Chapter XXI.

"We left Grant and his mates, George and Jim, on the new rush at Potter's Hill, Inglewood. Day after day did poor old Matthew work on, ever in the hope of something turning up, but so far nothing had happened. The claims which they first took up were worked out, and after an equal division of profits Matthew found himself again the possessor of £70. Now, about this time an old mate of Matthew's two friends happened to come to Inglewood, and for some days he had been living with them. Between him and Matthew there seemed to be no great friendship; but for all that, he had little by little learnt that Matthew sought his daughter. Being desirous of again joining his old partners, he found Grant was in the way, and cudgelled his brains as to how he could remove him. To suggest to George or Jim anything unfair or unmanly he knew page 186would be useless, and for the time he could not tell what to do. Christmas had passed, and the New Year had come, and still no change. Sometimes Matthew would talk of wandering around further to look for Clara, but so far he had not done so; in fact, he had now become so attached to Jim and George, he knew not how to leave them without some clue to start upon. Of course, any sign of finding Clara would have made him leave his mates, but none came until one day the new arrival said in an absent way to George, whom he was talking to, but in Matthew's hearing, "Now I remember, I saw an advertisement in the Bendigo Advertiser before I came up here for one Grant. I think it was the Bendigo Advertiser, but I am not certain."

"You should tell Matthew," said George, "he is anxious to hear news,"

Matthew, however, did not want any further telling, but rushing into the tent, exclaimed, "Are you sure you saw such an advertisement?"

"Most decidedly; but I am not certain which paper it was in."

"Then," said Matthew, "I'm off; in fact, I think it's time I had another start, so I shall away to-day."

"Nay," said George, "stay till to-morrow's coach, or may be you will meet another Ted Scrag on the way."

"Perhaps it will be better so;" and it was accordingly settled that Grant should start by the next day's coach and go to Bendigo, and try and find from the files of papers there the much-coveted advertisement.

"I suppose," observed the man who had supplied his information, "you will not return."

"Well," said Matthew, "if I find any news, most certainly page 187not; but if I am disappointed in what I go to look for, I think I shall try further."

"Well, if you think you will not return, I will buy from you your share in the plant."

"Very good," answered Matthew; and this being settled, all was ready for the morning.

Early on the next day saw Matthew on the coach, and off once more in search of Clara. At Bendigo he at once made application at the Bendigo Advertiser office for the paper which was supposed to contain the advertisement; but no such paper could be found, and once more the old man turned away sick at heart. His next trip was to Ballarat, which, at this time, was not the beat or most civilised place one could visit; but Matthew never seemed to think of anything except the fact that he was searching for his daughter, and all else he seemed to forget. First he would get into conversation with somebody; and so anxious was he to succeed, that he would enter into particulars to anyone concerning Clara. He would describe her appearance, and even the dress she wore when last he saw her; for in the excitement he forgot how long a time had elapsed. So ready was he to give his confidence, that at last people about there took advantage of the poor old fellow, and often made him the butt of their sport.

Now one day a stranger to him came to the house where the old man had been staying; he was a noted character for devilment of all kinds, and little he cared who gave him amusement so long as he got it. The second day after the arrival of Bill the Philosopher, as he was called, decided to have a lark, as he termed it, with Matthew; and he said to the proprietor of the hotel:—

"Look here, Heggett, you tell the old fellow to ask me for his daughter, and you see we'll have a lark."

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"All right," answered Heggett; and after dinner he informed Grant that as Bill the Philosopher had once been a detective, he would do well to take his advice respecting his lost daughter; and poor Matthew, ever ready to try anything, agreed to do so.

Now there lived, not far from this house in Bridge street, Ballarat, one John Hubbard, who had rather a handsome woman for a wife; and whether he had cause to doubt her honesty or no I cannot here attempt to say, but so jealous was he that he never left the house without locking the front door and taking the key with him, so that should anybody visiting the place his wife must either send or go round and see what the person wanted. Even when the milkman came, if the jug had not been put out ready, Hubbard would rave, and declare she wanted to see him for some purpose of her own; in fact, if anyone went near the house he would declare they had only come to see and speak with her. His jealousy at times nearly drove him to madness; and after office hours, for he was a solicitor's clerk, he was always at home to watch and look after his beautiful wife.

Now when Matthew went to Philosopher Bill, he said: "Sir, I hear you have once been a member of the police force, and I should therefore like to ask your advice, if you would be kind enough to give it to me."

