"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.