Mr. Hogarth’s Will by Catherine Helen Spence (page 6)

Pringle.

“There would be far less jobbery an’ corruption in government pawtronage,” said Jamie Howison, the Newtown weaver.

“They couldna swamp the consteetuencies by makin’ fictitious votes,” said Sandy.

“They micht bribe, if the franchise was limited,” said Jamie Howison, “but with manhood suffrage an’ the ballot, a man micht vote just as he liked, and huz working men hae oor richts, an’ oor feelins, an’ oor interests, just as dear to huz as pedigrees an’ acres to the aristocracy. We want nae ten-hours bills–what richt hae parliaments to dictate to huz, an’ keep huz frae sellin’ a’ we hae to sell, oor time an’ oor labour? We want to be let alane to mind oor ain business, an no to be treated as if we was bairns that didna ken what was for their gude. Na, na, Maister Hogarth, when ye gied thae allotments to your hinds, ye showed that ye kent what they were fit for, an’ ye MAUN see that the bigger a consteetuency is, the purer it is like to be.”

“My friends,” said Francis, “the effect of any great extension of the suffrage, as things are at present, would be to put the WHOLE political power into the hands of the least educated classes of the community.”

“Not the whole with a five-pound vote,” said Sandy.

“Surely, not the whole, even wi’ manhood suffrage,” said Jamie.

“We dinna want it all, only oor fair share.”

“But it is in the nature of things,” said Francis, “that it must be so. Your five-pound voters, Mr. Pringle, would outvote the ten-pound voters enormously. Your non-propertied electors, Mr. Howison, would out-vote even the five-pound voters, and would, in every constituency, carry their candidate by an overwhelming majority. This would not be good either for the country or for you.”

“But the rich have the House of Lords, where they are paramount,” said Sandy Pringle.

“A very feeble barrier that would be found against the abuses of democracy,” said Francis. “You know well that in all emergencies the Lords must give way to the Commons.”

“‘Deed maun they,” said Jamie Howison, “and the only chance of justice for huz that they maun. But, Maister Hogarth, ye see that property, an’ education, an’ rank, an’ a’ that, hae had it a’ their ain way for hundreds o’ years; it’s time that we should hae oor turn. We arena like the French (in the days of the auld revolution); we would respect property. Even if we had owre muckle power, I think we wad mak nae bad use of it. It’s hard to keep huz oot o’ oor richts for ever because ye think we micht get a thocht mair than is good for us.”

“But,” said Sandy, sagaciously, “ye acknowledge that things as they are are na fair. What wad ye do to mend them?”

“You recollect a proposal of Lord John Russell’s, some years ago, to reconstruct the electoral districts, by making them each return three members, and allowing each elector to vote for only two, so as to secure somewhat of the rights of minorities,” said Francis.

“Oh! we misdooted that; for we thocht it was a treacherous thing on Lord John’s part,” said Sandy. “It is hard eneuch for the Leeberals to get their dues wi’ this restricted franchise; an’ this arrangement would mak the Tories stronger than they are noo.”

“But is it not just that a minority of a third should be secured their third share in the representation?” asked Francis.

“Oh! ye’re gaun to first principles, like your freend, Maister Sinclair. Nae doot it’s a’ richt, but it wadna answer. The third in ae district maun do without their man, an’ in some other they micht hae the best o’ it. That wad mak a’ odds even.”

“It does so in a great measure at present, though not so much so as I could wish, but every extension of the suffrage will tend to extinguish the minorities more and more. You cannot say that, in any electoral district you could name, with manhood suffrage the working classes would not enormously outnumber the educated classes.”

“An’ we maun wait for the reconstruction of the districts afore there is any chance o’ justice?” said Jamie Howison. “I’m thinking we’ll hae to tarry lang for our richts.”

“Not so long, if you steadily keep in view that this is the FIRST step. Lord John Russell’s proposal was an approximation to a right principle, which, if it had been properly supported, might have given the fairest opening for greater reforms. If the Conservatives had voted for a really Conservative measure like this it would have been carried, but as it was brought forward by a political opponent they voted against it, though they now taunt him with introducing it. If the Whig party had seen the importance of it, and had vigorously supported it, it might have facilitated the extension of the suffrage, a measure which none of you can desire more earnestly than I do. I have conversed recently with some colonial gentlemen returned from Australia on the working of their manhood suffrage and the ballot, and from one of them I got an idea which appears to be a still better one than Lord John Russell’s. It was embodied in a Municipal Bill for an infant city–that of Adelaide–drawn up by no less a person than Rowland Hill, then Secretary for the Colonisation Commissioners. I believe it was a deplorably bad town council for Birmingham that led his acute mind to ponder how to secure the rights of minorities, as it was the enormous expense of a correspondence he entered into on the subject of the coal-tax grievance that led him to make the calculations and to devise the system by which letters could be carried all over the kingdom for a penny.”

“Well, and what does Rowland Hill say about the minorities that ye care muckle for?” asked Sandy Pringle. “We hae a’ great respect for Rowland Hill, and what he has to say on sic a subject should weel deserve a hearing at ony rate.”

“He had an arrangement by which a quorum of the citizens could plump for one member of council, giving additional force to their vote. As they voted for one instead of eighteen, their vote was worth eighteen. By concentrating their vote they proportionally increased the power of it.”

“Oh! we ken that plumping aye makes the vote mair valuable,” says Sandy.

“Simply because your one vote is an advantage to your member, which is not given to any other; but this system gives a much greater reward for concentrating your vote. In Lord John’s case the thing was incomplete, for unless you have the power of giving your two votes to one man, a minority of a third cannot get in a member. It is the cumulative power given by Rowland Hill that secures that minorities will not be extinguished. This subject will receive my careful attention, if I am returned for the burghs, for I consider it by far the most important question of the day, and if I can get the working classes to sympathize with me, I hope for success in time. Also a revision of the partnership laws, so as to afford every facility for working people to co-operate with each other, for it is only by that means that much can be done to improve their condition. Those Rochdale pioneers are going on most satisfactorily with their co-operative store, which they are now extending to other undertakings of a greater magnitude, and I hope soon to see hundreds of similar associations in Great Britain and Ireland. But we want more freedom for limited liability companies, instead of so many difficulties being thrown in their way by over-legislation. I do not want to treat working people as children, but to encourage them to help themselves. I have had to work hard myself, and I know what it is.”

“We will lippen to you,” said Sandy Pringle, “and even though in some points we may not see things exactly as ye do, we want a man, an’ no a mere thing to hae a name, an’ be coonted like thae Fortescues and Turnbulls they are puttin’ up.”

“Little good, little ill, like a spale amang parritch, was that chap Trummle,” said Jamie Howison.

“I am sorry I have been so short a time in the district, so that I am so imperfectly known to you, but I hope in time to show that I deserve your confidence,” said Francis.

“But what about the ballot?” asked Jamie Howison.

“I have not quite made up my mind about the ballot,” said Francis. “It is humiliating to confess to such ignorance, but there is so much to be said on both sides that I am puzzled. I should like public opinion to be so much improved that there would be no necessity for the ballot, but perhaps without it we cannot regenerate public opinion. I am quite open to conviction on either side on this as on many other political questions. Now I think you understand my principles. I will vote for whatever I think right, no matter from what side of the House or from what party it emanates. If you can trust to my intelligence and my integrity, you will vote for me, but I make no pledge.”

“And we will ask nane,” said Pringle, “we will lippen to you.”

“But Maister Hogarth,” said one of Jamie Howison’s colleagues, “we look to you to mind the interests of them that has nae votes, and that is a large body, as ye ken.”

“Yes, a very large body indeed, when you include the women and children,” said Francis.

“Oh! the women and children,” said the weaver, with a disappointed air, “I was na thinking of them; they are weel enuch–the men taks care o’ them.”

“Not always the best care in the world,” said Francis. “Children need protective legislation to guard them from being overworked by parents and masters. Women are supposed to be free agents, but they do not really get all the rights of free agents–they should be empowered to protect themselves; the law should support them in obtaining their just rights. A wife ought not to be treated as a chattel; her earnings should be protected if she wishes it. And women, too, should have a wider field of labour. The difficulties which are thrown in the way of the weaker sex, in their attempts to earn a livelihood, both by law and by society, are very unworthy of the age we live in.”

“Weel, Maister Hogarth, though I dinna just see the needcessity for bringing in women to compete wi’ men at their trades, we could do ill without them at our mills, an’ maybe ye’re in the richt. Ye’ll find us Whigs at Ladykirk united, and in that case ye’re safe to carry the day,” said Sandy Pringle.

Francis’ return, however, ran more risk than either he or Sandy Pringle counted upon, for the suggestion carefully circulated by Fortescue, Toutwell, and the Tory agents, and feebly denied even by Mr. Hogarth’s own Swinton agent, that he was a most unpopular man in the county, and that it was a mistake on the earl’s part to support him, very nearly brought down a member of the Reform Club to force him to retire after his canvass was made, and his majority counted as small but safe. This shabby proceeding was only averted by the firmness of the Newtown Whigs, who were indignant at such treatment of a man so independent and so able as Mr. Hogarth, and they declared to the earl, through their agent, that if he did not with his party support Cross Hall for the burghs, they would set up Mr. Sinclair for the county and vote as one man for him, so that Lord Frederic would have an overwhelming majority over the Honourable James.

This threat of a certain defeat for the county restored the earl to his original intention of giving a mild support to Hogarth, who certainly would be a better man than Fortescue. There was the usual amount of personal abuse levelled at the banker’s clerk–neither his father nor his mother was spared–there were caricatures of him in mean lodgings and shabby raiment, doing things for himself, which he recollected doing, and which he was not ashamed of having done. If Francis had been made a duke, instead of merely trying to be a member of parliament, he would never have been ashamed of his past life, nor would he have been distressed or disturbed by the unexpected honour. He would have taken it as a matter of course. His speech from the hustings was clear, manly, and dignified, and far surpassed that of Fortescue, even with Toutwell’s diligent prompting. Mr. Sinclair’s speech was received with cheers and hisses, but in print it read exceedingly well.

Then followed Mr. Toutwell’s very rhetorical, very sarcastic, and, as his own party said, very telling speech; but to Jane, who read this report with the greatest interest, it told nothing.

The result of the poll was a majority of three in favour of Francis Hogarth, Esq., of Cross Hall, who was accordingly declared duly elected, and took his seat along with Lord Frederic (who had got in for the county by a majority of twenty-seven, much to the earl’s chagrin, who had supported Cross Hall for nothing, after all) and the other members of the new parliament.

Chapter XV.