"Oh, by all means," answered Bill; "but before you ask me about law, for I suppose you would ask about it, take my advice and have nothing to do with it—it is a bad line. Besides, if you do go to law, you may perhaps be a little better off—but there, what will it help you hereafter? From ashes we came, to ashes we shall return; that's my philosophy."

"I know," said Matthew, "that the law is a bad thing to have to do with, and I thank you for the advice; but it is not a question of law. I wish to ask you about my daughter."

"Your daughter, ah yes, a very different thing; women and page 189philosophy don't mix at all, they are very troublesome sometimes, I assure you."

"Well, I wish to ask you if you can advise me how to look for her. I have been searching now for ever so long, and can't hear anything of her whereabouts; and Matthew narrated to Bill how he had lost his daughter, of course simply telling him what was necessary, and no more."

"What is your daughter like?" asked Bill. "Just give me her description right through."

Matthew complied with the request; and when he had concluded, Bill remarked, "I can just tell you where your daughter is, I think. She is married to a man named Hubbard, or some name like that."

"Hobart," said Matthew, for now he felt certain he had found Clara.

"Well," said Bill, "I won't be certain about the name, but it is something like that. He's a lawyer's clerk, I believe."

"Ah," cried Matthew, "'tis her, I am certain."

"Very like," said Bill; "but keep yourself cool, for the man she is married to will not let you see her if you are not cautious."

"In spite of that," replied Matthew, "tell me quickly that I may go, for now I am sure it is my daughter."

"Be patient a little," said Bill. "You must use discretion."

"I will do anything; but only tell me quickly, for suspense is worse now than ever."

"Well, come this way and I'll point out to you the place;" and with this the two left the house and proceeded some distance down Bridge street.

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"Now," said Bill, "you see you house there. Go to the front door, and say you wish to see—what is her name?"

"Clara," said Grant, breathless with expectation.

"Yes; will you go and say you wish to see Clara, and tell him you will and must see her; but don't let him know you are her father, or he may try and prevent you."

"Oh, thanks," replied Grant, "thanks. May heaven reward you if I do not; but wait until I have seen her, and then I'll see you again."

"All in good time," was Bill's response. "I am a philosopher, so if I do not see you again I shall be just as well off."

"But you shall," said Matthew, shaking him by the hand, "and you will find that I am not ungrateful for your kindness;" and the old man hurried off.

When he arrived and knocked at the door of Mr Hubbard he was quite out of breath.

"Ah," said Hubbard, "now I'd like to know who knocks. Somebody wanting you, of course."

"I don't know who it is," said his wife, "how should I. I was not aware anyone was coming. My life's a misery."

"No doubt it is, Sarah, no doubt. Then you should not encourage fellows here; nobody wants to see me, I'll be bound, for I always tell them to call at the office."

Again Grant knocks.

"You had better see who is there, or perhaps as you are having your dinner I had better go myself."

"No doubt you would, but you shan't. You're always decked up on purpose to receive and show yourself off. Why can't you be like other women, and dress all day in the clothes you work in?"

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"Well, Charles, I am sure anyone else would like their wife to look nice, but you never do. I am sick of this; I wish I were dead—"

"Or single, ha! ha! so that you could have all the country after you, no doubt; but you see you are not."

Another knock came at the door, and this time louder, for Grant could hear voices, and concluded that Clara and Hobart were together, and had determined not to see him.

"Charles, if you are not going to answer the door, why not let me go, and not keep people there all day."

"Let them knock; you know no doubt who's there, and you want to tell them I am in; but you shan't. Let them go away. No one wants to see me, for they can always do that at my place of business. They won't wait unless it is you they want to see; and then you no doubt think I'm out; but this time I am not, as you shall see."

Again rat-tat-tat comes at the door, for now Grant feels more certain than ever that the objects of his search are within, and has made up his mind that he will enter the house.

"Ah, you see how determined your lover is. Very nice game this for a married woman; you ought to be ashamed of yourself, you hussy."

"Oh, John, I do not know who is there; I assure you I don't; but go and see, and I'll never dress again until you come home for the day, if that will please you. Oh," she cried, "I am tired and sick at heart;" and she burst out in tears.

"Ah, you cry now because you know you are caught, do you; like all of your sort when you are found out, you pretend to be penitent, and weep; but I know the world too well to be deluded by you."

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Another knock, this time louder than ever.

"Do you hear that? Now, what do you think of yourself? disgracing a respectable home like this;" but Sarah only sobbed on, and made no answer.

"Now you become hardened, and will not answer; but I'll see who it is that knocks, although I know it is somebody for you, and no one else."

