MORE UNEXPECTED DISCOVERIES--CAPTAIN BUNTING MAKES BILL JONES A FIRST
MATE--LARRY O'NEIL MAKES HIMSELF A FIRST MATE--THE PARTING--NED SINTON
PROVES HIMSELF, A SECOND TIME, TO BE A FRIEND IN NEED AND IN DEED.
"It never rains but it pours," saith the proverb. We are fond of
proverbs. We confess to a weakness that way. There is a depth of
meaning in them which courts investigation from the strongest
intellects. Even when they are nonsensical, which is not unfrequently
the case, their nonsense is unfathomable, and, therefore, invested with
all the zest which attaches, metaphysically speaking, to the
incomprehensible.
Astonishing circumstances had been raining for some time past around our
bewildered adventurers, and, latterly, they had begun to pour. On the
afternoon of the day, the events of which have been recorded in the last
chapter, there was, metaphorically speaking, a regular thunder-plump.
No sooner had the party returned to old Mr Thompson's cottage, than
down it came again, heavy as ever.
On entering the porch, Lizette ran up to Tom, in that pretty tripping
style peculiar to herself, and whispered in his ear.
"Well, you baggage," said he, "I'll go with you; but I don't like
secrets. Walk into the parlour, friends; I'll be with you in a minute."
"Tom," said Lizette, pursing up her little mouth and elevating her pert
nose; "you can't guess what an interesting discovery I've made."
"Of course I can't," replied Tom, with affected impatience; "now, pray,
don't ask me to try, else I shall leave you instantly."
"What an impatient creature you are!" said Lizette. "Only think! I
have discovered that my maid, whom we hired only two days ago, has--"
"Bolted with the black cook, or somebody else, and married him,"
interrupted Tom, with a look of horror, as he threw himself into any
easy-chair.
"Not at all," rejoined Lizette, hurriedly; "nothing of the sort; she has
discovered that the little girl Mr Sinton brought with him is her
sister."
"What! Kate Morgan's sister!" cried Tom, with a look of surprise. "I
knew it; I was sure I had heard the name before, but I couldn't remember
when or where; I see it now; she must be the girl Larry O'Neil used to
talk about up at the diggin's; but as I never saw her there, of course I
couldn't know her."
"Well, I don't know about that; I suppose you're right," replied
Lizette; "but isn't it nice? They're kissing and hugging each other,
and crying, in the kitchen at this moment. Oh! I'm _so_ happy--the
dear little thing!"
If Lizette was happy she took a strange way to shew it, for she sat down
beside Tom and began to sob.
While the above conversation was going on up-stairs, another
conversation--interesting enough to deserve special notice--was going on
in the parlour.
"Sure don't I know me own feelin's best?" remarked Larry, addressing Ned
Sinton. "It's all very well at the diggin's; but when it comes to
drawin'-rooms and parlours, I feels--an' so does Bill Jones here--that
we're out 'o place. In the matter o' diggin' we're all equals, no
doubt; but we feels that we ain't gintlemen born, and that it's a'k'ard
to the lady to be havin' sich rough customers at her table, so Bill an'
me has agreed to make the most o' ourselves in the kitchen."
"Larry, you're talking nonsense. We have messed together on equal terms
for many months; and, whatever course we may follow after this, you
_must_ sup with us to-night, as usual. I know Tom will be angry if you
don't."
"Ay, sir, but it ain't `as oosual,'" suggested Bill Jones, turning the
quid in his cheek; "it's quite on-oosual for the likes o' us to sup with
a lady."
"That's it," chimed in Larry; "so, Mister Ned, ye'll jist plaise to make
our excuges to Mrs Tom, and tell her where we've gone to lo-cate, as
the Yankees say. Come away, Bill."
Larry took his friend by the arm, and, leading him out of the room, shut
the door.
Five seconds after that there came an appalling female shriek, and a
dreadful masculine yell, from the region of the kitchen, accompanied by
a subdued squeak of such extreme sweetness, that it could have come only
from the throat of Mademoiselle Nelina. Ned and the captain sprang to
the door, and dashed violently against Tom and his wife, whom they
unexpectedly met also rushing towards the kitchen. In another moment a
curious and deeply interesting _tableau vivant_ was revealed to their
astonished gaze.