Mrs. Phillips’s First Grief

Mrs. Phillips was somewhat annoyed at her husband’s treating Elsie Melville on their continental tour more as a travelling companion than as a paid dependant. Where was to be the glory of this journey through France and Italy, of which she would have to boast all her life, if her maid and herself were to be on such terms of equality? In vain Mr. Phillips said he had disliked the difference that was made between the two sisters, and had only submitted to it in London on account of the servants, and that he was glad to take this opportunity of treating Elsie as her birth and education deserved. In vain he pointed out that French ladies conducted themselves to their dependants with less distance and hauteur than Englishwomen, and that in France it was proper to do as the French did. Mrs. Phillips felt offended, and, for the first time in her life, a little jealous–not very jealous, for she was so conscious of her own beauty, and so unconscious of her defects of mind and temper, that she had a strong substratum of confidence in her husband’s affection–but at this time, Elsie was looking really very pretty; her movements were quick and graceful–a great contrast to Mrs. Phillips’s slow, dignified, Juno-like deportment–and her conversation so sparkling and amusing, that she thought Mr. Phillips looked at her too much, and talked to her too much. When they spoke French together–for Mr. Phillips was trying to revive his more than half-forgotten schoolboy French, and found he could do it more easily with Alice than with the foreigners–Mrs. Phillips had a vague sense that they were talking about something that they did not want her to hear. Elsie would have enjoyed this trip exceedingly, but for Mrs. Phillips’s unreasonableness and caprices; but, even in spite of them, she brought away many delightful recollections of scenes and people. When on this tour, she felt as if she could write verses again, if she had only time and quiet.

When in Paris she called on Madame Lenoir with a letter of introduction from her cousin. She received Elsie very kindly, and asked her and the Phillipses to her ‘at homes’; but as all the people there talked French, Mrs. Phillips did not find them at all entertaining, and she thought French hospitality a very shabby affair. They did not remain long in Paris, but went down to Italy, and visited Florence and Rome. Mr. Phillips wished he had had his two eldest girls with him in Italy, and promised to himself that next time he took the journey they should accompany him.

When they returned to London they found that all had gone well in their absence–Francis had won his election; Jane appeared to be in excellent spirits; and the children had made good progress with their lessons. Mr. Phillips appeared to miss his old friend and neighbour, Brandon, very much, and could not find any one of his colonial acquaintances who could fill up the blank which his departure from London had made. Besides, they were always losing somebody out of their pleasant circle. Every mail steamer, and every fine clipper ship that sailed for Australia seemed to take one or more from them; and though new people did come, they did not appear to be so agreeable as those who went away. Mr. Phillips could not remain contented in London, so he proposed a trip to America with his wife and Alice as before; but Mrs. Phillips disliked the sea, and did not feel very well, so she said she would rather stay in London with the family, though it was getting rather late in the season for London. She did not care to go to Derbyshire without him, far less to go to Scotland; so, if he could be so cruel as to leave her, she would prefer London. If Emily had been a little older, Mr. Phillips would have taken her with him, for he disliked travelling alone, but she was too young, as he himself acknowledged.

Elsie could not understand the cause of Mrs. Phillips’s peculiarly disagreeable conduct to herself lately, and she was almost on the point of leaving her, and taking another situation, when the children, one after the other, took scarlatina, and in such a house of sickness she–their favourite–could not be spared. All lessons, of course, were at an end. Mrs. Phillips looked into the nursery several times a day, and said how sorry she was to see the children so ill, and how she suffered from her anxiety about them; but it was Jane and Elsie who took the real charge of the little patients. The mother did not seem really alarmed, though the children were really very ill; the only thing she did that appeared like apprehension was making Jane write to Mr. Phillips to return to England without delay as soon as the children were seized with the fever. Jane also wrote to Dr. Phillips, and Vivian hurried to London, and stayed with his brother’s family until his return, which was a great lightening of the load of responsibility which the sisters felt rested on them. In spite of every care and all that either doctor or nurses could do, little Eva fell a victim to the disease; and, after her death, Mrs. Phillips for the first time seemed to realize the danger of the others. Everything had gone so prosperously with her since her marriage; she had known no sorrow, and little annoyance; she had always had her husband at her side to smooth everything for her, so that she really scarcely knew what the contingencies and trials of life were; but this death, happening when the father who loved his children so dearly was absent, affected the indolent and generally unimpressible woman very strongly. She felt that she was somehow to blame about it. “What will Stanley say when he comes home? Oh, what will he say to me for losing his darling child? Oh, why did he go to America, and leave me with such a charge? And the others will be sure to die, too!”–were her constant lamentations.

Her grief made her quite unfit to take any charge of the survivors, and yet she was incredulous when she was told by her brother-in-law, or by the Misses Melville, that they were really recovering. It was not till her husband returned, which was as soon as he possibly could, and assured her that they were quite out of danger, that she gave any credit to it. Mr. Phillips felt the loss of one of his children more keenly than most men, but he was grateful to see that he was likely to save the others, and he did full justice to the care and attention which they had received from Vivian and Jane and Elsie.

Francis Hogarth was in London, attending a short parliamentary session, when the children were so ill, and was constant in his inquiries as to their health. Dr. Vivian Phillips forced Jane and Elsie out to hear their cousin make his first speech one evening, when the patients were decidedly convalescent. Jane was very much pleased with Francis’ DEBUT, and though Elsie thought it rather tame, because it was not on an important subject, and was very calmly delivered, she was glad that he had not broken down, for it seemed a most imposing assembly for a stranger to address. Francis had visited the Derbyshire Phillipses, according to promise, after his election was over, and had been a good deal interested in Dr. Vivian, both on account of his own qualifications, and because Jane Melville had been interested in him. He now felt that Jane and the young physician were placed in very intimate relations with each other, and he naturally enough fancied that what he so much wished for himself would appear desirable to a man so acute and sensible as Vivian Phillips. Her calm temper, her promptitude, her method, were all shown to great advantage in a sick room. He forgot that Elsie’s gentle tender ways and her overflowing sympathy might be equally attractive, but Dr. Vivian was quite used to all sorts of sick rooms, and to all sorts of nursing, and nothing was very striking to him, so that he fell in love with neither sister, though he liked them both very much.

Jane in particular was one of those women who may count herself fortunate if she meets with one real lover in her lifetime. William Dalzell was not to be counted, except perhaps as a blank, but by means of the most favouring circumstances, she had taken Francis Hogarth’s heart into her possession, at least for time, and this was her one prize in the strange lottery of love. No other attachment she was likely to inspire, as she felt herself, but her lover was not so clear-sighted. Dr. Vivian Phillips had a great respect for her, and enjoyed her society now and then as a pleasant change from the more insipid company of his sisters or their female acquaintances, but to spend a life with her would be too fatiguing. She seemed always to require him to think his best, to say his best, and to do his best in her company. Now a wife just intelligent enough to appreciate his own abilities, but willing in all things to be guided by him, was a desirable thing; but one so thoroughly his equal as Jane Melville would allow him no repose.

The children did not gain strength rapidly, and Emily in particular made a most tardy recovery. Her illness threatened permanently to weaken her constitution, particularly as winter was fast approaching, and she had felt that season in England very trying during the preceding year. Her uncle Vivian strongly recommended that she should winter in a milder climate to re-establish her health, and Mr. Phillips thought going to the south of France, where the girls might acquire the language without much trouble, would be a good arrangement; but when he mentioned it to Emily herself as an excellent idea, the child languidly put it aside.

“Why not take up back to dear old Wiriwilta?” said she. “We were never ill there. It is warmer and drier than France; and if Miss Melville and dear Alice go with us, we can learn lessons just as well there as here. I am tired of this great London, with its smoke and its noise.”

Mr. Phillips was not a man to disregard a sick child’s longing at any time; and when his brother said that, though he would regret the departure of the family from England, her native air was probably the very best she could have, and the long voyage in a good ship would benefit all the children, he turned his thoughts towards Australia, as he could not have believed possible three months before. The accounts he received from Dr. Grant as to his affairs were satisfactory enough, but the returns were not at all what he had expected; and he found that his London establishment was very costly. He might return to England in a few years, but the children were so young they might go on with Miss Melville very well at Wiriwilta for some time. A very fine ship was on the berth; Mr. Dempster was going in it, and several other acquaintances; so that, though he would have preferred waiting for Brandon’s report of how things were going on, he decided on leaving England before the season was so far advanced, on Emily’s account.

Mrs. Phillips was in consternation at hearing her husband say he was really going to return.

“I thought you was never going back to Australia again, Stanley. You promised me you would not. What will you do about the children’s education?”

“We will take Miss Melville with us, and I have no fear but that they will all do very well. Their music, certainly, is not provided for; but something may turn up for that. Our first business is to get them into good health.”

“But Miss Melville will never go without Alice,” said Mrs. Phillips.

“Probably not; but we can take Alice, too.”

“I thought you said we was spending too much money, and that we must retrench,” said Mrs. Phillips.

“Our children’s education is the last thing I should think of retrenching on,” answered her husband. “I have heard you say that Alice saves her salary in your milliners’ bills. I have scarcely seen that proved, however, Lily; but Miss Melville saves me two hundred a year–that is clear enough, in black and white. It would be false economy to grudge her salary. Besides, Emily would be broken-hearted to part with Alice, so that I will offer to take both sisters with us, if they will come.”

“We don’t need such a housekeeper as Miss Melville at Wiriwilta. The house used to keep itself,” said Mrs. Phillips.

“I know I had more trouble with it than was pleasant or convenient,” said her husband. “I think things will go on much more comfortably there if Miss Melville continues with us; and after all their exceeding kindness and care of our poor dear children during their illness, I know that you too must be disinclined to leave them behind us.”

“Oh, yes! really they were very good to the children. I was not strong enough to do much for them myself; and I don’t feel inclined for the voyage just at this time. Let us go overland, and it will be sooner over.”

“No; we cannot go overland; there is very little pleasure going overland with four young children, and as I suppose you will want one servant, as well as Miss Melville and Alice, you must think of the expense.”

“I hate the sea, and you know I must be on shore before the end of February. And you recollect Mr. Brandon, for all his difficulties–saying he was ruined and all that sort of thing–would have gone overland, if he had only had his letters soon enough.”

“Because he was only one, or, with Edgar, two, and time was of more importance to him than the difference in passage-money. A fine long voyage will restore our children to health, and it does not matter to me being a month or two longer on the voyage. I think we are sure to be in Melbourne time enough for you. If it were only you and myself, Lily, there is nothing I should like so much as the overland route. There is so much that I should like to see and to show to you, but under present circumstances it is impossible.”

