Home! What a host of old and deep and heart-stirring associations arise
in every human breast at the sound of that old familiar word! How well
we know it--how vividly it recalls certain scenes and faces--how
pleasantly it falls on the ear, and slips from the tongue--yet how
little do we appreciate home until we have left it, and longed for it,
perhaps, for many years.
Our hero, Ned Sinton, is home at last. He sits in his old place beside
the fire, with his feet on the fender. Opposite to him sits old Mr
Shirley, with a bland smile on his kind, wrinkled visage, and two pair
of spectacles on his brow. Mr Shirley, as we formerly stated,
regularly loses one pair of spectacles, and always searches for them in
vain, in consequence of his having pushed them too far up on his bald
head; he, therefore, is frequently compelled to put on his second pair,
and hence makes a spectacle, to some extent, of himself. Exactly
between the uncle and the nephew, on a low stool, sits the cat--the cat,
_par excellence_--Mr Shirley's cat, a creature which he has always been
passionately fond of since it was a kitten, and to which, after Ned's
departure for California, he had devoted himself so tenderly, that he
felt half-ashamed of himself, and would not like to have been asked how
much he loved it.
Yes, the cat sits there, looking neither at old Mr Shirley nor at young
Mr Sinton, but bestowing its undivided attentions and affections on the
fire, which it enjoys extremely, if we may judge from the placid manner
in which it winks and purrs.
Ned has been a week at home, and he has just reached that point of
experience at which the wild life of the diggings through which he has
passed begins to seem like a vivid dream rather than reality.
Breakfast had just been concluded, although the cloth had not yet been
removed.
"Do you know, uncle," remarked Ned, settling his bulky frame more
comfortably in the easy-chair, and twirling his watch-key, "I find it
more difficult every day to believe that the events of the last few
months of my life have actually occurred. When I sit here in my old
seat, and look at you and the cat and the furniture--everything, in
fact, just the same as when I left--I cannot realise that I have been
nearly two years away."
"I understand your feelings, my dear boy," replied Mr Shirley, taking
off his spectacles, (the lower pair,) wiping them with his handkerchief
putting them on again, and looking _over_ them at his nephew, with an
expression of unmitigated admiration. "I can sympathise with you, Ned,
for I have gone through the same experience more than once in the course
of my life. It's a strange life, boy, a very strange life this, as
you'll come to know, if you're spared to be as old as I am."
Ned thought that his knowledge was already pretty extended in reference
to life, and even flattered himself that he had had some stranger views
of it than his uncle, but he prudently did not give expression to his
thoughts; and, after a short pause, Mr Shirley resumed--
"Yes, lad, it's a very strange life; and the strangest part of it is,
that the longer we live the stranger it gets. I travelled once in
Switzerland--," (the old gentleman paused, as if to allow the statement
to have its full weight on Ned's youthful mind,) "and it's a curious
fact, that when I had been some months there, home and all connected
with it became like a dream to me, and Switzerland became a reality.
But after I came back to England, and had spent some time here, home
again became the reality, and Switzerland appeared like a dream, so that
I sometimes said to myself, `Can it be possible that I have been there!'
Very odd, isn't it?"
"It is, uncle; and I have very much the same feelings now."
"Very odd, indeed," repeated Mr Shirley. "By the way, that reminds me
that we have to talk about that farm of which I spoke to you on the day
of your arrival."
We might feel surprised that the above conversation could in any way
have the remotest connexion with "that farm" of which Mr Shirley was so
suddenly reminded, did we not know that the subject was, in fact, never
out of his mind.
"True, uncle, I had almost forgotten about it, but you know I've been so
much engaged during the last few days in visiting my old friends and
college companions, that--"
"I know it, I know it, Ned, and I don't want to bother you with business
matters sooner than I can help, but--"
"My dear uncle, how can you for a moment suppose that I could be
`bothered' by--"
"Of course not, boy," interrupted Mr Shirley. "Well, now, let me ask
you, Ned, how much gold have you brought back from the diggings?"
Ned fidgeted uncomfortably on his seat--the subject could no longer be
avoided.
"I--I--must confess," said he, with hesitation, "that I haven't brought
much."
