star was always to shine. "Annette, Annette, Annette," he whispered.

"I will make an endeavour to see you. I will never again lose faith. A

weight has gone from my heart."

"Let me kiss the flower where you kissed it," said Edith.

He put it to her lips, and she kissed it, and raised her face

innocently. He stooped and kissed her lips.

"I think," said Edith contemplatively, "I like you better than any one

else except mother and father and baby angel."

The office of the _Princetown Argus_ was now an extensive building all

on one floor; architects had not yet reached higher flights. The door

from the street opened midway between two rooms, the one to the right

being that in which advertisements and orders for subscriptions were

taken, the one to the left being used for book-keeper, editor, and

reporters indiscriminately. The reporting staff did a great part of

their work standing; there were only a desk and a stool for the

book-keeper, who assisted in the reading of proofs, and a table and

two chairs for the accommodation of the editor and sub-editor.

Adjoining these two rooms in the rear was the composing-room of the

newspaper, in the rear of that the jobbing-room, in the rear of that

the press room. The living apartments of the editor and his little

family were quite at the end of the building, and were really

commodious--sitting-room, kitchen, and two sleeping-rooms, one for

little Edith, the other for her parents. In the sitting-room there was

a piano upon which every member of the family could play with one

finger, there were framed chromos on the walls, and sufficient

accommodation in the shape of chairs and tables. The mantelpiece was

embellished with an extensive array of photographs of grandfathers,

grandmothers, uncles, aunts, and cousins; and the floor was covered

with red baize. Taking it altogether it was an elegant abode for a new

goldfield, and Edith's garden, upon which the window of her bedroom

looked out, imparted to it an air of refinement and sweetness

exceedingly pleasant to contemplate. When Edith, still holding Basil's

hand, passed through the business rooms and entered the sitting-room,

the happy editor and proprietor was alone, his wife being busy in the

kitchen getting dinner ready. Domestic servants were the rarest of

birds in Princetown; indeed there were none in the private

establishments, for as soon as a girl or woman made her appearance in

the township there was a "rush" for her, and before she had been there

a week she had at least a dozen offers of marriage. A single woman was

worth her weight in gold--Princetown was a veritable paradise for

spinsters of any age, from fifteen to fifty. Small wonder that they

turned up their noses at domestic service, when by merely crooking

their little finger they could become their own mistress, picking and

choosing from a host of amorous gold diggers. Free and easy was the

wedding; the eating and drinking, the popping of corks, the drive

through the principal streets, the indiscriminate invitations to all,

the dancing at night, with more popping of corks and the cracking of

revolvers in the open air to proclaim to the world that an "event" of

supreme importance was being celebrated--all tended to show the value

of woman as a marketable commodity. Two or three miles away, in a

gully upon a hill, was the canvas tent to which the bridegroom bore

his bride an hour or two this or that side of midnight, literally bore

her often because of the open shafts which dotted the road; and there

the married life commenced. It is a lame metaphor to say that woman

ruled the roast; she ruled everything, and was bowed down to and

worshipped as woman never was before in the history of the world.

The editor looked up as his little daughter and Basil entered, and

Edith immediately took upon herself the office of mistress of the

ceremonies.

"This is Basil, father." The editor nodded. "He is going to spend the

whole day with us."

"He is welcome," said the editor, who knew Basil by sight.

Basil smilingly explained that little Edith had taken entire

possession, and was responsible for his intrusion.

"But you are not intruding," said the editor. "We shall be very

pleased of your company. Our hive is ruled by a positive Queen Bee,

and there she stands"--with an affectionate look at his daughter, who

accepted her title with amusing gravity--"so that we cannot exactly

help ourselves."

His tone was exceedingly cordial, and Basil, being heartily welcomed

by Edith's mother, soon made himself at home. The young man's manners

were very winning and afforded pleasure to Edith's parents, who had

not, at least on the goldfields, met with a guest of so much culture

and refinement. Regarding Basil as her special property, Edith pretty

well monopolised his attention in the intervals between meals, but

sufficient of Basil's character was revealed to the editor to set him

thinking. He saw that he was entertaining a gentleman and a man of

attainments, and he felt how valuable such an assistant would be on

the editorial staff of his newspaper. The journalists in his employ

had sprung out of the rough elements of colonial life, and although

they were fairly capable men, they lacked the polish which Basil

possessed. The result of his reflections was that before the day was

out he made Basil a business proposition.