No arrangement could have suited Jane and Elsie so well as Mr. Phillips’s proposal, as a personal favour to himself, that they should accompany his family to Melbourne. It was the destination they had long aimed at; and as they were neither of the station nor qualifications to obtain free passages in any immigrant ship, they joyfully agreed to his liberal offer.

“But,” said Jane, “we must be perfectly frank with you. We have had a great desire to begin business in Melbourne together. We must tell you that we have often planned to join our savings to those of Peggy Walker, when she returns to Melbourne, as she will probably do ere long. Plans, of course, may not be carried out, but if ours are, we may leave you when you depend most on us. I am quite satisfied with my position in your family, but—-“

“But neither you nor I are quite satisfied with your sister’s,” interposed Mr. Phillips. “It was the best arrangement that at the time could have been made; but you would never consent to go with us to Australia, and leave Alice to work here by herself; so, if she sees anything, either in Melbourne or in the bush that will suit her better, she is quite free to accept of it, and to leave Mrs. Phillips. Her services and your services to our children in this recent affliction can never be forgotten by us. I can assure you, Mrs. Phillips feels deeply indebted to both of you.”

The party to Australia was increased from an unexpected quarter. Harriett Phillips had found that she had made no impression whatever on Mr. Hogarth. He had paid his visit to her father, but had taken almost no notice of her, who had been the person who invited him: in fact, he had markedly preferred her elder sister. His head had apparently been so full of politics, or something else, that he had not been half so agreeable as when she had met him in London, so that she was now very sorry that she had treated Mr. Brandon so cruelly during the last days of his stay in England. He certainly would have proposed if she had not discouraged him so much; it was really almost wrong in her to try to make him jealous, and she had succeeded only too well. After having entertained the idea that she could be married to him if she pleased for several months, she missed the pleasing excitement of a lover when she returned to her flat country life.

Now that her brother had actually made up his mind to leave England, she would also miss the change and the gaiety of a London winter, which she reckoned on having every year; so she astonished him by saying that she should like of all things to accompany them to Melbourne, and to see a little of bush life at that dear Wiriwilta that Emily was always talking about. She did not think that she would care to stay long, but for a year or two she really thought the life would be very pleasant for a change, just to see how things were done in these outlandish uncivilized places. She said, too, to her brother, that she thought she could be of service to Mrs. Phillips and the children. The society of Victoria was so indifferent, that it would be desirable to form a pleasant little coterie of one’s own. The children’s music should really be kept up; and she would be most happy to give them lessons. If her papa and Georgiana and Vivian could only spare her for a year or two, she should really like extremely to go. She would feel it so sad when Stanley left for an indefinite period again.

Mr. Phillips was pleased with the proposal; it showed a more friendly feeling towards his wife and family than she had ever evinced before, so he offered to pay all her outward-bound expenses, at any rate, for her. If she liked Australia, perhaps she might stay there with them altogether; or, indeed, she might find a home for herself there, and settle in the colony. Harriett said such a thing had never entered her head–that she went merely on a visit; but she set about getting her outfit in a very business-like way. It was an exceedingly busy fortnight for Jane and Elsie; but by dint of great applications to ready-made warehouses, everything was really got ready in time, and Mr. Phillips had again to admire the thoughtfulness, the foresight, and the method which Miss Melville showed in all her arrangements, while Elsie’s busy fingers were employed from morning to night in doing an endless variety of little things that were needed to supplement the ready-made stock of clothes.

Chapter XVI.

Another Good-Bye

Emily brightened up wonderfully at the prospect of a return to her old home. She seemed to gain strength every day, and no objection could be made to her going up to Edinburgh to pay her long-promised visit to Peggy Walker before she left England. Mr. and Mrs. Phillips and little Harriett accompanied her, and they took Jane Melville with them, for Elsie could not be spared from the needlework, and she did not wish so much to go to Scotland as Jane did.

Peggy was delighted to see her two nurslings, and also to see the young lady to whom she had given a home when she most needed one. Tom eagerly showed Jane what he had done in her absence, and received the commendation he deserved for his industry and his success. Grandfather was very weak, but in very tolerable spirits; this visit from Peggy’s friends would be something for him to think on for the short remainder of his life. Mrs. Phillips’s beauty and her fine clothes were something new to him; and the liveliness of the girls, and the politeness of their father, and Miss Jean’s kind inquiries and kind looks all did him good.

Francis Hogarth met, by appointment, his cousin Jane at Peggy Walker’s, where she meant to bid him good-bye, but he was not disposed to do so.

“You MUST come to Cross Hall, just to give a look at it before you bid the country farewell for ever. Mr. Phillips, do come round by Cross Hall, and let Jane see her old home once more.”

“I want so much to see Cross Hall, that Alice tells us such pretty stories about,” said Emily.

“Cross Hall! is that the name of your place?” said Mrs. Phillips. “I would like to see it too, very much. Mr. Phillips will go, of course, if we all wish it.”

Jane expected to suffer something in this farewell visit. It was not to be long, but it must be trying. Francis was cruel to ask it, and Mr. Phillips inconsiderate to accept of his invitation. There were some things to be done that were not painful. When they left the train and got into Francis’ carriage–which was her uncle’s old one, in which she had been used to ride–for a five-miles drive, they passed the gates of Moss Tower, and saw William Dalzell and his young wife riding out, and bowed to both. Then they went to Allendale, for Miss Thomson had expressed the strongest wish to see Miss Melville before her departure for Australia, and Jane, too, was very much pleased to see again one whom she held in such high esteem. There, for the first time, she saw Mr. Sinclair, whose appearance and conversation were quite equal to her expectations; but even he was not so great an object of curiosity to her as Mary Forrester–a niece of Miss Thomson’s several years older than the girl who had got her new frock at Mrs. Dunn’s, in Elsie’s time. Mary was then on a visit to her aunt, and apparently had the charge of two lovely children, cousins of her own, and grand-nephew and niece of Miss Thomson’s. Their parents had gone a voyage in search of health, and Aunt Margaret had invited them to spend the winter at Allendale, and cousin Mary to keep them company. Jane thought she had never seen a more charming girl than Mary, who was evidently a great favourite with her aunt and Mr. Sinclair. Frank, intelligent, and graceful, she looked like a sunbeam in the house. The little Phillipses knew at once that she liked children, and wondered if she knew any of the delightful stories and ballads for which Elsie was famed. The little Munroes would take the Australians out of doors to see the poultry and the wonderful peacock, so Mary and Jane accompanied their charges. Mary had heard so much of Jane that she was disposed to be interested in her, while a new tide of ideas flowed into Jane’s mind in relation to this stranger. In all probability this was the girl to whom Francis was likely to become attached when she left the country. And now that it was no unseen, and perhaps impossible, person whom she was to fancy as his wife, but a really pretty and amiable girl, did the thought now give her pain or awaken any sharp pang of jealousy? Her heart filled with many emotions at the thought, agitating and painful enough, but there was no jealousy. The more she fancied that Francis could love her, the more Jane felt that she must love her too.

“I really half envy you, Miss Melville,” said Mary. “I wish I could do something for myself. You cannot think how anxiously I watched and wondered how you and your sister got on, and how delighted I was when you got the situation with Mrs. Phillips. Your cousin too–it must have been a sad weight off his mind. A generous man like him must have felt the terms on which he got the property very cruel.”

“Yes,” said Jane, “I know he felt it very much. We have great cause to thank God that things have turned out so well as they have done.”

“Well, Miss Melville, do you know I feel quite ashamed to think of the amount of money which our family has cost Aunt Margaret; and after all she has spent on my education, and I really did try my best to learn too, I feel almost guilty in looking for a situation. There are so many wanting employment, that it seems like taking bread out of their mouths; and here am I, a full-grown woman, dependent on other people for mine. There are four girls of us, and only Grace at school now, but yet none of us are doing anything for ourselves. I spoke to Aunt Margaret about taking a situation, but she said she must have me at Allendale for the winter, on account of Archie and Maggie. After that is over, I may speak of it again. You are going to Melbourne, where I have got a brother doing pretty well; but one does not like to be dependent even on a brother. If you think there is any opening there for us, will you let us know through your cousin? we see him very often.”

“Then you stay at Allendale for all this winter?” said Jane.

“Yes, and it will be very pleasant. I like living with Aunt Margaret so much, and John and I were always the two who drew together most of the family; and then Mr. Sinclair is the dearest old gentleman in the world.”

“My cousin seems to be a favourite of your aunt’s,” said Jane.

“I never saw aunt take to any one at once as she did to him. What a pity your uncle did not take him home; it would have added very much to his happiness and to yours.”

It was not like the parting of strangers that took place between Jane Melville and Mary Forrester.

“Will you let me kiss you?” said Jane, timidly, as she said good-bye. This was rather a remarkable proceeding on Jane’s part, for she was not addicted to the promiscuous osculation so common among young ladies, but she felt for Mary Forrester no common interest.

Mary frankly granted the little request, and they parted to meet again–when, and where, and how?

The party then went to Cross Hall, which was unaltered since Jane had left it; and while Mrs. Phillips and the children were resting after their journey, Francis took Mr. Phillips and Jane to look at the cottages he had built, and she mounted her old horse to ride out to see the allotments, which, even in this short time, showed signs of improvement. There were words of greeting to be said to everybody and to every animal about the place. The old servants were eager to tell her of all that had been done, and all that was to be done; they were glad to see her in good health, and apparently in good spirits. Many sad reports had reached Cross Hall about their straitened circumstances when in Edinburgh, and about poor Miss Elsie falling into a decline; and to see and hear that all was so well with the sisters was a pleasant thing for all who were attached to them. After all this had been gone through, and she went into the room which had been hers and Elsie’s for fifteen years, to dress for dinner, the past, the present, and the future all came upon her at once, and she felt as if she could have given the world for the opportunity to give way. Everything was exactly as she had left it; all the furniture which had been taken to Edinburgh had been brought back and placed as it used to be.

“Can I help you, any way, Miss Jane?” said Susan, the upper housemaid, tapping at the door.

“No, thank you,” said Jane: then recollecting herself, and hoping that the presence of the girl might help to steady her nerves–“but stop, do come in for a little, and brush my hair. I am too tired, I think, to do it; and my head aches a little.”

“Is everything right here? The master said I was to tell him exactly how things used to be, that ye should see nae change.”

“All is right,” said Jane. “If Elsie were here I might forget that I ever had left Cross Hall; and I see that our people have no cause to miss us, so that we can go to Australia with lighter hearts.”

But for all this talk about a light heart, the tears would come into Jane’s eyes slowly as she looked out to the familiar scene and heard the well-known voices, and thought that to-morrow she must leave Cross Hall and Scotland and Francis for ever.

Mr. Phillips helped her well to keep up conversation at dinner and during the evening, but after the children had gone to bed and Mrs. Phillips had retired, he thought the cousins might wish to have their quiet talk by themselves, and wished them good-night.