In the middle of the room was Larry O'Neil, down on one knee, while with
both arms he supported the fainting form of Kate Morgan. By Kate's side
knelt her sister Nelly, who bent over her pale face with anxious,
tearful countenance, while, presiding over the group, like an amiable
ogre, stood Bill Jones, with his hands in his breeches-pockets, his legs
apart, one eye tightly screwed up, and his mouth expanded from ear to
ear.
"That's yer sort!" cried Bill, in ecstatic glee. "W'en a thing comes
all right, an' tight, an' ship-shape, why, wot then? In coorse it's all
square--that's wot _I_ say."
"She's comin' to," whispered Larry. "Ah! thin, spake, won't ye,
darlin'? It'll do ye good, maybe, an' help to open yer two purty eyes."
Kate Morgan recovered--we need scarcely tell our reader that--and Nelly
dried her eyes, and that evening was spent in a fashion that conduced to
the well-being, and comfort, and good humour of all parties concerned.
Perhaps it is also needless to inform our reader that Larry O'Neil and
Bill Jones carried their point. They supped in the kitchen that night.
Our informant does not say whether Kate Morgan and her sister Nelly
supped with them--but we rather think they did.
A week afterwards, Captain Bunting had matured his future plans. He
resolved to purchase a clipper-brig that was lying at that time useless
in the harbour, and embark in the coasting trade of California. He made
Bill Jones his first mate, and offered to make Larry O'Neil his second,
but Larry wanted a mate himself, and declined the honour; so the captain
gave him five hundred pounds to set him up in any line he chose. Ned
Sinton sold his property, and also presented his old comrade with a
goodly sum of money, saying, that as he, (Ned), had been the means of
dragging him away from the diggings, he felt bound to assist him in the
hour of need. So Kate Morgan became Mrs O'Neil the week following; and
she, with her husband and her little sister, started off for the
interior of the country to look after a farm.
About the same time, Captain Bunting having completed the lading of his
brig, succeeded in manning her by offering a high wage, and, bidding
adieu to Ned and Tom, set sail for the Sacramento.
Two days afterwards, Ned got a letter from old Mr Shirley--the first
that he had received since leaving England. It began thus:--
"My Dearest Boy,--What has become of you? I have written six letters,
at least, but have never got a single line in reply. You must come home
immediately, as affairs here require your assistance, and I'm getting
too old to attend to business matters. Do come at once, my dear Ned,
unless you wish me to reprove you. Moxton says only a young and
vigorous man of business can manage things properly; but when I
mentioned you, he shook his head gravely. `Too wild and absurd in his
notions,' said he. I stopped him, however, by saying that I was fully
aware of your faults--"
The letter then went rambling on in a quaint, prosy, but interesting
style; and Ned sat long in his room in old Mr Thompson's cottage poring
over its contents, and gradually maturing his future plans.
"It's awkward," soliloquised he, resting his head on both hands. "I
shall have to go at once, and so won't have a chance of seeing Bunting
again, to tell him of poor Tom's circumstances. He would only be too
glad to give him a helping hand; but I know Tom will never let him know
how hard-up he is. There's nothing else for it," he added,
determinedly; "my uncle will laugh at my profitless tour--but,
_n'importe_, I have learned much.--Come in!"
This last remark was addressed to some one who had tapped gently at the
door.
"It's only me, Ned; can I come in? I fear I interrupt you," said Tom,
as he entered the room.
"Not at all; sit down, my boy. I have just been perusing a letter from
my good old uncle Shirley: he writes so urgently that I fear I must
return to England by the first homeward-bound ship."
"Return to England!" exclaimed Tom, in surprise. "What! leave the
gold-fields just as the sun is beginning to shine on you?"
"Even so, Tom."
"My dear Ned, you are mad! This is a splendid country. Just see what
fortunes we should have made, but for the unfortunate accidents that
have happened!" Tom sighed as he spoke.