"It occurs to me," said the shrewd fellow, "that you are not exactly

cut out for a digger's life."

"I am afraid you are right," said Basil, with a smile in which a touch

of sadness might be detected.

"Why not try something else?" asked the editor.

"It is difficult to know what," replied Basil; "there are so few

things for which I am fitted."

"There is one in which you would make your mark."

"May I know what it is? I may differ from you; but it would be a

pleasant hearing."

"Sub-editor of the _Princetown Argus_, for instance," suggested the

editor, coming straight to the point. He was not the kind of man to

take two bites at a cherry.

Basil looked him in the face; the proposition startled and gratified

him. "You rush at a conclusion somewhat hastily," he said.

"Not at all. I know what I am talking about. You are cut out for just

that position."

"I have never done anything in the literary way."

"I'll take the risk," said the editor. "A man may go floundering about

all his life without falling into his proper groove. You are not bound

to any other engagement in Princetown?"

"To none. I am quite free."

"And you can commence at once?"

"If you are serious."

"I was never more so. It might be agreeable to you to take up your

quarters with us. In two days I will have a sleeping apartment built

for you, adjoining our little bit of garden. You are a sociable man

and a gentleman, and we should be glad to have you at our table. From

your conversation I should say you have had a classical education. Am

I right?"

"Quite right; but I am not a very bright scholar. You must not expect

great things."

"I expect what you are able to supply; you haven't half enough

confidence in yourself. Why, if I had your advantages--but never mind,

I haven't done badly with my small stock of brains. We'll wake them

up." He rubbed his hands. "You will be a bit strange at first, but

I'll put you in the way of things. I look upon it as settled."

"Would it not be prudent," said Basil, "for you to take a little time

for consideration?"

"Not an hour; not a minute. Strike while the iron's hot. My dear sir,

this is a go-ahead country. Shake hands on the bargain."

They shook hands upon it, and immediately afterwards the editor

regarded Basil with a thoughtful air, and said:

"You puzzle me, you do not ask anything about terms."

"I am content to leave them to you. Wait till you see whether I am

worth anything."

"No, the risk is mine, as I have said. Will six pounds a week and

board and lodging suit you?"

"It is too much."

"You will be satisfied with it for the first month?"

"More than satisfied."

"It is arranged, then. If we continue together you shall have an

advance at the end of the month, and I shall bind you down not to

leave me without a month's notice."

"On my part, I will be so bound. You are free to discharge me without

notice."

"It shall be the same to both of us. As you are to commence to-morrow

you might think of a subject for a 'leader' in Tuesday's paper. By

Wednesday your bedroom will be ready, and you can live with us as long

as you are on the staff. We shall have reason to congratulate

ourselves on the arrangement we have made."

CHAPTER XXVI.

Certainly neither Basil nor his employer had reason to be otherwise.

It led to important results in Basil's career, and in years to come he

often thought of the child, the chance meeting with whom in the

churchyard conducted him, by both straight and devious paths, to a

goal which he had not dared to hope he would ever reach. Between him

and Edith loving links were soon firmly forged which time was never to

sever. This sweet and human bond was of inestimable value to Basil; it

raised him from the slough of despond into which he had sunk; the hand

of a little child lifted him to a man's height. He was profoundly

grateful; he had now a happy home, he had congenial work to do. The

doubts he had entertained of his fitness for the position were

dispelled in a very short time. He threw himself with ardour and

animation into his new duties, which he performed in a manner that

more than justified the confidence reposed in him. Nominally

sub-editor, but really editor of the paper, he infused into its

columns a spirit of intelligence which made it more popular than ever.

It was talked of as an example of what a newspaper should be, and

Basil's opinions upon colonial matters were quoted in the more

influential journals in the colonies as those of a man of far-seeing

judgment. A classical allusion now and then added to the value of

Basil's writings, and all Princetown was proud of him because of the

vicarious distinction conferred, through him, upon its inhabitants. "A

clever fellow that," said John Jones, of the Only Beehive,

appreciating Basil the more because of his own utter ignorance of the

classics. There was a talk of Basil's representing the division in the

Legislative Assembly, but he promptly set that aside by emphatically

declaring that he had no desire for public life or parliamentary

honours. Thus six months passed by, when a revelation was made to him

which caused him to carry out a resolve deplored by all Princetown.