Mr Hubbard rose and went to the door, and as soon as he had opened it he was face to face with Grant, who cried out—

"Let me see Clara for one minute; do let me see her!"

"D—n your impudence," returned Hubbard, slamming the door in Grant's face, and again locking it.

"Now, I suppose you will say no one ever comes after you, when the man actually asks to see Sarah. Oh, you shamefaced hussy! You tired of your life! I think it should be me to say this, and not you. I'll sell up and go, and then you can do as you like, but stand this I never will. What an awful thing it is to be married to one I can never trust. Fancy a man coming in the middle of the day and asking a husband to let him see Sarah. You ought to be ashamed to ever show your face again."

"John," said she, "it is some mistake, I know it is. Do ask the man again, for I know it is not me he wants."

"Ask the man again! oh, Lord! oh, Lord! After the fellow has just been enquiring for you, and calling you by your Christian name. Ask the man to explain, indeed? I'll kill him, the scoundrel, and you too. Oh, that I should ever have lived so long."

Rat-tat-tat!

"Now, will you tell me if anyone that had not been here before would be so persistent. After seeing me, he won't go page 193away, but stops tapping at the door, because he is aware that I am at home."

"John, does not your own sense tell you there must be some mistake?" sobbed Sarah. "Would anyone, when they had seen that you were at home, still stop there and knock. Why not hear what he has to say?"

"Oh yes, and still further humiliate myself. I'll do something desperate; but no, I'll give this man who dares come and ask me for Sarah what he deserves."

John Hubbard rushed from the house, and before old Matthew knew what was coming, he was seized by the collar and thrown to the ground. Sarah rushed to the door, and, taking hold of her husband, tried in vain to persuade him to come back into the house; but he only answered, "So you would come and see him. Well, there he is, but me you shall see no more."

Old Matthew has now risen, and seeing before him the woman who he presumes is the person he has shown so much persistence to see, he explains to her the cause of his visit, and after making somewhat of an apology, he makes off at once, but not before a considerable crowd has gathered. Many impertinent questions are asked, and Grant is jeered at the fact of his having roused the wrong people. The poor old fellow, however, heeds them not, but pushing through the mob, gets away as quickly as possible.

Bill the Philosopher has been the whole time having a hearty laugh at the expense of Matthew, who, more disheartened than ever, goes home to fret and ponder. For hours he sits in deepest thought. Where to go next he knows not, and now that he feels his persistence at Hubbard's has done harm, and has only made him the object of jest and fun to a lot of diggers.

"Why," he asks, "am I to be for ever the butt of mankind? When people do not try to injure me they make me the object page 194of their mirth, and for no wrong on my part. Oh God! grant me some mercy, for how often have I prayed and asked in vain for that relief which never comes. I will leave the place, for I feel my presence here is but to create mirth for men who know not what it is to suffer. What have I ever done that I should endure all this misery? I have always had faith, but no indication of any reward."

Such is life; but in how many cases do we suffer wrongs where we know we have done nothing to deserve them, and oftimes we almost despair of ever succeeding when we are nearest the attainment of our desires. How strange and wonderful are we brought to see the divine providence, and at the time when we least expect it; in fact, too often when we least deserve it.

Now the reporter for the Ballarat Star was not idle on the occasion of the lark, as Mr Philosopher Bill termed it, and that evening there appeared a local setting forth how the jealous husband and zealous father had had an interview, and the game of cross purposes they had played at. Of course no names had appeared; but Mr Hubbard was delighted to find that he had this time judged his wife wrongfully; but poor old Matthew, instead of looking at the matter in the light he should have done, felt grateful for the fact being known that a father sought his daughter. He only remembered the fact that both he and Hubbard, towards whom he felt no resentment, had both made asses of themselves, and all for the want of a little explanation, or rather in consequence of his own stupidity, in not making known his wants, instead of simply asking for Clara. Often out of such an error comes good to some; but we must not be premature in our conjectures.

Matthew decided, after the local, to leave Ballarat at once; but before doing so he called—this time at the office—and saw Hubbard.

"I come," said Matthew, "to apologise for my absurd con-page 195duct at your house yesterday. I can now see I was but the object of a jest, for I was sent to your place; and, I feel sure, only for the fun of seeing me make myself look as stupid as I did."

"I regret that such a misunderstanding should have occurred," said Hubbard, for he felt ashamed of the construction he had put on Grant's visit, and knew not how to excuse himself. "I trust you may soon recover your daughter."