“You have not been in the library yet Jane,” said Francis; “shall we adjourn there? I have a little, a very little business to talk over with you, and I am going to bid you our real farewell tonight, for I am not going to see you on board ship. I dare not.”

Jane followed him to the library. She had not been in it since they had searched through her uncle’s papers, and had read the letters of Madame de Vericourt together. Francis took from the drawer, which still contained those yellow letters, a paper on which was some writing and figures, and a parcel of bank-notes.

“You recollect that you asked me to store the furniture that you left in your room till you saw fit to claim it. After Elsie decided on staying at Mrs. Phillips’s, I sent to Peggy’s for what you had there, as I think I wrote to you, and Susan saw that everything was placed just as it used to be. Was it so?”

“Yes; exactly so.”

“I do not want to part with any of it, but I got a valuation taken of it the other day, which you see here, and I give you the market price for all the things. There is no favour in such a commercial transaction as that surely, so here is a little addition to your slender capital. You will find the money all right, I think, odd shillings and all.”

“All right,” said Jane, compelling herself to count the notes according to her old methodical way.

“And you like my cottages, Jane, and you hope great things from the allotments, and you were pleased with my two speeches in parliament? Oh! Jane, if I am ever worth anything I will owe it to you, and now you are going to put half the globe between us, I feel as if I had lost more than half of myself.”

Jane could scarcely trust herself to speak.

“It is better so, Francis.”

“If you miss me as I know I will miss you, write and tell me so. You KNOW, Jane, I love you,” said Francis.

“I feared it.”

“Why should you fear it? Is it not the most natural, the most reasonable thing I could do? If you loved me you would not fear it.”

“I thought that in all your many avocations, and especially in public life, that you would forget this fancy, but it is well that I must leave the country, for then I may hope that you will form another attachment. Write to me when you do so, that I may know I have not permanently deprived you of domestic happiness, and that I may pray for you both. You think you owe me much, but to you I owe still more. Till I knew you I had no religion, I never knew the privilege of prayer. Even though we may never meet again on earth, we can look forward to a happy meeting in heaven.”

“Now, Jane, when you women bid good-bye to a friend of your own sex, as dear to you as I am to you–for in a sense I am dear to you, am I not?”

“Yes, very dear to me,” was wrung out of Jane, by Francis’ earnest looks and words.

“Well, when you bade farewell to Peggy this morning, she took you in her arms and kissed you–you kissed Mary Forrester, a stranger to you–and you are going to leave me–perhaps for ever–me, who would give my life to serve you, who would give up fortune, fame, almost duty for your sake, and you will shake hands coldly, and say–‘Good-bye, Francis.'”

“Not coldly, my friend–my brother. Do not think I can part from you so,” and by an irresistible impulse, she turned to her cousin, and felt herself folded for a few seconds in his arms, and kissed with passionate tenderness.

“This is what might have been ours for life, but for this accursed will, and your notions of what is best for me, and perhaps a natural disinclination towards my suit. Reflect–think–before it is too late make your choice;–love in poverty and obscurity, perhaps–but still love.”

“Love is not all life, either for you or for me;–it is better for us to part.”

“Then you make your choice;–but Jane, if you change your mind, write to me, and let me know. I tried to leave off writing at one time; but it did no good, for I could do nothing that did not remind me of you. Then it must be good-bye. May God bless you, my beloved one, now and for ever!”

“May God bless you, my dear Francis, and now farewell!”

Another sort of farewell from her dismissal of William Dalzell! Centuries had seemed to have passed over her since that first eventful day of her life. She scarcely could identify herself with the woman who had so calmly and so kindly extinguished a fancied partiality, as she sat down in her own room and trembled from head to foot at the thought of the pain she had given, and the love she had rejected. In the one case she was perfectly certain that she had done right, in this she was not by any means so clear. As she heard her cousin restlessly pacing up and down the library, she felt tempted to go to him and say she would share his fortunes, and even destroy them for him if he wished it. She looked at the mirror, and wondered at her being able to excite such an attachment; she looked into her own soul, and did not see anything in it to warrant a man in giving her such a power over him. Duty was clear as to the dismissal of William Dalzell, and the result had proved that she was in the right; and now, when duty was so terribly difficult, surely time, that tardy, but certain adjuster of life’s inequalities, would justify her both to Francis and herself. William Dalzell’s love had appeared to evaporate; but Francis’ had grown more intense and passionate till she felt she could scarcely look at him.

But it was true that she had admired his speeches, and that she was ambitious for his success in all his plans. Every one who knew anything about the subject said that Francis Hogarth was the most promising young man who had entered the walls of parliament at this recent general election. He had given great attention to public business; he had mastered the details with ease; and the principles seemed to be intuitive with him.

He had become acquainted with a small band of outsiders like himself, men of independence and originality, who kept aloof from party, but whose votes were of importance to both parties, and whose approbation was of far more value than that of the strongest partizan. No one could tell to what height he might not rise from such a beginning; the ministry had noticed him favourably, and he was as likely as not to be offered office before the parliament had expired.

Mr. Sinclair had told her how his hopes rested on the new member for the burghs, and how many public matters and reforms they talked over together with constant reference to first principles.

Jane was proud of the conquest she had made, and proud of her influence over a man so able, and so upright; but now she felt it was dangerous to see too much of him, and his parliamentary life had brought him into far more frequent contact with her now than ever before. She had led him so far in the right direction, but now she feared for her own resolution; she knew she could not withstand many such scenes as she had just gone through, and she saw that there was great wisdom and propriety in her leaving the country that he lived in. From her distant home across the ocean, she could hear of his labours and his triumphs, and, she hoped, after a time, of his happiness. But while she reasoned with herself as to the propriety of leaving him, she felt all the bitterness of the lifelong separation. She could no longer disguise the truth from herself–he was as truly half of her as she was of him–and she shivered at the thought of a life to be gone through in which she should never more see his face, or hear his voice. It was as sad a night, and as sleepless, as that she had spent in her cousin’s house in Edinburgh, when all doors had seemed to be shut against her, except the faint chance of a sub-matronship in a lunatic asylum. Now, two doors were open to her–one to a life of toil and dependence for herself and probably a happy life for Elsie, at the antipodes; and the other, a life of love with the man who had all her heart, and who deserved it all, with a dependent life for Elsie. Even though her own hand had closed the door, she could not help lingering at the threshold, and grieving that she was shut out from the only paradise she cared for.

So the good ship sailed next week, bearing Jane from the man who loved her, and whom she loved, and Elsie and Miss Harriett Phillips towards the man whom they both thought loved them.

Volume III.

Chapter I.

Mr. Brandon’s Second Proposal To Elsie, And Its Fate

On Mr. Brandon’s arrival at Melbourne after a longer voyage than he had expected in a ship with such a high character as the one he sailed in, he hurried up to Barragong, and was much gratified to find things there did not look so badly as he had been led to expect. It was his overseer’s want of confidence in himself that had made him exaggerate everything that was going wrong, or was likely to go wrong. In fact Mr. Phillips’s affairs were suffering much more from the want of the master’s eye than his; but Dr. Grant had a better opinion of his own management, and wrote more cheerful accounts. Brandon regretted that Powell had left his employment, for if he had been in charge of Barragong there might have been three more happy months in England for his master.

As his affairs were really in a sufficiently satisfactory state, he felt that he must write to Elsie Melville, renewing his offer of marriage, and endeavouring as far as he could to give her confidence in the stability of his character. How exceedingly awkward he felt it to be to have to write this instead of saying it. How incomparably better such things are done by word of mouth, particularly when one is not a ready and clever letter-writer. He would in the personal interview have felt the effect of one sentence before he ventured on another–he would have assisted his halting phrases by all the advantages of tone, gesture, and expression of countenance. Though he had failed once in his attempt to win her affections, he had been far more stupid than he was now, and he was now more anxious for success. The more he had thought over the person, the manners, and the character of Elsie Melville, the more convinced he was that she was the one woman in the world for him; but he was by no means so sanguine of being accepted as he had been, particularly when he had only the pen to trust to. There was no saying what so clever and so literary a girl as Elsie Melville was would think of his blundering declaration. The paper looked cold and blank and uninviting–it really was hard to make it the only means of telling her how much he loved her. No kind wishes towards the overseer whose fears and scruples had hurried him away, or towards Miss Phillips, who had interrupted him when he was about to say something he had hoped Elsie could not mistake, accompanied the half-dozen different attempts at a love-letter, which were written before he could please himself. Emily was his friend; Jane, he thought, would be his friend too. Elsie was really a kind-hearted girl, and if he could only convince her that he would be miserable if she refused him, she might pity him a little. He had not the same objections to a little pity that she had on that day in the railway carriage, when he had been so confident of success. But when he reflected on what Peggy might have said with truth about him, and when he put to that the fact that immediately after his refusal by Elsie he had devoted himself to Miss Phillips, there was no doubt that Elsie had some cause to suspect the steadiness of his principles. It was difficult by writing to hint at these things without saying too much, but they must not be passed over in silence either.

At last the letter was written and committed to the country post-office nearest to Barragong–not that he was satisfied with it, but he must not lose the mail. If she was good enough to accept of him, she was to draw upon him for a specified sum for passage-money and outfit, and come out in the mail steamer following her answer. It was not a brilliant letter, but it was honest and straightforward. However, as Elsie had sailed for Melbourne before it reached England, it was of the less consequence what it was.

Pending her answer, Brandon felt very unsettled. He could not set himself to work systematically, and all the neighbours said that his visit to England had spoiled him for a colonist, as it did with most people. He missed his pleasantest neighbour, Mr. Phillips, and he missed the children. Though Dr. Grant in one direction, and Mr. M’Intyre in another, thought they were ten times better than the Phillipses, Brandon did not feel that they could make up to him for their absence.

Dr. Grant was certainly mismanaging, to a considerable extent, Mr. Phillips’s business, and muddling it as he did his own affairs. He had now been many years in the sheep-farming line, and in the best of times, for he had bought very cheap–much cheaper than either Phillips or Brandon, and he had quite as large a capital to start with; but he had a bad way of managing the men on his stations; he gave the same wages as other people, certainly, for he could not help that, but he always gave them with a grudge, and seemed to think his employes were picking his pocket. He had a harsh and dictatorial way of giving orders–very different from Brandon’s and Phillips’s pleasant manner–and he consequently had never been well served. His men had been the first to leave at the time of the diggings, and the consequences had been most disastrous. From sheer want of hands, he had sacrificed one of his runs with the sheep on it to Powell, and now he grudged to see how very handsomely Powell had been repaid for his money and time in this transaction. The fortune that Powell had made ought to have been his–Dr. Grant’s own–instead of filling the pockets of a man who had only sprung from the ranks.