The official quarters of the township, where public business was

transacted, was known as the Government Camp. In this camp, which was

laid out upon the slope of a hill, were situated the Magistrate's

Court, the buildings in which the mounted troopers lodged, where the

gold escort was made up, where miners' disputes were adjusted, and

where miners paid their yearly sovereign for miners' rights, which

gave lawful sanction to their delving for the precious metal and

appropriating the treasure they extracted from the soil. There were

swells in the Government Camp, members of good families in the old

country, for whom something in the shape of official employment had to

be found. It is pleasant to be able to record that there were few

sinecures among these employments, most of the holders having to do

something in the shape of work for their salaries. It was when Basil

had served on the staff of the _Princetown Argus_ for a space of six

months, and had saved during that period a matter of two hundred

pounds, that a new Goldfields' Warden made his appearance at the

Government Camp. The name of this gentleman was Majoribanks, and when

we presently part with him he will play no further part in our story;

but it will be seen that the small rôle he fills in it is sufficiently

pregnant.

Mr. Majoribanks was "a new chum" in the colony. Arriving in the

capital with high credentials, the influence of his connections

provided him almost immediately with a berth to which a good salary,

with pickings, was attached. The position of Goldfields' Warden on

Princetown was vacant, and he was appointed to it. His special fitness

for the office need not here be discussed. Many members of good

families in England, whose wild ways rendered desirable their removal

to another sphere, developed faculties in Australia which elevated

them into respectable members of society, which they certainly would

not have been had they remained in the old world, surrounded by

temptations. Mr. Majoribanks was not a bad fellow at bottom, and it

was a fortunate day for him and his family when they exchanged

farewell greetings.

There were not many gentlemen--in Mr. Majoribanks' understanding of

the term--in Princetown, and when the new Goldfields' Warden came in

contact with Basil, he recognised the superior metal in the hero of

our story. The casual acquaintance they formed ripened into intimacy,

and they met often in Mr. Majoribanks' quarters and passed many a

pleasant hour together.

"Come and have a smoke this evening," said Mr. Majoribanks to Basil

one Saturday afternoon.

Saturday was the only day in the week which Basil could call his own,

and he was glad of the invitation and accepted it. Mr. Majoribanks

knew Basil only, as others knew him, by the name of Basil and had not

taken the trouble to inquire whether it was a surname. So the two

gentlemen sat in Mr. Majoribanks' snug quarters on this particular

Saturday, and discussed a dainty little meal, cooked in capital style

by the Goldfields' Warden's Chinese cook. The meal finished, they

adjourned to the verandah, and lit their cigars.

They had much in common; they had travelled over familiar country in

Europe and they compared notes, recalling experiences of old times

which in their likeness to each other drew them closer together.

"Upon my soul," remarked Mr. Majoribanks, "it is an exceedingly

pleasant thing to find one's self in the company of a gentleman. It

makes banishment endurable. Do you ever think of returning to

England?"

"One day, perhaps," replied Basil.

"I hope we shall meet there," said Mr. Majoribanks. "Is it allowable

to ask what brought you out to the goldfields?"

"I lost my fortune," said Basil, "and not knowing what to turn my hand

to came to Australia to make another."

"Is it again allowable to ask whether you have succeeded?"

"I have not succeeded."

"If you had been a bricklayer or a navvy in England you might tell a

different tale."

"It is not unlikely."

"A gentleman stands but little chance here," observed Mr. Majoribanks.

"We are treated in the colonies to a complete reversal of the proper

order of things. I suppose in the course of time Australia will cut

itself away from the old country and become republic."

"It is certainly on the cards, but it will be a long time before that

occurs; there are so many different interests, you see."

"A jumble of odd elements," said Mr. Majoribanks.

"When there is a real Australian population," said Basil, "men and

women born and living here, with no reminiscences of what is now

called 'home,' then the movement of absolute self-government will take

serious form."