"Of course, you couldn't be expected to have done much in so short a
time; but _how_ much?"
"Only 500 pounds," replied Ned, with a sigh, while a slight blush shone
through the deep bronze of his countenance.
"Oh!" said Mr Shirley, pursing up his mouth, while an arch twinkle
lurked in the corners of each eye.
"Ah! but, uncle, you mustn't quiz me. I _had_ more, and might have
brought it home too, if I had chosen."
"Then why didn't you?"
Ned replied to this question by detailing how most of his money had been
lost, and how, at the last, he gave nearly all that remained to his
friend Tom Collins.
"You did quite right, Ned, _quite right_," said Mr Shirley, when his
nephew had concluded; "and now I'll tell you what I want you to do. You
told me the other day, I think, that you wished to become a farmer."
"Yes, uncle. I do think that that life would suit me better than any
other. I'm fond of the country and a quiet life, and I don't like
cities; but, then, I know nothing about farming, and I doubt whether I
should succeed without being educated to it to some extent at least."
"A very modest and proper feeling to entertain," said Mr Shirley, with
a smile; "particularly when it is considered that farming is an
exceedingly difficult profession to acquire a knowledge of. But I have
thought of that for you, Ned, and I think I see a way out of the
difficulty."
"What way is that?"
"I won't tell you just yet, boy. But answer me this. Are you willing
to take any farm I suggest to you, and henceforth to give up all notion
of wandering over the face of the earth, and devote yourself steadily to
your new profession?"
"I am, uncle; if you will point out to me how I am to pay the rent and
stock the farm, and how I am to carry it on in the meantime without a
knowledge of husbandry."
"I'll do that for you, all in good time; meanwhile, will you put on your
hat, and run down to Moxton's office--you remember it?"
"That I do," replied Ned, with a smile.
"Well, go there, and ask him for the papers I wrote about to him two
days ago. Bring them here as quickly as you can. We shall then take
the train, and run down to Brixley, and look at the farm."
"But are you really in earnest!" asked Ned, in some surprise.
"Never more so in my life," replied the old gentleman, mildly. "Now be
off; I want to read the paper."
Ned rose and left the room, scarcely believing that his uncle did not
jest. As he shut the door, old Mr Shirley took up the paper, pulled
down the upper pair of spectacles--an act which knocked the lower pair
off his nose, whereat he smiled more blandly than ever--and began to
read.
Meanwhile, Edward Sinton put on his great-coat--the identical one he
used to wear before he went away--and his hat and his gloves, and walked
out into the crowded streets of London, with feelings somewhat akin,
probably, to those of a somnambulist. Having been so long accustomed to
the free-and-easy costume of the mines, Ned felt about as uncomfortable
and stiff as a warrior of old must have felt when armed _cap-a-pie_.
His stalwart frame was some what thinner and harder than when he last
took the same walk; his fair moustache and whiskers were somewhat more
decided, and less like wreaths of smoke, and his countenance was of a
deep-brown colour; but in other respects Ned was the same dashing fellow
that he used to be--dashing by _nature_, we may remark, not by
_affectation_.
In half-an-hour he stood before Moxton's door. There it was, as large
as life, and as green as ever. Ned really found it impossible to
believe that it was so long since he last saw it. He felt as if it had
been yesterday. The brass knocker and the brass plate were there too,
as dirty as ever--perhaps a thought dirtier--and the dirty house still
retreated a little behind its fellows, and was still as much ashamed of
itself--seemingly--as ever.
Ned raised the knocker, and smote the brass knob. The result was, as
formerly, a disagreeable-looking old woman, who replied to the question,
"Is Mr Moxton in?" with a sharp, short, "Yes." The dingy little
office, with its insufficient allowance of daylight, and its
compensating mixture of yellow gas, was inhabited by the same identical
small dishevelled clerk who, nearly two years before, was busily
employed in writing his name interminably on scraps of paper, and who
now, as then, answered to the question, "Can I see Mr Moxton?" by
pointing to the door which opened into the inner apartment, and resuming
his occupation--the same occupation--writing his name on scraps of
paper.
Ned tapped--as of yore.
"Come in," cried a stern voice--as of ditto.