"Alas!" said Matthew, "I fear I am never to do that. I have now wandered so long without any tidings, and I begin to lose all heart. There seems no justice to the suffering in this world."

"I do not know that," answered Hubbard; "you may, in fact probably will, find your daughter when you least expect."

"Yes, so all say; and, should I ever succeed, your words and everybody else's will be verified. I will now be off, and I trust yourself and Mrs Hubbard will excuse the impetuosity of an anxious father, and excuse me for having been the cause of so much unpleasantness."

"Most decidedly we will; in fact, we do not blame you, for I was equally in fault."

"Good-bye, sir," said Matthew; "if you should ever meet Clara Grant tell her how her father sought and prayed to find her, but in vain"; and the poor old fellow, from the length of search and number of failures, lost all heart, and burst into tears.

"Be of good cheer, Mr Grant; you know not how near you may be to obtaining your wish."

"Thank you, sir, thank you for your kindly words; but I have heard them so often, they sound now like the oft-remembered thoughts of happier days"; and, with a shake of the hand from Hubbard, he walks away.

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"Poor old fellow, I wonder he does not give up the search and settle down; and what an ass I made of myself too. Clara Grant, and I, in my fury, thought he asked for Sarah. This indeed should be a lesson to me."

That same day saw Matthew again on the tamp, for his money had been growing gradually less, and he can no longer afford to ride. So he walks on for days, and the first place he puts up at is Ararat, some distance from Ballarat. Then he proceeds on to Pleasant Creek, some miles further, and from there on to Beechworth. In all of these places he makes enquiries, but to no purpose, for he hears no news of her he seeks. His money day by day dwindles away, until he sees that soon again he must work, as he cannot travel much longer before he will be absolutely penniless. Still, so long as he has a shilling, he decides that he will keep on. He has now been on the road for over three weeks since leaving Ballarat, and now the last pound has been changed; but still he leaves Beechworth, and strike out in another direction. It is just past midday, and the heat is intense; but he keeps steadily on his way. Hope has died within him, for he knows that at the next township he must abandon his search, and look for work. Presently he stops to rest and ruminate, for his thoughts are of the saddest.

"Was ever man more uncharitably used than I" he says to himself. "I have looked and searched, and all to no purpose. What justice or mercy is there in this world? 'tis but a hell, a place of preparation for a worse one, and I too may go there. And yet what have I done? I have wronged no man; I do not covet my neighbour's wealth, or desire aught that is his. No, most assuredly I cannot go to a hell which is worse than this, for I have done none of those things which cause a man to be consigned to eternal fire. Ah, I am glad I am better than my fellows in this respect, for at least I may look for happiness hereafter."

To Matthew Grant, as he thinks over these things, there page 197seems to answer a voice and say:—"You are rebellious; you are not of sufficient faith; and, worse still, you are of opinion you are better than your fellows, when such is not the case. Why do you not continue your search, and feel as you should that at the proper time you will find her you seek, and acknowledge that you, of all men, know not when it is well you should be successful. Think of this, and say not again you are fit for a better hereafter."

As these thoughts came to Matthew he felt his littleness, and how unworthy he was, for had he not been all that the voice of his own conscience had accused him of. Yes, he knew but too well that he had rebelled, and deemed himself the best judge of when he should find her he sought; but not for one instant did he consider how many are treated as he for an all-wise purpose. He felt the pangs of repentance, and as he sat he cried aloud, "Oh, Lord, forgive me, I am sinful; I know and feel how unworthy I am of your least gift. Why should I presume to act or think aught in a rebellious spirit, and yet how recently have I done so. But I thank Thee that Thou hast in this shown me my littleness. How unworthy am I of thy smallest mercy, and yet I have expected so much. Now will I try, and for the future I will say, 'Thy will be done;' and let what may be thy pleasure, no more will I complain. But how I long to find her, my child, my own darling lost—aye, stolen—one;" and the heartbroken father burst into a passionate flood of tears. "Thou shalt have none other gods but me!" rings in the wanderer's ears, and again he sobs, for this is another stab. "Oh, God," he cries, "I know not how to be in any way worthy Thy mercies. I feel I am possessed of some great evil; cleanse me, I pray Thee, and make me clean. Grant that I may be worthy of it hereafter; at present I know how unworthy I am, but at least from this time I will try. Clara, I must abandon you, both in my search and in my heart. I must try and show that I am worthy the mercy I crave. I know not if I shall ever attain happiness; but whether I do or no, I shall submit and be satisfied. Yes, now do I most page 198solemnly declare before my God, for I feel and know He is now with me, that I will no more be of a rebellious spirit, but will be patient and await Thy will."