"I know it," replied his friend, with sadden energy. "This is a
splendid country; gold exists all over it--not only in the streams, but
on the hill-sides, and even on hill-tops, as you and I know from
personal experience--but gold, Tom, is not _everything_ in this world,
and the getting of it should not be our chief aim. Moreover, I have
come to the conclusion, that _digging_ gold ought to be left entirely to
such men as are accustomed to dig ditches and throw up railway
embankments. Men whose intelligence is of a higher order ought not to
ignore the faculties that have been given to them, and devote their
time--too often, alas! their lives--to a species of work that the merest
savage is equally capable of performing. Navvies may work at the mines
with propriety; but educated men who devote themselves to such work are,
I fear, among the number of those to whom Scripture specially speaks,
when it says, `Make not haste to be rich.'"
"But there are other occupations here besides digging for gold," said
Tom.
"I know it; and I would be happy and proud to rank among the merchants,
and engineers, and such men, of California; but duty calls me home, and,
to say truth," added Ned, with a smile, "inclination points the way."
Tom Collins still for some time attempted to dissuade his friend from
quitting the country, and his sweet little wife, Lizette, seconded his
efforts with much earnestness; but Ned Sinton was immovable. He took
passage in the first ship that sailed for England.
The night before he sailed, Ned, after retiring to his room for the last
time in his friend's house, locked his door, and went through a variety
of little pieces of business that would have surprised his hosts had
they seen him. He placed a large strong-box on the table, and
cautiously drew from under his bed a carpet-bag, which, from the effort
made to lift it, seemed to be filled with some weighty substance.
Unlocking the bag, he proceeded to lift out handful after handful of
shining dollars and gold pieces, interspersed here and there with
massive nuggets. These he transferred into the wooden box until it was
full. This was nearly the whole of Ned's fortune. It amounted to a
little more than 3000 pounds sterling. Having completed the transfer,
Ned counted the surplus left in the bag, and found it to be about 500
pounds. This he secured in a leather purse, and then sat down to write
a letter. The letter was short when finished, but it took him long to
write, for he meditated much during the writing of it, and several times
laid his head on his hands. At last it was completed, put into the box,
and the lid screwed down above it. Then Ned read a chapter in the
Bible, as was his wont, and retired to rest.
Next day Tom and Lizette stood on the wharf to see him embark for
England. Long and earnest was the converse of the two friends, as they
were about to part, probably for ever, and then, for the first time,
they became aware how deep was the attachment which each had formed for
the other. At last the mate of the ship came up, and touched his hat.
"Now, sir, boat's ready, sir; and we don't wish to lose the first of the
ebb."
"Good-bye, Lizette--good-bye, Tom! God be with and bless you, my dear
fellow! Stay, I had almost forgotten. Tom, you will find a box on the
table in my room; you can keep the contents--a letter in it will
explain. Farewell!"
Tom's heart was too full to speak. He squeezed his friend's hand in
silence, and, turning hurriedly round, walked away with Lizette the
instant the boat left the shore.
Late in the evening, Tom and his wife remembered the box, and went
up-stairs to open it. Their surprise at its rich contents may be
imagined. Both at once understood its meaning; and Lizette sat down,
and covered her face with her hands, to hide the tears that flowed,
while her husband read the letter. It ran thus:--
"My Dearest Tom,--You must not be angry with me for leaving this
trifle--it _is_ a trifle compared with the amount of gold I would give
you if I had it. But I need not apologise; the spirit of love in which
it is given demands that it shall be unhesitatingly received in the same
spirit. May God, who has blessed us and protected us in all our
wanderings together, cause your worldly affairs to prosper, and
especially may He bless your soul. Seas and continents may separate us,
but I shall never forget you, Tom, or your dear wife. But I must not
write as if I were saying farewell. I intend this epistle to be the
opening of a correspondence that shall continue as long as we live. You
shall hear from me again ere long.
"Your sincerely-attached friend,
"Edward Sinton."
At the time Tom Collins was reading the above letter to Lizette, in a
broken, husky voice, our hero was seated on the taffrail of the ship
that bore him swiftly over the sea, gazing wistfully at the receding
shore, and bidding a final adieu to California and all his golden
dreams.