Ned entered; and there, sure enough, was the same tall, gaunt man, with
the sour cast of countenance, standing, (as formerly,) with his back to
the fire.
"Ah!" exclaimed Moxton, "you're young Sinton, I suppose?"
Ned almost started at the perfect reproduction of events, and questions,
and answers. He felt a species of reckless incredulity in reference to
everything steal over him, as he replied--
"Yes; I came, at my uncle's request, for some papers that--"
"Ah, yes, they're all ready," interrupted the lawyer, advancing to the
table. "Tell your uncle that I shall be glad to hear from him again in
reference to the subject of those papers; and take care of them--they
are of value. Good-morning!"
"Good-morning!" replied our hero, retreating.
"Stay!" said Moxton.
Ned stopped, and turned round.
"You've been in California, since I last saw you, I understand?"
"I have," replied Ned.
"Umph! You haven't made your fortune, I fancy?"
"No, not quite."
"It's a wild place, if all reports are true?"
"Rather," replied Ned, smiling; "there's a want of law there."
"Ha! and lawyers," remarked Moxton, sarcastically.
"Indeed there is," replied Ned, with some enthusiasm, as he thought of
the gold-hunting spirit that prevailed in the cities of California.
"There is great need out there of men of learning--men who can resist
the temptation to collect gold, and are capable of doing good to the
colony in an intellectual and spiritual point of view. Clergymen,
doctors, and lawyers are much wanted there. You'd find it worth your
while to go, sir."
Had Edward Sinton advised Mr Moxton to go and rent an office in the
moon, he could scarcely have surprised that staid gentleman more than he
did by this suggestion. The lawyer gazed at him for one moment in
amazement. Then he said--
"These papers are of value, young man: be careful of them.
Good-morning--" and sat down at his desk to write. Ned did not venture
to reply, but instantly retired, and found himself in the street with--
not, as formerly, an indistinct, but--a distinct impression that he had
heard the dishevelled clerk chuckling vociferously as he passed through
the office.
That afternoon Ned and old Mr Shirley alighted from the train at a
small village not a hundred miles out of London, and wended their way
leisurely--for it was a warm sunny day for the season--towards a large,
quaint, old farm-house, about two miles distant from the station.
"What a very pleasant-looking house that is on the hill-top!" remarked
Ned, as he gave his arm to his uncle.
"D'you think so? Well, I'm glad of it, because that's the farm I wish
you to take."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Ned, in surprise. "Surely the farm connected with
such a house must be a large one?"
"So it is," replied the other.
Ned laughed. "My dear uncle," said he, "how can _I_ manage such a
place, without means or knowledge?"
"I said before, boy, that I would overcome both these difficulties for
you."
"You did, dear uncle; and if you were a rich man, I could understand how
you might overcome the first; but you have often told me you had no
money in the world except the rent of a small property."
"Right, Ned; I said so; and I say it again. I shan't leave you a
sixpence when I die, and I can't afford to give you one while I am
alive."
"Then I must just leave the matter in your own hands," replied Ned,
smiling, "for I cannot comprehend your plans."
They had now reached the gate of the park that surrounded the fine old
building of Brixley Hall.
The house was one of those rambling, picturesque old mansions, which,
although not very large in reality, have a certain air of magnitude, and
even grandeur, about them. The windows were modern and large, so that
the rooms were well lighted, and the view in all directions was
magnificent. Wherever the eye turned, it met knolls, and mounds, and
fields, and picturesque groves, with here and there a substantial
farm-steading, or a little hamlet, with its modest church-spire pointing
ever upwards to the bright sky. Cattle and sheep lowed and bleated in
the meadows, while gentle murmurs told that a rivulet flowed along its
placid course at no great distance.
The spot was simply enchanting--and Ned said so, in the fulness of his
heart, emphatically.
"'Tis a sweet spot!" remarked his uncle, in a low, sad tone, as he
entered the open door of the dwelling, and walked deliberately into the
drawing-room.
"Now, Ned, sit down--here, opposite that window, where you can see the
view--and I'll tell you how we shall manage. You tell me you have 500
pounds?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Well, your dear mother left you her fortune when she died--it amounts
to the small sum of 200 pounds. I never told you of it before, my boy,
for reasons of my own. That makes 700 pounds."
