Mademoiselle Cettini
After three days of successful washing, when it became apparent that a
shed must be built, and that, if possible, some further labour must be
hired, Mick said that he must go. 'I ain't earned nothing,' he said,
'because of that bout, and I ain't going to ask for nothing, but I can't
stand this any longer. I hope you'll make your fortins.' Then came the
explanation. It was not possible, he said, that a regular miner, such as
he was, should be a party to such a grand success without owning a share
in it. He was quite aware that nothing belonged to him. He was working
for wages and he had forfeited them. But he couldn't see the gold
coming out under his hands in pailfuls and feel that none of it belonged
to him. Then it was agreed that there should be no more talk of wages,
and that each should have a third share in the concern. Very much was
said on the matter of drink, in all of which Caldigate was clever enough
to impose on his friend Dick the heavy responsibility of a mentor. A man
who has once been induced to preach to another against a fault will feel
himself somewhat constrained by his own sermons. Mick would make no
promises; but declared his intention of trying very hard. 'If anybody'd
knock me down as soon as I goes a yard off the claim, that'd be best.'
And so they renewed their work, and at the end of six weeks from the
commencement of their operations sold nine ounces of gold to the manager
of the little branch bank which had already established itself at
Ahalala. These were hardly 'pailfuls'; but gold is an article which adds
fervour to the imagination and almost creates a power for romance.
Other matters, however, were not running smoothly with John Caldigate at
this eventful time. To have found gold so soon after their arrival was
no doubt a great triumph, and justified him in writing a long letter to
his father, in which he explained what he had done, and declared that he
looked forward to success with confidence. But still he was far from
being at ease. He could not suffer himself to remain hidden at Ahalala
without saying something of his whereabouts to Mrs. Smith. After what
had happened between them he would be odious to himself if he omitted to
keep the promise which he had made to her. And yet he would so fain have
forgotten her,--or rather have wiped away from the reality of his past
life that one episode, had it been possible. A month's separation had
taught him to see how very silly he had been in regard to this
woman,--and had also detracted much from those charms which had
delighted him on board ship. She was pretty, she was clever, she had
the knack of being a pleasant companion. But how much more than all
these was wanted in a wife? And then he knew nothing about her. She
might be, or have been, all that was disreputable. If he could not shake
himself free from her, she would be a millstone round his neck. He was
aware of all that, and as he thought of it he would think also of the
face of Hester Bolton, and remember her form as she sat silent in the
big house at Chesterton. But nevertheless it was necessary that he
should write to Mrs. Smith. He had promised that he would do so, and he
must keep his word.
The name of the woman had not been mentioned between him and Dick Shand
since they left the ship. Dick had been curious, but had been afraid to
inquire, and had in his heart applauded the courage of the man who had
thus been able to shake off at once a woman with whom he had amused
himself. Caldigate himself was continually meditating as he worked with
the windlass in his hand, or with his pick at the bottom of the hole,
whether in conformity with the usages of the world he could not
simply--drop her. Then he remembered the words which had passed between
them on the subject, and he could not do it. He was as yet too young to
be at the same time so wise and so hard. 'I shall hold you as engaged to
me,' he had said, 'and myself as engaged to you.' And he remembered the
tones of her voice as, with her last words, she had said to him, 'My
love, my love!' They had been very pleasant to him then, but now they
were most unfortunate. They were unfortunate because there had been a
power in them from which he was now unable to extricate himself.
Therefore, during one of those leisure periods in which Mick and Dick
were at work, he wrote his letter, with the paper on his knees,
squatting down just within his tent on a deal case which had contained
boxes of sardines, bottles of pickles, and cans of jam. For now, in
their prosperity, they had advanced somewhat beyond the simple plenty of
the frying-pan. It was a difficult letter to write. Should it be
ecstatic and loving, or cold and severe,--or light, and therefore false?
'My own one, here I am. I have struck gold. Come to me and share it.'
That would have been ecstatic and loving.' 'Tis a hard life this, and
not fit for a woman's weakness. But it must be my life--and therefore
let there be an end of all between us.' That would have been cold and
severe. 'How are you, and what are you doing? Dick and I are shoving
along. It isn't half as nice as on board ship. Hope to see you before
long, and am yours,--just the same as ever.' That would have been light
and false,--keeping the word of promise to the ear but breaking it to
the heart. He could not write either of these. He began by describing
what they had done, and had completed two pages before he had said a
word of their peculiar circumstances in regard to each other. He felt
that his letter was running into mere gossip, and was not such as she
would have a right to expect. If any letter were sent at all, there must
be something more in it than all this. And so, after much thinking of
it, he at last rushed, as it were, into hot words, and ended it as
follows: 'I have put off to the last what I have really got to say. Let
me know what you are doing and what you wish,--and whether you love me.