No sooner has he come to this conclusion than he feels relief. He still sits on with his head buried in his hands, and for the time he has forgotten all his troubles; in fact, he feels he has been for the time released of all care. He has had all trouble taken away, and now he is so happy in this feeling that he forgets that he is a wanderer, away from all friends in a strange place. This does not trouble him, and in deep thought he sits on, heedless of all save the resolve he has just made, and which he feels he will keep—aye, even to the renouncing his love for his daughter. He hears not the birds as they sing. He is almost happy to think that he has discovered his faults, and is trying to do better.

The birds warble their plaintive notes and look down on the bent form sitting beneath, but he hears them not. To him all is dead save the theme on which his thoughts run. Presently a man is to be seen approaching on horseback. He is whistling, and appears in a merry mood, but Matthew hears him not. The new comer looks as he rides along like a well-to-do farmer, or something of the kind, and as he approaches and catches sight of Matthew sitting there, he is so content and happy his heart is touched for the man who is sitting in a recumbent position, looking the very picture of misery. Still he approaches nearer and nearer, but the figure does not rise, and presently he comes up to Grant. He reins up his horse and asks, "Are you not well, old man?"

This is the first intimation Grant receives that he is not alone, and, looking up, he answers, "Thanks, I am far better than perhaps I ever was before."

"Matthew Grant!" exclaims the new comer, "is it you?" and before the answer can be given he is on his knees beside the wanderer, and, taking his hand in his own, says—

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"Oh, Matthew, how much do I not owe? You remember me, surely. I know I should be ashamed to look you in the face; but I am not, for now I am prepared to show, though the last time we met I did not, that I can be grateful."

"What! can it be John Whittler? Aye, and so it is," says Matthew; "and how well you look. I am indeed glad to see you."

"Thank you, Matthew, for if you had abused me I should have deserved it; but I will atone for the past wrong now, if I can. Do I not owe all I have to you? Tell me what has happened since last we parted. Of course, I know from the papers how long you were detained in Melbourne. Stay, which way do you go? Come, if you will, home with me. I can walk, and you mount my horse, and as we travel I can listen while you tell me all."

"I will go with you," answered Grant, "for I have no destination; but do you ride and I will walk beside you, and we can exchange our adventures since last we met."

"From where have you come?" said Whittler, "you look as though you had been travelling."

"I have come just now from Beechworth, and am bound I know not whither. I have wandered in search of my daughter so long as I had money, but now that I have spent all I must again work for more."

"Matthew, I am sorry to hear you say you have no money, and yet I am glad, for it gives me the chance to do as I have ofttimes wished to do. You shall not want for money while I have any, and I have been fairly successful, thanks to you alone. But for your three sovereigns, and your reticence when I told the detective you were myself, I should still be in Van Dieman's Land; for they would most assuredly have sent me back. Now, however, I am pleased to say I am doing well, as you shall see later on; but tell me of yourself, for I am anxious to know."

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Matthew here related how he had wandered round, first to one part and then another; how he had settled in Dunolly; how he had been robbed there; and lastly, of Inglewood, and so on until his arrival at Ballarat; and also of the actual reason why he left there.