The same style of mismanagement was carried into Mr. Phillips’s affairs; and yet when Brandon relieved Dr. Grant of the burden he had so unwillingly taken up, the latter felt rather hurt, for he had had a handsome salary for the charge of Wiriwilta and the other stations, and he would certainly miss the money; and, besides, he thought it showed a want of confidence in himself on Phillips’s part.

At Wiriwilta, however, there was a feeling of pleasure at the exchange, and Brandon had the satisfaction of really benefiting his friend without taking any very great deal of trouble.

In this restless state of his mind he had great pleasure in the society of Edgar, who attached himself to his uncle with quiet fidelity. He soon learned to ride, and to ride fearlessly and far; he learned too to use his limbs, his ears, and his eyes, so that Brandon found he really had a head on his shoulders, which he had been rather doubtful of when the lad had been kept so constantly at his books.

One day when the boy had been talking with enthusiasm of Australian life, and expressing his longing after more adventures, his uncle, who also was eager for change, proposed to Edgar an overland journey together to Adelaide. He had heard that some particularly fine sheep were to be had in South Australia, and he wished to add this variety to his own flocks as well as to those of Mr. Phillips. He had always had a great wish to see the Adelaide side, and this journey would amuse and employ him till he could get his answer from Elsie. If she accepted him, and came out, as he wished, without delay, he might never have another opportunity for making the visit, for he would not be inclined to leave her, for a while at any rate.

Edgar was delighted with the proposal, and helped his uncle with the few simple preparations for their long ride with a vigour and despatch that showed he had the stuff in him for a good bushman. How his tender mother would have trembled at the thought of the perils and hardships of such a journey but as she knew nothing about it till it was safely over, she was spared all anxiety. Brandon was not altogether insincere when he told Elsie and the Edinburgh ladies that the finest prospect he ever saw in Victoria was the prospect of getting out of it, but the present pleasure made him forget many past ones. He had a real enjoyment in the bush life he then talked so contemptuously about. Camping out was to him no hardship, and to Edgar it was a delightful novelty. It was varied by nights spent at sheep stations, where a hospitable welcome generally awaited them, and an amount of comfort varying according to circumstances. When they crossed the Victorian border, and came to the South Australian side, the welcome appeared to be equally hearty. Edgar Holmes could not help admiring the want of suspicion and the liberality of these absolute strangers.

Brandon went about his purchase of sheep on his way to Adelaide, and made what he thought a very satisfactory bargain. It was to be a joint speculation between himself and Mr. Phillips, and he was sure it would turn out very well. When he had left directions as to delivery, he and his nephew went down to Adelaide, to see what they thought of that little colonial capital. Edgar was charmed with Adelaide, and preferred it out-and-out to Melbourne, but as he had only passed through the latter, and had got acquainted with none of the people there, his preference was perhaps not worth much. Brandon, however, could not help confessing that the Adelaide men had some cause for the patriotism so strongly, and, as he had thought, so tiresomely expressed at the time of the diggings. It had less bustle than Melbourne, and certainly was not so wealthy; but it was a quiet, cheap, and hospitable place, and its prosperity rested on a very solid basis. The amount of cultivation, both agricultural and horticultural, contrasted favourably with that of Melbourne, which had been almost exclusively pastoral till the gold diggings broke out, and had had many drawbacks, in the shape of land regulations, to its becoming a corn and wine bearing country.

Brandon took up his abode at the York Hotel, of course, and met with some pleasant people in and about Adelaide. Some of them he had known in London, and they introduced him to others. If his heart had not been fixed at this present time on Elsie Melville, he might have taken a fancy to one of the Adelaide girls whom he met. They were not so formidable in the array of their accomplishments and acquirements as the modern English young lady; they were frank, agreeable, and not ignorant of domestic matters, and they had no apparent horror of the bush. But Brandon’s affections were really engaged, and he put considerable restraint on his flirting powers during this visit, which all engaged men ought to do, but which, I must say, I have found very few engaged men do; they feel so perfectly safe themselves that they care very little for what construction other people may put on their attentions, or their polite speeches.

Brandon had sent directions for Mr. Talbot to get his letters and forward them to him in Adelaide, for he was now daily expecting Elsie’s answer. In case of his being accepted, he would cross over to Melbourne in time to receive her from the next mail-steamer, would marry her there, and take her home to Barragong, and thus save himself two long land journeys.

But the mail-steamer had come with the Adelaide mails, and the next after that with his own letters, but not a word from Elsie or from any of the Phillipses. He had had a few lines from Emily the preceding month, to say that dear little Eva was dead, and that they were all getting better. The address was either in Jane’s hand writing or in Elsie’s, but he took if for granted that it was Elsie’s, and had treasured it up in consequence of that supposition. But this month there was not a word from any of them. There had been plenty of time for an answer, for his letter had been sent via Marseilles, so that Elsie had had ten days clear to make up her mind and reply to what she ought to have thought an important communication.

It was using him extremely ill to treat his letter with so much contempt. He was never more near being very angry in his life. It was strange that Elsie Melville, whose manner was so remarkably gentle and winning, should on two important occasions have treated him with such marked discourtesy. No doubt, his letter was not worth very much in itself; but to him it was great consequence. If she wanted a month for consideration, why not write and tell him so? Or, if she feared to commit herself, she might have got Jane to write. Could she have taken the fever? That was a solution–but a very sad one–of her conduct. Jane would have certainly written in that case if she had not got the fever too. He would alter his plans: he would go back overland; or, rather, he would sail up the Murray, and not pass through Melbourne at all. So he took his passage and Edgar’s by one of the Murray steamers, and felt that if he was not a very ill-used man, he ought to feel a very unhappy one.

Chapter II.

Mrs. Peck

In a poor-looking room of a small wayside public-house, about twenty miles out of Adelaide, were seated one evening, shortly after Brandon’s departure up the Murray, a man and a woman, neither of them young or handsome or respectable-looking. If they had been so once they had outgrown them all. The woman certainly had what is called the remains of a fine woman about her, but her face had so many marks of care, of evil passions, and of irregular living, that it was perhaps more repulsive than if it had been absolutely plain in features; her dress was slatternly and ill-fitting, her gray hair untidily gathered under a dingy black cap, with bright, though soiled yellow flowers stuck in it; her eyes, which had still some brightness, had a fierce, hungry expression; and the very hands, thin and long, and with overgrown nails, had less the appearance of honest work than of dishonest rapacity. The man was a rougher-looking person, more blackguardly, perhaps, in appearance, but not so dangerous. He had been at the nearest post-office, and brought a letter addressed to Mrs. Peck, which the woman tore open and read with impatient eagerness.

“This is from Mr. Talbot at last,” said the man. “Long looked for–come at last. I hopes as how it is worth waiting for.”

“Worth waiting for!” said she, stamping on the letter with her foot, and standing up, with such a look of frenzy that her companion moved a little out of the way. “Hang him, and his clients too!”

“Won’t this man come down with the ready, Liz? Does he send to make inquiries? A cool hand–cooler than the old man. Won’t out with the blunt till he knows what he’s paying for.”

“It’s not about him at all,” said Mrs. Peck. “Not a word has he ever said, good or bad–taken no notice of my letters, no more nor if I had not been such a mother to him. I should have had an answer to my second letter by this time, and I know it was directed all right; he must have got them both. I’ll have it out of him, though. I’ll have my revenge, as sure as I am a living woman.”

“Don’t go into such a scot, woman. Then, if it is not from young Cross Hall, what has that lawyer said to put you into such a tantrum?”

“Oh! just a request to keep on this side of the border, or he’ll not warrant my getting a farthing out of Phillips. He offers three pound a quarter more if I don’t show my face in Melbourne! Such a beggarly sum it is after all! To think that I should only have two children, and them turning out such ungrateful cubs to me!”

“Two children, Liz?” said the man with a sneer. “Well, if I was Phillips I’d like to keep you at a civil distance just at present, for you look as like to brain him as not.”

“There’s the both of them rolling in wealth. Frank got all Cross Hall’s property, and all through me; and Betsy, with her London establishment and her carriage, no doubt, and her children dressed like duchesses, and herself, too–and look at me!”

“Well, just look at you, Liz. I fancy that the sight of you would do them no credit. You’re well enough off with Phillips. I think this is a very handsome offer. Though we’re both sick of Adelaide, we can stop here a bit longer–at least, till we can see our way clear to get out of it.”

“Do you think I don’t care for my liberty? and I hate the Adelaide side. It was all your doings coming across here at all, and a precious mull you’ve made of it. I fancy they must be thinking of coming back to Melbourne, from this notice to me to keep out of the way. And do you think I don’t want to see my own daughter? Did not I put her in the way of all her good fortune? Did not I dress her the day she first saw Phillips, and did not she look like a angel?”

“And he was spoon enough to marry her, which was more than either you or me expected. As for the girl, she was glad enough to go away from you; you never cared so much for her.”

“Did I not, when I saw she was growing up so handsome and a credit to me?”

“Yes, yes; we both wanted to make our own of her, and I think we did not do amiss, considering,” said Peck. “We’ve had bad luck in Adelaide, but things may change–money goes farther here.”

“Money never goes far with us,” said Mrs. Peck, “and Melbourne is the place where we can get on best. If I had Frank’s money, which I must and shall get out of him somehow, we could manage to rub along here, but without it we never could. The black-hearted scoundrel, not to send me a farthing–me who could—–“

“You had better threaten him with what you can do in your next letter. I always thought that style of working the oracle would pay best; but perhaps the motherly affectionate dodge was the best to try first. Threaten him in your next.”

“I don’t think I’ll condescend to threaten him; I don’t care to save him from what he deserves for his shameful ingratitude to me. I could make better terms with Cross Hall’s nieces than I could do with Frank. Surely they would give me more for my secret than he would do to keep me quiet. They were left beggars, I know, and the estate is worth a great deal to them.”

“Hang it, Mrs. Peck, that is a glorious idea, but don’t be too hurried in your movements. You don’t care about your own share in the business being known?” said Peck.

“I care for nothing if I could only get my revenge on him, and if I could only get as much out of the Melville girls as would allow me to snap my fingers at Phillips. I would rather relish publishing my connection with him. I would like to bring down Betsy a peg.”

“There’s where you always make a mull of it, Liz. Your infernal temper always gets the better of you. Revenge and spite are very good things in their way, but I don’t see that they pay. I think you would be very mad to give up so much a year for the pleasure of vexing Phillips and Betsy; and as for the Melville girls, how are you to get at them? There is not shot in the locker to take you to England, and letters are very risky things to write. You’re sure to let out more than is safe, and if you let out too little the girls will see no advantage in it.”