"Will that suffice to stock and carry on so large a farm," inquired Ned?
"Not quite," replied Mr Shirley, "but the farm is partly stocked
already, so it'll do. Now, I've made arrangements with the proprietor
to let you have it for the first year or two rent free. His last
tenant's lease happens to have expired six months ago, and he is anxious
to have it let immediately."
Ned opened his eyes very wide at this.
"He says," continued the old gentleman, "that if you can't manage to
make the two ends meet in the course of a year or two, he will extend
the _gratis_ lease."
Ned began to think his uncle had gone deranged. "Why, what _do_ you
mean," said he, "who is this extraordinary proprietor?"
"He's an eccentric old fellow, Ned, who lives in London--they call him
Shirley, I believe."
"Yourself, uncle!" cried Ned, starting up.
Dear reader, the conversation that followed was so abrupt, exclamatory,
interjectional, and occasionally ungrammatical, as well as absurd, that
it could not be reduced to writing. We therefore leave it to your
imagination. After a time, the uncle and nephew subsided, and again
became sane.
"But," said Ned, "I shall have to get a steward--is that what you call
him? or overseer, to manage affairs until I am able to do it myself."
"True, Ned; but I have provided one already."
"Indeed!--but I might have guessed that. What shall I have to pay him?
a good round sum, I suppose."
"No," replied Mr Shirley; "he is very moderate in his expectations. He
only expects his food and lodging, besides a little care, and attention,
and love, particularly in his old age."
"He must be a cautious fellow, to look so far forward," said Ned,
laughing. "What's his name?"
"His name--is Shirley."
"What! yourself again?"
"And why not, nephew? I've as much right to count myself fit to
superintend a farm, as you had, a year ago, to think yourself able to
manage a gold mine. Nay, I have a better right--for I was a farmer the
greater part of my life before I went to reside in London. Now, boy, as
I went to live in the Great City--which I _don't_ like--in order to give
you a good education, I expect that you'll take me to the country--which
I _do_ like--to be your overseer. I was born and bred here, Ned; this
was my father's property, and, when I am gone, it shall be yours. It is
not much to boast of. You won't be able to spend an idle life of it
here; for, although a goodly place, it must be carefully tended if you
would make it pay."
"I don't need to tell _you_," replied Ned, "that I have no desire to
lead an idle life. But, uncle, I think your terms are very high."
"How so, boy?"
"_Love_ is a very high price to pay for service," replied Ned. "Your
kindness and your generosity in this matter make me very happy and very
grateful, and, perhaps, might make me very obedient and extremely
attentive; but I cannot give you _love_ at any price. I must refuse you
_as an overseer_, but if you will come to me as old Uncle Shirley--"
"Well, well, Ned," interrupted the old gentleman, with a benign smile,
"we'll not dispute about that. Let us now go and take a run round the
grounds."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is needless, dear reader, to prolong our story. Perchance we have
taxed your patience too much already--but we cannot close without a word
or two regarding the subsequent life of those whose fortunes we have
followed so long.
Ned Sinton and old Mr Shirley applied themselves with diligence and
enthusiasm to the cultivation of their farm, and to the cultivation of
the friendship and good-will of their neighbours all round. In both
efforts they were eminently successful.
Ned made many interesting discoveries during his residence at Brixley
Hall, chief among which was a certain Louisa Leslie, with whom he fell
desperately in love--so desperately that his case was deemed hopeless.
Louisa therefore took pity on him, and became Mrs Sinton, to the
unutterable delight of old Mr Shirley--and the cat, both of whom
benefited considerably by this addition to the household.
About the time this event occurred, Ned received a letter from Tom
Collins, desiring him to purchase a farm for him as near to his own as
possible. Tom had been successful as a merchant, and had made a large
fortune--as was often the case in those days--in the course of a year or
two. At first, indeed, he had had a hard struggle, and was more than
once nearly driven, by desperation, to the gaming-table, but Ned's
advice and warnings came back upon him again and again--so he fought
against the temptation manfully, and came off victorious. Improved
trade soon removed the temptation--perhaps we should say that his
heavenly Father took that means to remove it--and at last, as we have
said, he made a fortune, as many had done, in like circumstances, before
him. Ned bought a farm three miles from his own, and, in the course of
a few months, Tom and he were once more walking together, arm in arm,
recalling other days, and--arguing.