"Well, Matthew," said Whittler, "you have seen considerable trouble—far more than I,—for ever since last I saw you, things have prospered with me. The day I left you I knew that, unless I made some daring move, I should again be in the hands of the law, so I decided a day or two would not make much difference to you. So I acted the rogue to you, and when I saw I was watched and followed, I laid him on to you; and as you know, through this stratagem I escaped. Well, immediately I left the detective, I made right across the Keilor Plains, never resting until I had reached the border of the Black Forest. I knew where I was here, for I had no sooner entered than I was bailed up by three bushrangers; but the absurdity of the thing only made me laugh, at which they questioned me, and I told them I had but just made my escape, and how. Hereupon they offered me the chance of joining them, but I declined with thanks, for I thought I had done enough work for the Government, and told them that I had tried one side of the question, and as I did not find it work I intended to try the other. They did not attempt to persuade me, but asked many questions about the other side, which, after my satisfying them, they gave me a five pound note, and wishing me luck, left me, and I proceeded on my way. This was the morning after I saw you, for I must have walked fully fifty miles; but fear kept away fatigue, and so I did not feel the distance I had travelled. Shortly after meeting the knights of the road I came to the hotel, or shanty, in the Black Forest, where I put up for the night, and early the next day I was again on the road. This Black Forest must be a nice place, for I had not left the hotel more than two hours when I again was met by a band of bushrangers, who of course demanded my money or my life. I told them who I was, and page 201how situated, but the leader seemed to doubt me, for he ordered I should be searched. 'Stay,' said I, for I felt that to be doubted after confessing to being a gaol-bird seemed too much disgrace, 'I will convince you that what I say is true, and then if you don't believe me you may shoot me, for all I have is the fiver given to me by the band I met yesterday, and part with it I will not.' I had no sooner said this than I saw my folly, for in a few minutes they had divested me of my clothes, and I found myself tied to a tree. I do not suppose this would have happened if I had not been quite so cheeky; however, there I remained until late in the day, when I was let loose by a swagman who was on his way up to Castlemaine, and with him I continued the journey. He was not a bad sort of fellow, and he gave me all I required to eat and drink on the way, and when we arrived he lent me a pound. I soon got work, for things were in a good state. I stayed some two months, but as the escort passed through so often, I feared some day to be arrested, and so I came on here to Beechworth. For some time I did little enough, but after a bit I got an interest in a mine, on condition that I worked for my share. Three months we laboured as hard as only men in desperation know how to. My storekeeper and butcher at last told me I could not run up any more, so I decided to give up and work for wages. My mate persuaded me to keep on just for another week, but the storekeeper said I must pay up for any of my future wants, so I concluded to work in the claim no longer. My companions, however, told me they felt sure we should get a bit of gold if we kept on a little longer, and they offered to let me have what would do me for my actual wants. This of course decided me, and on we worked, and just one week after we struck gold. In less than a month we took out of the claim £700 a man. With my first money after so long, I decided to try and invest it with discretion, so I bought out the storekeeper whom we had been dealing with. I still held my interest in the claim, but I put on a man to work for me, and we did well. Ever since then I have continued to prosper, and as page 202the whole of it properly speaking belongs to you, for I should not have left Melbourne at all but for your assistance, I certainly consider I owe you so much, that now, Matthew, you shall have half the store; and I think that in this you may yet find more contentment than you have for some time."

"John," said Matthew, grasping him by the hand, "you display too much generosity, but I shall not take advantage of it. Your feelings lead you away; but if you have any employment in your store you can give me, I shall feel myself indebted to you for it."

"You shall have a share, Matthew; my feeling of gratitude has always been the same to you, so I hope you will take it, and say no more. If not, let the matter for the present remain as it is. I have, besides what is in the store, some considerable property, for I have made good use of my liberty, and what I have earned I have taken care of."

"I am g]ad to hear you say so, and also I am pleased to think that I did not impede your movements when I saw you in Melbourne. You have, I think, fully atoned for the offence for which you were first transported."

"Atoned, Matthew! I don't think any atonement necessary. I was only a boy when I was sentenced for life's transportation for being found in the company of two men who had stolen a sheep. Not that I was innocent, for we were all of us hungry, and we stole to appease our appetites. Still, no evidence was brought against me further than that I was in bad company, or in the company of thieves, and I was therefore charged as being accessory before or after the act. The only thing that ever bothered me was that I never heard again of my poor old parents, and now I would write and send them money, only I am afraid. Now you are here, however, I may manage it, for you can write for me. If we get a reply, then the rest is easy. But now we are near the town, and I have to page 203caution you that I am no longer John Whittler, Matthew, but John Tonkin, and by this name of course you will alone know me."

"Certainly," answered Matthew, "I will be careful."

The two men were now in sight of the whole of Beechworth, and in fact were in the outskirts of the town, and within half-an-hour they had reached Whittler's store, which Matthew recognised from the name of Tonkin being over the door; and in a few minutes' time they had both entered a large corrugated iron store at the south end of the town. A young man was standing behind the counter, who had all the appearance of being satisfied with the return of the proprietor.

Matthew asked John how long he had been away, and was told three weeks, Whittler adding, "I have been this time all the way to Melbourne to do business; but I did not like it, I can assure you, as I thought too much of the time I was there before, and as soon as possible I got away."

"I asked you," said Matthew, "because I have been in here once before to purchase some tobacco, and I knew you were not here at the time. Now that you say you have been absent three weeks, that makes it right, for it was but nine days ago."

"Well, now you have found me, Matthew, make yourself at home; do just as you like, and as soon as you feel disposed you can learn what is necessary about the working of the store, and then between us we can manage. Tom, the man who is at present in the shop, has been doing it more as a favour than anything else, so he will go just when we please, and you can just please yourself when you start. To-morrow I will see and look out some clothes for you I am sure will suit better than the miner's dress you now wear. I have in stock all kinds of men's clothing."

