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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.