Lizette and Louisa drew together like two magnets, the instant they met.
But the best of it was, Tom had brought home Larry O'Neil as his
butler, and Mrs Kate O'Neil as his cook while Nelly became his wife's
maid.
Larry, it seems, had not taken kindly to farming in California, the more
so that he pitched unluckily on an unproductive piece of land, which
speedily swallowed up his little fortune, and refused to yield any
return. Larry, therefore, like some men who thought themselves much
wiser fellows, pronounced the country a wretched one, in reference to
agriculture, and returned to San Francisco, where he found Tom Collins,
prospering and ready to employ himself and his family.
As butler to an English squire, Larry O'Neil was, according to his own
statement, "a continted man." May he long remain so!
Nelly Morgan soon became, out of sight, the sweetest girl in the
countryside, and, ere long, one of the best young fellows in the
district carried her off triumphantly, and placed her at the head of
affairs in his own cottage. We say he was one of the best young
fellows--this husband of Nelly's--but he was by no means the handsomest;
many a handsome strapping youth there failed to obtain so good a wife as
Nelly. Her husband was a steady, hard working, thriving, good man--and
quite good-looking enough for her--so Nelly said.
As for Captain Bunting and Bill Jones, they stuck to each other to the
last, like two limpets, and both of them stuck to the sea like fish. No
shore-going felicities could tempt these hardy sons of Neptune to
forsake their native element again. He had done it once, Bill Jones
said, "in one o' the splendidest countries goin', where gold was to be
had for the pickin' up, and all sorts o' agues and rheumatizes for
nothin'; but w'en things didn't somehow go all square, an' the anchor
got foul with a gale o' adwerse circumstances springin' up astarn, why,
wot then?--go to sea again, of coorse, an' stick to it; them wos _his_
sentiments." As these were also Captain Bunting's sentiments, they
naturally took to the same boat for life.
But, although Captain Bunting and Bill did not live on shore, they
occasionally, at long intervals, condescended to revisit the terrestrial
globe, and, at such seasons of weakness, made a point of running down to
Brixley Hall to see Ned and Tom. Then, indeed, "the light of other
days" shone again in retrospect on our adventurers with refulgent
splendour; then Larry sank the butler, and came out as the miner--as one
of the partners of the "R'yal Bank o' Calyforny"--then Ned and Tom
related marvellous adventures, to the admiration of their respective
wives, and the captain smote his thigh with frequency and emphasis, to
the terror of the cat, and Bill Jones gave utterance to deeply-pregnant
sentences, and told how that, on his last voyage to China, he had been
up at Pekin, and had heard that Ah-wow had dug up a nugget of gold three
times the size of his own head, and had returned to his native land a
_millionnaire_, and been made a mandarin, and after that something else,
and at last became prime minister of China--so Bill had been _told_, but
he wouldn't vouch for it, no how.
All this, and a great deal more, was said and done on these great and
rare occasions--and our quondam gold-hunters fought their battles o'er
again, to the ineffable delight of old Mr Shirley, who sat in his
easy-chair, and gazed, and smiled, and stared, and laughed, and even
wept, and chuckled--but never spoke--he was past that.
In the course of time Ned and Tom became extremely intimate with the
pastor of their village, and were at last his right and left-hand men.
This pastor was a man whose aim was to live as his Master had lived
before him--he went about doing good--and, of all the happy years our
two friends spent, the happiest were those in which they followed in the
footsteps and strengthened the hands of this good man, Lizette and
Louisa were helpmates to their husbands in this respect, as in all
others, and a blessing to the surrounding country.
Ned Sinton's golden dream was over now, in one sense, but by no means
over in another. His sleeping and his waking dreams were still, as of
old, tinged with a golden hue, but they had not a metallic ring. The
_golden rule_ was the foundation on which his new visions were reared,
and that which we are told is _better_ than gold, "yea, than much fine
gold," was thenceforth eagerly sought for and coveted by him. As for
other matters--he delighted chiefly in the sunshine of Louisa's smile,
and in fields of golden grain.