"I thank you for your kindness, John, and to-morrow I page 204shall be quite ready to be initiated into the work I am to perform, for I have no wish to be idle."

"There is no occasion for you to be in a hurry; you need not do anything for a week, and you can spare time to take a good look round."

"Look round, indeed! I have had quite enough of that already, for many months. No, I shall feel more comfortable when I have something to occupy my thoughts, so I will, with your permission, start in the morning."

"Very well, Matthew, let it be as you wish, and don't speak as if you were working for me, but for yourself. I shall from this time consider you as my partner."

The next day saw Matthew full of activity in the store. He was now dressed in a new tweed suit, and he looked a storekeeper all out. During the day John Tonkin, as the customers came in, introduced Matthew to them as Mr Grant, from Melbourne, his partner; and the poor old man, for the first time for many years, found himself apparently of great importance. Once again he began to feel more at rest. He also took the loss of Clara less to heart than formerly, and gradually his spirits rose, and he felt grateful for the good luck that had come to him, and he held that it was an answer to the prayer he had uttered on the road side.

"Should my daughter ever be restored to me," he would say, "she will be all the more welcome, and if she is not I will not complain, for I am now in the way at least of earning an honest living."

Matthew, indeed, never looked upon the half-share being his, although John Tonkin often wanted to have a deed of partnership drawn up, but whenever it was suggested Grant said there was plenty of time, and lawyers were best left to themselves; and so for the time things went on. The man in page 205the store, at the end of the week, returned to his former employment, and Matthew and John did all there was to be done in and connected with the store. The bulk of the hard work the latter took upon himself, while Matthew, who was the better adapted for the books, did that and the correspondence, and so everything progressed to the entire satisfaction of both parties. In the evening they would sit together, when alone, and talk of the place they had both left, and often recur to scenes of the past.

"Do you know, Matthew, when I left Melbourne," said John, two weeks later, as they were sitting together after the store was closed, "I scarcely knew for the first hour or two how to keep on my way. I felt how mean you must think me for having served you as I did, but as I continued to weigh the matter I concluded that the wrong I had done you could be repaired if I went on and worked. I always thought that, if ever I met you, I would give you half at least of what I had, for to you I should owe all."

"I never blamed you," answered Grant, "for you were wise to do as you did. After the years I had endured on the other side, what matter did another week or two make. When I heard what you had done, I knew the reason, and felt glad you were wise enough; but not for a moment did I bear you any ill-will."

"You are more generous to me, Matthew, than I ever deserved; for who, of the many that we meet nowadays would, in the same circumstances, have thought of me but with feelings and desires for revenge. You have shown me what charity and forgiveness are, and I trust I may prove to you that, in some small measure, I am worthy."

"You have shown that to a great extent already, John; so you need not consider yourself my debtor, for you have far more than returned what little I did for you."

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Now, so wrapt up in the conducting of the business did Matthew become that, although he often thought of Clara, by degrees he became more resigned, and when the feeling of desolation did arise strong within him, he would repeat to himself what had occurred to him when lonely and friendless on the wayside—"Thou shalt have none other gods but Me;" and muttering a thanksgiving he would dismiss the thought, and day by day he became more lively and happy than for many years before.

Some four months had elapsed, and so essential had Grant become to John that the bare thought of his going away was by no means pleasing to him. The business, too, had improved, for Matthew was much liked among the miners, and many had been heard to say that Tonkin had done a good thing for himself when old Matthew joined him; for all called him old though in age and appearance he did not appear to justify their remarks.

They are again seated in their back sitting room, as they are wont to term it, although it is their only one, and John, taking a parcel of papers just arrived from Ballarat, says, "Here Matthew, you are a better reader than I am; look over these and read out some of the news."

Matthew at once takes up the papers offered, saying as he does so, "You are a most liberal subscriber to the news-vendors, John."

"Yes," replied he, "there was a time you know when we were debarred this privilege, and now that I have the opportunity I like to enjoy myself in this little harmless way."

For an hour or more Matthew seeks the reading that he knows is most congenial to his partner's taste. At last, having apparently exhausted all the news, he looks carelessly down column after column, and all at once he starts, turns red, and then as pale as possible, and drops the paper on the floor. John, page 207who is sitting opposite him watching and listening, exclaims, "What ails you, Matthew, are you ill? Speak, you look like death."