"Ah, well, I don't believe in the self-made man. I stick to the old

order."

"Individual opinion will not change the current of natural changes. It

is not to be expected that this vast continent will be for ever

satisfied to remain a dependency of a kingdom so many thousands of

miles away. The talk about federation may satisfy for a time, but it

is merely a sop in the pan. By-and-by will come the larger question of

a nation with an autonomous constitution like the United States.

Children cut themselves from their mother's apron strings: so it will

be with these colonies."

"You have made a study of such matters."

"To some extent. My position on our local paper has sent me in that

direction."

"You like your position?"

"Tolerably well. I cannot say I am wedded to it, but I must not be

ungrateful."

Then the conversation drifted into channels more personal. Mr.

Majoribanks launched into a recital of certain experiences in England

and the Continent, and mourned the break in a career more congenial to

him than that of Goldfields' Warden in Princetown, which he declared

to be confoundedly dull and uninteresting. He missed his theatres, his

club, his race meetings, his fashionable society, and many a sigh

escaped him as he dwelt upon these fascinating themes. Then occurred a

pause, and some sudden reminiscence, as yet untouched, caused him to

regard his companion with more than ordinary curiosity.

"An odd idea strikes me," he said. "Have you a twin brother?"

"No," replied Basil, smiling. "What makes you ask?"

"No, of course that is not likely," said Mr. Majoribanks. "If you had

a twin brother his name would not be Basil. It is singular for all

that. But it is a most extraordinary likeness. A cousin of yours

perhaps?"

"I haven't the slightest idea of your meaning. I have no cousins that

I am aware of."

"It has only just struck me. As I looked at you a moment ago I saw the

wonderful resemblance between you and a man I met in Paris. Basil is

not a very common name."

"Not very. Had the gentleman you met in Paris another tacked to it?"

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Majoribanks. "Whittingham."

"Whittingham!" exclaimed Basil, greatly startled.

"Basil Whittingham--that is the gentleman's full name; and, by the

way, I was told, I remember, that he had been in Australia,

gold-digging. It is a curious story--but you seem excited."

"With good cause," said Basil. "My name is Basil Whittingham."

"You don't say so?"

"It is a fact."

"Well, that makes it all the stranger." Basil rose and paced the

verandah in uncontrollable excitement. The full significance of this

extraordinary revelation did not immediately dawn upon him, and at

present he did not connect Newman Chaytor with it. Out of the chaos of

thought which stirred his mind he evoked nothing intelligible. Mr.

Majoribanks' eyes followed him as he paced to and fro, and fixed

themselves frankly upon him when he paused and faced him.

"Were you aware that my name is Whittingham?" asked Basil.

"Upon my honour, no," replied Mr. Majoribanks.

"There is some mystery here," said Basil, mastering his excitement,

"which it seems imperative should be solved. As you remarked, Basil is

not a common name; neither is Whittingham; and that the two should be

associated in the person of a man who bears so wonderful a resemblance

to me that you would have taken us to be twin brothers, makes it all

the more mysterious and inexplicable. You are not joking with me?"

"As I am a gentleman, I have told you nothing but the truth. There are

such things as coincidences, you know."

"Yes; but if this is one, it is the strangest I have ever heard of."

"It has all the appearance of it," said Mr. Majoribanks, thoughtfully.

"Within my knowledge there are only two men bearing the name of

Whittingham--one, myself, the other an uncle in England, with whom,

unfortunately, I had some differences of opinion."

"Ah," said Mr. Majoribanks, "the coincidences continue. The gentleman

I refer to had an uncle of the name of Whittingham with whom he also

had some differences of opinion."

"_Had_ an uncle?"

"Who is dead," said Mr. Majoribanks.

"My uncle was a gentleman of fortune."

"So was his."

"I was to have been his heir. I displeased him and he disinherited me.

That was really the reason why I left England for Australia."

Mr. Majoribanks fell back in his chair, and said, "You take my breath

away."

"Why?"

"Why? Because that is the sum total of the story which I said just now

was so curious. Mr. Whittingham, there must be something more than

coincidence in all this."

"Oblige me a moment. Let me think."