“I hate letters,” said Mrs. Peck, moodily; “but I would like to get at the girls by word of mouth.”

As this interesting pair were engaged in conversation, a traveller of a very different description alighted at the door of the inn, and requested lodgings for the night. He was well-dressed and respectable-looking; he was probably as old as either of them, but his face and air gave tokens of a quieter life and a calmer temper. His horse was knocked up, so that he could not go on to a larger and better-appointed inn than this, which was five miles nearer town; but when he saw the name over the door and the host and hostess, he was reconciled to the inferior accommodation. But he rather objected to the company that he found in the inn parlour, and did not seem pleased with the proposal that he should take supper with them.

“Oh, Mr. Dempster,” said the host, “I fancy you have got nice since you were in England. These people are decent enough, I reckon, though rather down in their luck, like some others of us. I wish I had such a house to receive you in as that I built on the–Road. I had plenty rooms there; but you see it was not licensed, and I was ruined–at least brought down to this.”

“Well, Frankland, I suppose I must submit,” said Mr. Dempster, “as you say you have no other place for me; but I never would have thought these were particularly decent people.”

Whether from spiritual influences or not, Mr. Dempster felt a great repugnance to this man and woman. The influence might have been partly spirituous, for there was a considerable fragrance of strong liquor about them both.

In spite of the unpromising appearance of the house, the hostess produced a very tempting-looking supper for hungry people. She sat down herself to make tea for the company, and was delighted to see Mr. Dempster, and to have a little talk with him about old colonists and old times. She was a very old colonist herself, and had known many ups and downs, generally in the same line of life.

Active, civil, and much-enduring, she was an admirable hostess, but her husband was rather idle and speculative, and had invested the savings of many years in the erection of a large hotel in a place where, in the opinion of the Bench of Magistrates, it was not wanted, and the licence was refused, so they had come down in the world in consequence, and had taken this small inn, where they could just make ends meet. Mrs. Frankland missed the old customers who used to call, and felt this visit from Mr. Dempster something like a revival of old days, and asked him as to the changes he saw in Adelaide; and as Mr. and Mrs. Peck were Melbourne people, who did not know anything about the old colonists, Mr. Dempster spoke to her with freedom.

“You have been visiting your married daughter, I suppose,” said Mrs. Frankland.

“Yes, that is the first thing I had to do on my return.”

“A fine family she is getting about her, I hear; but I have not seen her for awhile. This house is not good enough for her to stay a night in.”

“Yes, she has a very fine family–another little fellow since I left Adelaide.”

“You must feel it lonesome now,” said the hostess.

“Yes: it is the way of the world, and one should not murmur at it; but yet a man must feel it very much when his only daughter, and one so much his companion as my girl was, chooses a home for herself, and surrounds herself with new ties and new cares.”

“You should see and get some one to take care of you,” said Mrs. Frankland, cheerily;–“a pleasant, kindly body–not too young. You must have met many such in England, who would have been glad of the chance.”

“Yes, and who would have grumbled at the colony whenever she came out, and given me no peace till I took her home again. Now my business and my interests are all in South Australia. Besides, I like the young women best, and they would never look at an old fogie like me; so I must content myself with my memories of the past and my hopes for a future life. My home is not so lonely as you fancy it, Mrs. Frankland. Even here I feel the departed ones are near me. The veil that separates this world from the next is a very thin one; and if our intercourse with each other is less complete than in the days when we were together in the flesh, it is none the less real. I have become a spiritualist since I went to England.”

“A what?” asked the hostess.

“You must have heard of table-turning, and all those strange manifestations?”

“La! Mr. Dempster, I never thought of YOU giving in to a pack of nonsense like that. I beg your pardon for my rudeness, but really you DO surprise me.”

“What would you think of spirits who can read unseen letters–tell the names of persons whom none of the company knew–find out the secrets of every one in the room? You recollect Tom Bean, who was lost in the bush twelve years ago, and more; his spirit appeared to me in London, and gave me a message to his old mother, to say he was expecting her soon; and the old lady did not live three months after.”

“Well, that is strange, but I would be very hard to convince. But yet, Mr. Dempster, that is no reason why you should not get a nice tidy body to make you comfortable. The spirits would not surely begrudge you that. And so you had a pleasant voyage, and went round by Melbourne so as to see all that was to be seen. Did any of the old colonists come out with you?”

“We had a large party altogether–Mr. and his family, who had just been home to finish their education.”

“And you admired the young ladies, of course, but really they are too young for you. Have they grown up handsome?”

“Not particularly handsome, but very pleasant-looking; but if you talk of beauty, it was a Melbourne lady who bore off the palm on board ship. Unfortunately, she was married, and it would have been very improper to take a fancy to her, but Mrs. Phillips is superb.”

“Mrs. Phillips of Wiriwilta?” said Mrs. Peck, eagerly.

“Yes, I fancy that is the name of the place; at least the children used to talk about it by that name. Mr. Phillips is a sheep-farmer on the Victoria side,” said Mr. Dempster.

“And you say she is handsome?” said Mrs. Peck.

“Perfectly beautiful!–but uneducated, and somewhat capricious. I fancy her face must have captivated her husband, who is a very intelligent, agreeable man.”

“I suppose they are rich now?” said Mrs. Peck.

“Oh! very well to do, I fancy. I visited them a good deal when I was in London.”

“How many children have they?” asked Mrs. Peck. “I knew them long ago.”

“They lost one with scarlet fever before they sailed. There were four on board ship; but there are five by this time, for Mrs. Phillips stayed in Melbourne for her confinement, and had a little boy within a week of landing.”

“Is her husband with her?” asked Mrs. Peck, eagerly.

“Oh, no! I think Phillips went up to his stations; he had a number of things to see to. What do you know about them?” asked Mr. Dempster, rather surprised at Mrs. Peck’s curiosity.

“I was once in their employment at Wiriwilta, and Mrs. Phillips was uncommonly good-looking then. There was not so much style in those days as I suppose there is now.”

“Probably not; we have all had to work hard for what we have earned in these colonies and Phillips must have made his way like the rest of us. They had a very pretty little establishment in London.”

“Kep’ their carriage, no doubt,” said Mrs. Peck, with a thinly-disguised sneer.

“No, they did not; but if it’s any satisfaction to you to know it, Mrs. Phillips has had a tour on the Continent, and has had a lady’s-maid.”

“A lady’s-maid,” said Mrs. Peck; “well! well! and the children, I suppose, are being educated up to the nines?”

“They took both the governess and the lady’s-maid with them to Melbourne,” said Mr. Dempster. “They were sisters, and very superior young ladies. In fact, to my taste, Mrs. Frankland, the lady’s-maid was more charming than the mistress; not so regularly handsome–but very lovely–while as to intelligence and refinement there was no comparison. If she had been a dozen of years older I might have been a little presumptuous.”

“Was this Mrs. Phillips so very far behind as that her maid was so superior to her?” asked Mrs. Frankland.

“It happened that these sisters were the young ladies of whom, even in these distant parts, you may have heard something; who were brought up to inherit a large property in the south of Scotland, by a very eccentric uncle, who left everything he had to a son whom nobody had ever heard of before, and left the girls absolutely penniless.”

“Was not their name Melville?” asked Mrs. Peck, eagerly and fiercely.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Dempster, astonished to find his chatty communications to his old friend, Mrs. Frankland, taken up in this way by this unprepossessing-looking stranger. “Yes, their name was Melville, and I never in my life met with more amiable, more intelligent, or better-principled girls.”

“I saw about it in the papers,” said Mrs. Peck, endeavouring to subdue her delight and exultation at the idea of the girls she wished so much to come in contact with being so near her as Melbourne. “I took a great interest in it. I like these romances of real life. And so, Mrs. Phillips is up, and these girls are down, and glad to eat the bitter bread of service. It is very amusing. Was Mrs. Phillips much taken up with them on account of their misfortunes?”

“I do not know,” said Mr. Dempster, drily. “If you have served Mrs. Phillips you will know that she is not the same at all times.”

“Then there was a large party of them on board; a servant, no doubt, and these two Melville girls, and the children?” said Mrs. Peck.

“There was also a sister of Mr. Phillips’s–rather a fine woman, too–come out on a visit.”

“And a fine lady, too, I dare say,” said Mrs. Peck. “Mr. Phillips holds his head pretty high. I warrant his sister and Mrs. Phillips would have some sparring. And the children are good-looking, I suppose? I saw none of them since the first was a baby. What are they like?”

“They are very pretty children, and getting on well with their studies. The eldest Miss Melville is the most thoroughly cultivated woman I ever saw.”

“Oh, leave Cross Hall alone for that,” said Mrs. Peck. “He was always crazy about education, and that sort of thing.”

“Cross Hall!” said Mr. Dempster. “I suppose you will say next that you know Francis Hogarth, of Cross Hall, member of Parliament for the Swinton burghs?”

“Member of Parliament, too!” said Mrs. Peck, with the same subdued fierceness as when she first took Mr. Dempster up about the Melvilles. “Member of Parliament! Ungrateful dog!” she said, under her breath; but her expression of vindictiveness was not altogether lost on Mr. Dempster. “Oh yes! I know him; or at least I know all about him. Nobody did know anything of him till he came into the property, you know; but I really know more about him than most folks. There are some people that would give their ears to know what I do; but there is a saying in the north, where I was born, ‘Least said is soonest mended;’ at any rate, least said to them as it don’t concern.”

“If I had you at a seance”, said Mr. Dempster, “I could get all your secrets out of you, whether you liked it or not. Yes, Mrs. Frankland, I really could.”

“I don’t think it can be right,” said the timid hostess, who, though she was very fond of hearing the news, preferred to get them from living persons and not disembodied spirits. “Mrs. Peck, you are taking nothing.”

“I got bad news just before tea, and that took away my appetite; but I have got over that now, so I’ll trouble you for a mutton chop, Mr. Dempster, and Peck, just pass me the pickles, and be good enough to give me a hot cup of tea, Mrs. Frankland, for this one is as cold as a stone;” so Mrs. Peck felt inclined to make up for lost time, and made a very hearty supper. She wound up with two glasses of brandy-and-water hot, and she got Peck out of the way, for she wished to have a quiet talk with Mr. Dempster.

Mr. Dempster was not disposed to encourage her confidence; her strange inquiries about people he had been greatly interested in, recalled the seance which had so much startled Francis Hogarth, and he suspected that this must be the person who had written the letter the spirit had been questioned about, and, consequently, that she was Hogarth’s mother; no mother, certainly, to be proud of! The spirit said that her son ought to have nothing whatever to do with her, and Mr. Dempster was disposed to obey all spiritual communications. Besides this, all his instincts were strong against any intercourse with a woman so disreputable-looking, with an expression of countenance alternately fierce and fawning.