I have not as yet the power of offering you a home, but I trust that the
time may come.' These last words were false. He knew that they were
false. But the falseness was not of a nature to cause him to be ashamed.
It shames no man to swear that he loves a woman when he has ceased to
love her;--but it does shame him to drop off from the love which he has
promised. He balanced the matter in his mind for a while before he would
send his letter. Then, getting up quickly, he rushed forth, and dropped
it into the post-office box.
The very next day chance brought to Ahalala one who had been a
passenger on board the Goldfinder; and the man, hearing of the success
of Shand and Caldigate came to see them. 'Of course you know,' said the
man, 'what your fellow-passenger is doing down at Sydney?' Dick Shand,
who was present, replied that they had heard nothing of any
fellow-passenger. Caldigate understood at once to whom the allusion was
made, and was silent. 'Look here,' said the man, bringing a newspaper
out of his pocket, and pointing to a special advertisement. 'Who do you
think that is?' The advertisement declared that Mademoiselle Cettini
would, on such and such a night, sing a certain number of songs, and
dance a certain number of dances, and perform a certain number of
tableaux, at a certain theatre in Sydney. 'That's your Mrs. Smith,' said
the man, turning to Caldigate.
'I am very glad she has got employment,' said Caldigate; 'but she is not
my Mrs. Smith.'
'We all thought that you and she were very thick.'
'All the same I beg you to understand that she is not my Mrs. Smith,'
repeated Caldigate, endeavouring to appear unconcerned, but hardly able
to conceal his anger.
Dancing dances, singing songs, and acting tableaux;--and all under the
name of Mademoiselle Cettini! Nothing could be worse,--unless, indeed,
it might be of service to him to know that she was earning her bread,
and therefore not in distress, and earning it after a fashion of which
he would be at liberty to express his disapproval. Nothing more was said
at the time about Mrs. Smith, and the man went his way.
Ten days afterwards Caldigate, in the presence both of Mick and Dick,
declared his purpose of going down to Sydney. 'Our luggage must be
looked after,' said he;--'and I have a friend whom I want to see,' he
added, not choosing to lie. At this time all was going successfully with
them. Mick Maggott lived in such a manner that no one near him would
have thought that he knew what whisky meant. His self-respect had
returned to him, and he was manifestly 'boss.' There had come to be
necessity for complicated woodwork below the surface, and he had shown
himself to be a skilled miner. And it had come to pass that our two
friends were as well assured of his honesty as of their own. He had been
a veritable godsend to them,--and would remain so, could he be kept away
from the drinking-shops.
'If you go away don't you think he'll break out?' Dick asked when they
were alone together.
'I hope not. He seems to have been steadied by success. At any rate I
must go.'
'Is it to see--Mrs. Smith?' Dick as he asked the question put on his
most serious face. He did not utter the name as though he were finding
fault. The time that had passed had been sufficient to quench the
unpleasantness of their difference on board ship. He was justified in
asking his friend such a question, and Caldigate felt that it was so.
'I am.'
'Don't you think, upon the whole,----. I don't like to interfere, but
upon my word the thing is so important.'
'You think I had better not see her?'
'I do.'
'And lie to her?'
'All is fair in love and war.'
'That means that no faith is due to a woman. I cannot live by such a
doctrine. I do not mind owning to you that I wish I could do as you bid
me. I can't. I cannot be so false. I must go, old fellow; but I know all
that you would say to me, and I will endeavour to escape honestly from
this trouble.' And so he went.
Yes;--to escape honestly from that trouble! But how? It is just that
trouble from which there is no honest escape,--unless a man may honestly
break his word. He had engaged himself to her so much that, simply to
ignore her would be cowardly as well as false. There was but one thing
that he could do, but one step that he could take, by which his security
and his self-respect might both be maintained. He would tell her the
exact truth, and put it to her whether, looking at their joint
circumstances, it would not be better that they should--part. Reflecting
on this during his three days' journey down to Sydney, it was thus that
he resolved,--forgetting altogether in his meditations the renewed force
of the woman's charms upon himself.
As he went from the railway station at Sydney to the third-class inn at
which he located himself, he saw the hoardings on all sides placarded
with the name of Mademoiselle Cettini. And there was a picture on some
of these placards of a wonderful female, without much clothes, which was
supposed to represent some tragic figure in a tableau. There was the
woman whom he was to make his wife. He had travelled all night, and had
intended to seek Mrs. Smith immediately after his breakfast. But so
unhappy was he, so much disgusted by the tragic figure in the picture,
that he postponed his visit and went after his luggage. His luggage was
all right in the warehouse, and he arranged that it should be sent down
to Nobble. Waggons with stores did make their way to Nobble from the
nearest railway station, and hopes were held out that the packages might
be there in six weeks' time. He would have been willing to postpone
their arrival for twelve months, for twenty-four months, could he, as
compensation have been enabled to postpone, with honour, his visit to
Mrs. Smith for the same time.