He turned his back upon Mr. Majoribanks, and steadied himself. By a

determined effort he subdued the chaos of thought by which he was

agitated. The form of Newman Chaytor rose before him. Was it possible

that this man, in whom he had placed implicit trust, who knew the

whole story of his life, who had deserted him and left him for dead

without taking the trouble to assure himself that his fall down the

shaft was fatal--was it possible that this man had played him false?

It seemed scarcely credible, but what other construction was to be

placed upon the story which Mr. Majoribanks had revealed to him. He

paused again before his companion, and said in his most earnest tone:

"Mr. Majoribanks, a vital issue hangs upon the information you have

given me. I am sure you will not trifle with me. You are a gentleman,

and your word is not to be doubted. Were you intimately acquainted

with this double, who bears my name, who so strangely resembles me,

and whose story is so similar to my own?"

"There was no intimacy whatever," said Mr. Majoribanks. "I saw him

once, and once only, in Paris, and we passed an evening together. When

I parted from him--a party of us went to the Comédie Française that

night to see Bernhardt--I saw him no more. The way of it was this. It

being resolved in solemn family council that I was to retrieve my

battered fortunes in the Sahara, I paid a last visit to dear

delightful Paris to bid it a long adieu. A friend accompanied me, and

a friend of his to whom he was under an obligation--to speak plainly,

a money-lender--happening to be in Paris at the same time, we chummed

together. We dined at the Grand, and there, at another table, sat your

prototype. Our money-lending friend, who knows everything and

everybody, pointed him out to us, and told us his story. His name was

Basil Whittingham; he had been in Australia, gold-digging; he had a

wealthy uncle of the same surname whom he had offended, and who had

driven him out of his native land, with an intimation that he was to

consider himself disinherited. Upon his death-bed, however, the old

gentleman's hard heart softened, and he made a will by which the

discarded nephew was restored to his good graces, and became heir to

all he possessed. The fortune which fell to your lucky double was not

in land and houses; it was in something better, hard cash, and it

amounted, so far as I can recollect, to not less than between fifty

and sixty thousand pounds. Whereupon the lucky heir winged his way

homeward, by which time his uncle had joined the majority, and took

possession of his windfall. Our money-lending friend had some slight

acquaintance with the heir, and we were introduced. It was a night I

had occasion to remember, quite apart from any connection you may have

with the story. Do you adhere to it that it resembles yours?"

"Up to the day upon which I left England it agrees with it entirely.

As to what subsequently occurred I knew nothing until this moment."

"Well, all that I can say--without understanding in the least, mind

you, how it could have come about--is, that I would look into it, if I

were in your place."

"It shall be looked into. Do you remember if the uncle's christian

name was mentioned?"

"I cannot quite say. Refresh my memory; it may have been."

"Bartholomew."

"Upon my word, now you mention it, I think Bartholomew was mentioned.

Another uncommon name."

"You have occasion to remember that night, you said, apart from me.

May I inquire in what way?"

"Well, when we left the theatre, we adjourned to a private room in the

Grand, and there we had a little flutter. Baccarat was the game, and I

was cleaned out. Upon my honour, I think I was the most unfortunate

beggar under the sun. I give you my word that I hadn't enough left to

pay my hotel bill, which was the last legacy I left my honoured

father."

"Your money-lending friend won the money, I suppose?"

"He won a bit, but the spoil fell principally to an elderly gentleman

of the name of--of--of--now what _was_ the fellow's name? It wasn't

English, nor was he an Englishman. Ah. I have it. Bidaud--yes,

Bidaud."

Basil's face turned white; there was no longer room for doubt that

foul treachery had been done. It was Newman Chaytor who had plotted

and planned for his destruction. This he might have borne, and the

white heat of his anger might have grown cold with time. But Anthony

Bidaud's introduction into the bad scheme included also Annette, a

possible victim in the treachery. That she should become the prey of

these villains, and that he should allow her life to be ruined, her

happiness to be blasted, without an effort to save her, was not to be

thought of. The scales fell from his eyes, and he saw Newman Chaytor

in his true light. By what crooked paths the end had been reached he

could not, in the excitement of the moment, determine. That would have

to be thought out presently; meanwhile his resolution was taken. To

remain inactive would be the work of a coward.