Now the fawning manner was put on. Mrs. Peck had an object in view–she wanted money to take her to Melbourne, and to take her immediately, and this easy-going, benevolent-looking Adelaide gentleman seemed to be the most likely victim she could meet with.

She had long wished to see her daughter apart from her husband, and there never had been such a chance since she was married; and to get hold of one or both of the Melville girls at the same time was a conjunction of circumstances absolutely and marvellously favourable. Her last remittance from Mr. Phillips had been received a month before, and was spent as soon as it was got. Peck, with whose fortunes she had for many years connected herself, had not been lucky of late. He had come to Adelaide at race time, and had not got on well with his bets. He had done a little in gambling, but had got into a sort of row at a low public-house, and been taken up and fined for being drunk and disorderly, and dismissed with a caution; so he had gone up to the sheep-shearing, and then had worked a little at the hay-harvest, and again at the wheat-harvest. He could work pretty hard at such times, and make good wages; but he had no turn for steady, regular work, and neither had she. If she had been in Melbourne, she could have borrowed the ten or twelve pounds needed for her passage-money, and a decent-looking outfit from people who knew her there, and guessed that she had some hidden means, either from friends or foes; but in Adelaide she was unknown except from her connection with Peck, which did not inspire confidence.

This Adelaide gentleman had just come from London, and could know nothing about her, so she was determined to use her plausible tongue, and get the money out of him.

As Mr. Phillips said, she was possessed with the spirit of falsehood. She always had a disinclination to speak the truth, unless when it was very decidedly for her own interest to do so, or when she was enraged out of all prudence. So now, when she wanted to get an advance from Mr. Dempster, she forgot the agitation and the eagerness which she had shown about the Phillipses, the Melvilles, and the Hogarths, and opened up a quite new mine of anxieties and fears. Her secret, such as it was, should not be told to any one but the parties to whom it was valuable, and who would pay her handsomely for it, so she must now prevent this friend of the family from even guessing at what her schemes were.

Chapter III.

Raising The Wind

As Mrs. Peck sipped her brandy-and-water, putting a constraint on herself in so doing–for her natural taste would have led her to swallow it in large gulps, but that would not have answered her purpose of impressing Mr. Dempster–she began to talk of the letter she had received from Melbourne, which had distressed her so much. Her daughter was ill and dying, and her son-in-law had written to her to beg that if she possibly could she would come across to see poor dear Mary before she was no more; but, poor fellow, he was always hard up–a decent well-meaning fellow he was–but he wanted push, and things had never gone rightly with him.

“They have never had the doctor out of the house since they have been married, and many births and many deaths keep a man always poor, Mr. Dempster, as well you must know; and it’s many’s the five-pound note as I’ve given to them out of my small means to help them through at a hard pinch, and he thinks, of course, as how I can just put my hand in my pocket and pay my passage in the first steamer as quick as he thinks for to ask me; and so I would, and would never have begrudged it, for my poor Mary’s sake, but things has gone so contrary with me and Peck for this year back that I ain’t got a penny to lay out. And there’s the poor soul laying so bad, and thinking as I’m on the road, I dare say, and me can no more get to her without wings nor she can to get me.”

“What is your son-in-law by trade?” asked Mr. Dempster.

“Why, he ain’t got no trade to speak of, but he’s warehouseman to Campbell and Co., in Melbourne, the merchants, you know,” said Mrs. Peck.

“Then he must have a good situation and regular payment–he ought not to be so badly off,” said Mr. Dempster.

“There’s such expenses with a family in Melbourne, where there’s much sickness especially. A very decent, good-tempered fellow he is, and don’t spend his wages away from his home. Poor Mary! I well remember the day she was married, and how pretty she looked in her white gown, and how she says to me, ‘Oh, my mother! I can’t abear to leave you, even for James,’ and now she is agoing to leave all of us. And when little Betsy was born, and I was a nursing of her, she looked up and says she, ‘Oh, mother! I don’t think as I’m long for this world;’ but I roused her, and said she wasn’t a-dying then, and my words was true, for she was not going then; but now to think my being so far from her and her so bad.”

Then Mrs. Peck wiped her eyes energetically and sobbed a little. Mr. Dempster seemed to be soft-hearted and simple-minded. She thought she had made an impression, and she endeavoured to deepen it.

“I am a very old colonist. I have been in Australia this thirty year and more, travelling about from place to place. When you and Mrs. Frankland were talking about changes and ups and downs, I thought on a many as I have seen in the other colonies. There’s them as I remember without a sixpence as is now rolling in gold. I don’t know the Adelaide gentry so well, but I reckon they chop and change just like the others. It is very unlucky for me to be here just at this present time, for I know of a many in Sydney that I might have applied to for a little loan, and they’d have been glad to give me assistance; but, unfortunately, I am on the Adelaide side, where nobody knows me. There’s the Hunters, of Sydney, that I was nurse in the family.”

“And the Phillipses, of Wiriwilta, too, who I dare say, would be most happy to help you if you were straitened on the Melbourne side,” said Mr. Dempster, drily. “Mr. Phillips is a more liberal man than Mr. Hunter.”

“It is not Mr. Hunter I’d look to, but his wife; she has the generous spirit,” said Mrs. Peck.

“The Hunters are at present in London–at least, Mr. Hunter and the family are. Mrs. Hunter died four years ago,” said Mr. Dempster.

“That’s a pity. Oh, dear, dear! I am sorry to hear that news. Poor, dear lady; but in the midst of life we are in death,” said Mrs. Peck.

“No doubt we are,” said Mr. Dempster. “No one knows that better than I do, for I am always living amongst the dead, and they occasionally help me to judge of people. I get a good deal of insight into character through their means; and my impression is, that there is not a word of truth in all you have just been telling me. You want to go to Melbourne, no doubt, but it is not to see a dying daughter. You have other plans in view which cannot be carried out here.”

Mrs. Peck was somewhat taken aback by this blunt expression of opinion coming from a man apparently so suave and gentle.

“Indeed, sir,” said she, “I never heard nobody doubt my word afore; but this comes of leaving the place where you are known. It is to see my daughter that I am most wishful to go to Melbourne. No doubt I might have other reasons, for I don’t like Adelaide; but it’s this letter and this bad news that has made me so set on going. But I was asking no favour of you. If I did want a loan of a trifle, I’d have paid back every farthing of it with good interest. But I think I had better draw on a friend of mine in Melbourne. I suppose that if I did that, I could get the draft cashed at any of the banks?”

“You could get it cashed anywhere, provided you showed your authority to draw, and convinced the person to whom you applied that your friend was good for the money. Under these conditions I should not mind advancing it for you myself.”

“But you’d be rather hard to convince, I fancy,” said Mrs. Peck. “After the unhandsome way you have doubted my true story, I would not like to apply to you. But any advance that any one would make to me would be as safe as the bank. I have an annuity, and have had it for many years.”

“No,” said Mr. Dempster, “you have no annuity; you got a sum of money instead.”

Mrs. Peck started at this confident assertion, and coloured indignantly. “How can you speak so positive about things you can know nothing about? I have an annuity from another quarter.”

“For valuable services, I suppose,” said Mr. Dempster. “Well, if you can prove that you are still in receipt of an annuity, and if you can lodge an order to forestall it, I dare say you can get an advance from any Adelaide bill discounter; but I myself would rather not do business with a person who I feel is not to be relied on.”

To put an end to the revelations, true or false, of this unpleasant old woman, Mr. Dempster asked to be shown to bed, as he was tired; and he found his room, though small, was as clean and comfortable as Mrs. Frankland had been used to give to him in her more prosperous days.

Mrs. Peck’s first attempt had failed, though it had appeared very promising. She thought she would next try Frankland, who, though he was poor, might be victimized to the extent of ten pounds. She did not think she could affect him by dwelling much on the desire she felt to see her dying daughter, though for the sake of consistency it was mentioned as her motive to get to Melbourne just at this time; but she had several sums of money due to her in Melbourne, and she was afraid, from the letter she had just received, that she would lose them if she kept out of the way; there was nothing like being on the spot–nothing like prompt measures when one wants to get in money. Mr. Talbot’s letter was sufficient warrant for her to raise money on Mr. Phillips’s annuity, but not for the purpose of going to Melbourne, which she had unluckily betrayed. It was also rather disagreeable in its tone, and not likely to inspire confidence in any one who read it. So she had only her own representations to trust to, and she certainly gave a very minute, and at the same time glowing account of her debtors and her expectations from them; but what with one thing and another she had really never been so hard up in her life. Peck had not got all his wages for harvesting, and she had been so foolish as to lend a little money in Adelaide, which she feared she could not get back. Indeed, they had a score at the inn that had lain too long; but if she could only get her own she could pay all and be quite easy. She spoke of a rate of interest for a trifling advance that rather dazzled Frankland, and he was wondering if he could not manage to raise it, when his wife came into the room, and stopped their talk by saying it was bed-time. When she was told of Mrs. Peck’s wishes and her offers, Mrs. Frankland peremptorily refused to listen to them, saying they had no money to advance to any one. Frankland had brought them down low enough in the world by being so free in lending and in spending. If she had not taken care of the business, and worked early and late, and looked after the money so far as she had it in her power, they would not have had a roof over their heads by this time. What with the licence that had just been paid, and the rent that must be paid before the end of the month, they would be cleared out, without advancing money to strangers that were in their debt already. As Mrs. Frankland was really the bread-winner, and at their present low water the purse-keeper also, Mrs. Peck saw it was of no use to press her offers on her husband in the face of such formidable opposition.

On the following day she started early in the mail conveyance for Adelaide, leaving Peck behind as a pledge for the settlement of the bill, and determined to raise ten or twelve pounds somehow.

With Mr. Talbot’s letter in her hand she presented herself to a bill-discounter in Adelaide. He understood her position at once; that she was somehow connected with, but very obnoxious to a wealthy client of Mr. Talbot’s, for Mr. Phillips’s name was not mentioned in the letter; and also that, like most people of her class and habits, she had spent her money before she got it. Of course she said nothing of wanting to go to Melbourne, in which case, by the body of the letter, it would be almost certain that her annuity would cease, but the discounter wanted some security against such a contingency, and asked her if she meant to stay in South Australia, according to agreement. Mrs. Peck was willing to say anything, to swear anything, and to sign anything, for his satisfaction on this point, but her very fluency made him suspicious.

“I cannot advance this money,” said he, “even on the deposit of your order to arrest what is coming to you, unless I have some collateral security, or some other name, in case of your going to Victoria.”