Soon after noon, however, his time was vacant, and he rushed to his
fate. She had sent him her address, and he found her living in very
decent lodgings overlooking the public park. He was at once shown up to
her room, where he found her at breakfast. 'So you have come,' she
said. Then, when the door was shut, she flung herself into his arms.
He was dressed as a miner might be dressed who was off work and out for
a holiday;--clean, rough, and arranged with a studied intention to look
as little like a gentleman as possible. The main figure and manner were
so completely those of a gentleman that the disguise was not perfect;
but yet he was rough. She was dressed with all the pretty care which a
woman can use when she expects her lover to see her in morning costume.
Anything more unlike the Mrs. Smith of the ship could not be imagined.
If she had been attractive then, what was she now? If her woman's charms
sufficed to overcome his prudence while they were so clouded, what
effect would they have upon him now? And she was in his arms! Here there
was no quartermaster to look after the proprieties;--no Mrs. Crompton,
no Mrs. Callander, no Miss Green to watch with a hundred eyes for the
exchange of a chance kiss in some moment of bliss. 'So you have come!
Oh, my darling oh, my love!' No doubt it was all just as it should be.
If a lady may not call the man to whom she is engaged her love and her
darling, what proper use can there be for such words? And into whose
arms is she to jump, if not into his? As he pressed her to his heart,
and pressed his lips to hers, he told himself that he ought to have
arranged it all by letter.
'Why Cettini?' he asked. But he smiled as he put the question. It was
intended to be serious, but still he could not be hard upon her all at
once.
'Why fifty thousand fools?'
'I don't understand.'
'Supposing there to be fifty thousand people in Sydney,--as to which I
know nothing. Or why ever so many million fools in London? If I called
myself Mrs. Smith nobody would come and see me. If I called myself
Madame Cettini, not nearly so many would come. You have got to
inculcate into the minds of the people an idea that a pure young girl is
going to jump about for their diversion. They know it isn't so. But
there must be a flavour of the idea. It isn't nice, but one has to
live.'
'Were you ever Cettini before?'
'Yes,--when I was on the stage as a girl.' Then he thought he remembered
that she had once told him some particular in regard to her early life,
which was incompatible with this, unless indeed she had gone under more
than one name before she was married. 'I used as a child to dance and
sing under that name.'
'Was it your father's name?'
She smiled as she answered, 'You want to discover all the little mean
secrets of my life at once, and do not reflect that, in so far as they
were mean, they are disagreeable as subjects of conversation. I was not
mean myself.'
'I am sure of that.'
'If you are sure of it, is not that enough? Of course I have been among
low people. If not, why should I have been a singer on the stage at so
early an age, why a dancer, why should I have married such a one as Mr.
Smith?'
'I do not know of what sort he was,' said Caldigate.
'This is not the time to ask, when you have just come to see me;--when I
am so delighted to see you! Oh, it is such a pleasure! I have not had a
nice word spoken to me since I left the Goldfinder. Come and take a walk
in the gardens? Nobody knows me off the stage yet, and nobody knows you.
So we can do just as we like. Come and tell me about the gold.'
He did go, and did tell her about the gold, and before he had been with
her an hour, sitting about on the benches in that loveliest of all
places, the public gardens at Sydney, he was almost happy with her. It
was now late in the autumn, in May; but the end of the autumn in Sydney
is the most charming time of the year. He spent the whole day with her,
dining with her in her lodgings at five in order that he might take her
to the theatre at seven. She had said a great deal to him about her
performances, declaring that he would find them to be neither vulgar nor
disagreeable. She told him that she had no friend in Sydney, but that
she had been able to get an engagement for a fortnight at Melbourne, and
had been very shortly afterwards pressed to come on to Sydney. She
listened not only with patience, but apparently with the greatest
pleasure, to all that he could tell her of Dick Shand, and Mr. Crinkett,
and Mick Maggott, arousing herself quite to enthusiasm when he came to
the finding of the gold. But there was not a word said the whole day as
to their future combined prospects. Nor was there any more outspoken
allusion to loves and darlings, or any repetition of that throwing
herself into his arms. For once it was natural. If she were wanted thus
again, the action must be his,--not hers. She was clever enough to know
that.
'What do you think of it?' she said, when he waited to take her home.
'It is the only good dancing I ever saw in my life. But----'
'Well!'
'I will tell you to-morrow.'
'Tell me whatever you think and you will see that I will attend to you.
Come about eleven,--not sooner, as I shall not be dressed. Now
good-night.'