Mrs. Peck could get no one to corroborate her statements but Peck, who could be of no service to her. She felt rather in a fix.

“What should take me to Melbourne?” said she, in accents of great surprise. “It is so much against my interest to go there, that I would never be such a fool as to quarrel with my bread and butter; but it so happens I am much in need of money just at the present. I am expecting money from Scotland every mail. Indeed, it was trusting to that as put me so back this quarter. I never doubted that I’d get a handsome sum from Scotland; I’ve got the rights to it, and if it don’t come by next mail, I will prosecute. You are sure to get your money well paid, with good interest, if you do run just a little risk.”

“That may be all very well,” said the bill discounter; “but, in the meantime, can you not get any one to back you in this? I like good interest, but I cannot lend without better security.”

“There’s the best of security. Mr. Talbot’s next payment is due in two months, and I make it over to you; and if that does not satisfy you, I would give you something more next pay day, as much as would cover your risk and your trouble, and your interest, handsome enough.”

“Not at all handsome, if I chance to lose it all. One needs to keep one’s weather eye open, in dealing with old hands like you, Mrs. Peck.”

“Then you won’t do this for me–such a trifling accommodation as it is?”

“Not without some one to back you,” said the money-lender.

“I daresay I can easily find that, if you are so stiff,” said Mrs. Peck, as she flounced off in great indignation, and with very little hope of succeeding in what was required.

Here was she in possession of a secret worth so much to her, and unable to turn it to account for want of a beggarly ten or twelve pounds. The bill discounter was too sharp for her; she must try a good-natured man next, one who would be willing to do her a kindness–but here again, Mr. Talbot’s letter, her only authority to give any security, would injure her more than with the keen man of the world. There was a steamer to sail on the morrow for Melbourne, and no other for a week or ten days; every day was of the greatest consequence, for now that she had made up her mind not to make terms with Francis, but to do so with his cousins, she was eager to carry her resolution into practice, and she must get on board the Havilah, if possible.

She had lived some weeks in Adelaide in rather a poor way, and in rather a poor neighbourhood, when she and Peck had come first across. She had made acquaintance with a very few people, and had left Adelaide slightly in debt, but in her eagerness she was inclined to overlook those circumstances, and to hope that some one or other of her late neighbours might be prevailed on to be a guarantee to the money-lender merely as a matter of form, and he might be induced to accept of it; so she turned her steps in the direction of her old residence.

She looked into the shop where she had been accustomed to make her purchases of groceries, with an intention of paying the eleven shillings which she owed if things looked promising, and if it would be a good speculation.

“Well Mrs. Smith, and how are you?” said she to the woman who kept the establishment with the favourite old Adelaide sign of “General Store.”

“Much as usual, Mrs. Peck. You went away rather in a hurry,” said Mrs. Smith.

“Oh! Peck had to go off to the sheep-shearing, and I had the offer of a good nursing in the country, so I had to move at a minute’s warning, you see. But how are you getting on here?”

“Much as usual, Mrs. Peck; but the news is, that my man came home last night, after being at them diggings for four years, and not writing me a word, good or bad, for three and more; and now he expects me to be as sweet as sugar to him after serving me so; and me had all his children to keep and do for, and got no help from him no more nor if he was dead; and now he says as how I give him the cold shoulder.”

“Well, to be sure, and no wonder either! When a woman’s been served so, she has the right to look a bit stiff,” said Mrs. Peck, who had heard during her stay in Adelaide that Mrs. Smith had passed judgment by default, and was going to take to herself another mate, which was nothing more than the absent Smith deserved.

“Well, to be sure, that beats cock-fighting; and what does Harris say to all this?”

“Why, in course, he’s off, and I’m in such a quandary,” said Mrs. Smith.

“You wasn’t married to Harris, out and out, was you?” said Mrs. Peck, who had a keen relish for such interesting news as this.

“No; there was two or three things as put it off; but the banns was gave in last Sunday, and I had got my gown for the wedding, and lovely it looks–and here’s Smith as savage as if he had been writing to me every month and sending me money.”

“I suppose he’s come home as poor as a rat, like the rest of them?” said Mrs. Peck.

“No, no, I cannot just say that,” said Mrs. Smith, relenting a little, “He says he never had no luck till the last six months, and now he has come back with three hundred pounds; and he’s been behaving very genteel with it, I must say, and brought presents for me and for the children–there’s a shawl for me as is quite a picter–so rich in the colours; but I can’t say I feel quite pleased at the way he neglected me so long. And poor Harris, too; I can’t just get him out of my head all at once.”

“That’s natural enough,” said Mrs. Peck with a sympathizing sigh.

Here Mr. Smith came into the shop, and started at the sight of Mrs. Peck.

“Well! who’d have thought of seeing you here, Mrs.? I don’t rightly recollect your name, but I know you as well as possible,” said he.

“Mrs. Peck is my name,” said she impressively. “I recollect you well on Bendigo.”

“Many’s the time I’ve seen you there,” said Smith, in an embarrassed tone of voice. “I hope as how you have your health, Mrs. Peck. Susan, my dear, you’d better give Mrs. Peck some refreshments. Step in, Mrs. Peck, I’m just a day home, and I ain’t come back too soon, neither, as it appears. Susan, my dear, get out the spirit bottle. Will you have brandy with hot water or cold, Mrs. Peck?”

“With cold this hot day. I’ve been half baked travelling in that mail omnibus twenty miles, and the wind blowing through it like a flaming furnace; and now your Adelaide dust is making me as grimy as I’m not fit to be seen,” said Mrs. Peck, wiping her face with her handkerchief, and watching how Smith mixed her brandy and water. “There’s nothing pleases me like meeting with an old friend.”

“Nor me,” said Smith, “if so be as she is friendly. Now, Susan, sit down and have a glass with us. Why, the woman looks handsomer nor the day I married her. I don’t wonder at the risk I ran of being choused out of you; but it was rather too bad, too, was it not, Mrs. Peck? If my letters hadn’t a miscarried you would never have thought of such a thing, Susan,” said he, with an insinuating smile, handing his wife a mixture similar to that he presented to his old friend.

“If they had been written there would have been no fear of their miscarrying,” said she rather sulkily.

“Here’s Mrs. Peck–my good friend, Mrs. Peck–who will be a warrant how often I used to be a speaking of you, and a wondering what made me give up writing.”

“That I will,” said Mrs. Peck, who felt this little bit of romance was quite in her line. “Many’s the time I’ve heard him speaking about you and the children.”

“Take another drop of brandy, Mrs. Peck,” said her newly-found friend.

“Thank you,” said she; “it’s better brandy than we used to get at Bendigo, but really I am in too much trouble just now to enjoy it, and I won’t take no more nor the single glass. It’s a bad world and a sad one, and I seem to have more than my share of trouble.”

“Dear me! Mrs. Peck, I am sorry to hear that; and I am sure I wish I could do anything to help you,” said Smith.

“I don’t like imposing on people that I haven’t no claims on, but I am in great need of twelve pounds just for a little while. I have an annuity, as I dare say you heard at Bendigo.”

“Yes, I heerd on it,” said Smith, who appeared indisposed to contradict or doubt anything that Mrs. Peck said.

“But we have been tried with the sickness and doctors’ bills–Peck and me–and I am very backward with the world just at present. If anybody could lend me twelve pounds for two months, they’d get principal and interest handsome. You being an old friend turned up, and me knowing you so well at Bendigo, makes me bold enough to ask you for this little temporary assistance. I would deposit an order for the money with you if you will be so good as to advance it.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Peck, I am not the one to be backward when a friend is in need, and I know it will be safe enough to be paid. Susan, it is perfectly safe. Mrs. Peck had money regular every quarter, to my knowledge; and if she wants the money now, it shall be paid down on the nail.” And Smith told out the twelve pounds into Mrs. Peck’s hands, and received an order for repayment on Mr. Talbot, which was not to be presented for two months.

Mrs. Peck was overjoyed at her unexpected good luck in meeting with this returned digger, whom she had known very well at Bendigo under another name, and where he passed himself off as the husband of another woman. She perceived that now he had found his wife in Adelaide, doing very well in business, he would rather that she heard nothing of his own little infidelities, particularly in the first days of meeting, and his probable loss of the money he advanced was not too high a price to pay to purchase silence.

Everything had turned out most propitiously for Mrs. Peck, so far. The information from Mr. Dempster showed that all her objects of interest were collected in one spot, and this recognition of Smith put into her hands the means to get to them while Mr. Phillips was absent. She was flushed with hope and confident expectation when she made her purchases of some articles of ready-made clothing, and took out her passage in Melbourne in the ‘Havilah,’ to prosecute her plans for revenge on Francis and advantages to herself.

Chapter IV.

Miss Phillips Meets With A Congenial Spirit In Victoria

As Mr Dempster had reported there had been a division in the family of the Phillipses shortly after they landed. Mrs. Phillips wished to remain in Melbourne for a month or two, as she did not feel able to stand the long land journey at this particular time. Neither her husband nor herself had much confidence in Dr. Grant’s skill, and she could have better attendance in town. Mr. Phillips having ascertained that Mrs. Peck was in Adelaide, and having, through Mr. Talbot, sent a request that she should remain there, which her own interest was likely to make her attend to, had less objection to her staying in Melbourne than he ever had before; so he took a suite of furnished apartments for her and those of the family who remained in town.

Jane Melville went at once to Wiriwilta with the children, who all longed to be there, and who disliked Melbourne more than London. Miss Phillips had her choice to remain in town or to go up to the station, and she decided on the former alternative, for she began to fear the station would be very dull, and would contrast unfavourably with the voyage, which had been lively and pleasant. There were some of her fellow-passengers whom she was unwilling to lose sight of; and Mr. Brandon was not at Barragong, but in Adelaide, so, on the whole, she thought it would be preferable to stay. She gave as her ostensible reason for the choice, her wish to be with Mrs. Phillips during her brother’s necessary absence. Mr. Phillips stayed with his wife till she presented him with a second son, and then, as she was doing very well, he left her in the care of his sister and Elsie.

He had been rather annoyed to find that Brandon had been amusing himself by taking a journey to Adelaide so soon after coming out to the colony again. Dr. Grant came down to meet Phillips, and represented that a great deal had gone amiss at Wiriwilta since he (Dr. Grant) had been supplanted in the charge of the stations; so that he thought it indispensable to go up with the least possible delay to look to all the flocks and the out-stations.

“It was the wildest thing in Brandon to start off in that way,” said Grant, “with a poor lad of a nephew who did not know a wattle from a gum-tree when he came, and scarcely a sheep from a cow. I never would have done such a thing.”