But Matthew seems unable to reply, but pointing to the paper on the floor, and John snatches it up, and does so in fear, for he knows not what has alarmed Matthew. After some little time his eye alights on the following:—

If this should meet the eye of Matthew Grant, formerly of Crayford, Kent, and since of Van Dieman's Land, and later on of Ballarat, he is requested to communicate at once to John Hubbard. News of his daughter. Anyone knowing his whereabouts will be liberally rewarded on giving the required information to

John Hubbard

, At the office of Mr. J. P. Stone Solicitor, Sturt Street, Ballarat.

"Why, Matthew, what in the world ails you? This is the very news you want, and now it has come you look frightened. Cheer up, man, for you may now be sure you will before long find her you seek."

"I was so overcome that I knew not how to answer you, but now I feel better, and regret that it is night instead of day, that I could see to it at once."

"Never be impatient. Good news will keep, Matthew, and if you wish, there is nothing to prevent your starting off tomorrow morning; or you can write or telegraph and hear first what Mr. Hubbard has to say."

"I am all impatience," sard Matthew. "I feel it must be news of her; and yet, after so many disappointments, I am not sanguine as I was once."

"News of her, Matthew; why, of course. The advertisement most distinctly states that there is news of your daughter. page 208Look!" And then Matthew, who seemed not to have perfectly understood, saw that he was indeed promised news of his daughter.

"Well, Matthew, I shall be sorry for you to be away from me for a single day; but still, if you would prefer going, go by all means—only come back as quickly as possible. As for your daughter, why, you know this is not the most civilised place in the world, but they say kind hearts make hell a paradise, and I for one, Matthew, can promise you a hearty welcome."

"I know that," said Matthew; "but for the moment I had forgotten all in thinking how unworthy I had been of any such good fortune."

"Unworthy, Matthew! I know of none more worthy than you. I never knew you to injure anyone, and why then can you say that you are not deserving of good fortune."

"I have been at all times of a rebellious spirit. I left the place where this news comes from for no other reason than that I had been made the butt and jest of other men, when, if it had not been for that very jest they had played upon me, I should in all probability never have heard of her, as this John Hubbard is the man to whose house Philosopher Bill sent me. I saw not the hand of Providence at work for my welfare, and I complained."

"Complained! I should like to know who would not under such circumstances. Providence, as you say, may be at the bottom of it, but you could not know this, and I can't see how a man can be expected to look quietly on and say, 'I know this is all for my good,' when before the good may have arrived you could easily have been dead and buried. Oh no, Matthew, that's all very well, but for my part I think you have been a submissive martyr for years, and nobody could ever blame you if you did to some extent rebel. Still, far be it from me to try and dissuade you from what you deem to be right."

"I am sorry," said Matthew, "I was not of more faith, and also more submissive to the divine will."

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"Bunkum! more submissive? How could you be? Do you in reality think we individually are so carefully watched by tha divine Being? Not we; we are all thrown together, some to follow one course and some another; but that we are all alike answerable I cannot think. I will not argue this, however, for it is rather beyond me, but this I will say, if I do that which I believe to be right in my heart, I shall go as near the proper line as possible. It is not in my nature to show the submission you have shown, in fact I could not do it; and am I to be punished for not behaving as I cannot? When you act as you do, it is because you have no desire to do otherwise"

"Your view is wrong, John, I assure you. If we are not naturally submissive, we should certainly cultivate that virtue, and pray for it; and I am quite certain we shall not do so in vain."

"You may be right," said John, "but so far I never have. Who is answerable then for my wrongdoing, for I committed a crime without knowing I was sinning against the law."

"Your parents in the first place, John, and your godparents in the next."

"Then," returned John, "they have certainly a loophole to get out of, for I was sent out when little more than a child, and since that they have never seen me. I suppose the only way for authorities over the other side to do would be to appoint deputy godfathers and mothers over the whole of us—one good motherly and fatherly old couple could do the lot. What a heap of sins they would have to answer for at the finish! They should certainly be paid well, and be allowed a lot of latitude for their own conduct, or I should say they would not accept the responsibility of such a family."

"Speak not thus on so serious a subject, John, or I shall certainly think you know not what you say. I am not a fit person, I know, to explain to you, for I am all unworthy of page 210being so enlightened; but still you must remember, if we have not parents or others to guide us, we have some common sense; and further, if we know not, we can read, and so teach ourselves the difference between right and wrong."

"Very good, when we can both read and understand; but how many cases are there where people can do neither, to say nothing of those who are capable of one and not the other. But I won't pretend, Matthew, to argue, and if you believe you are right in acting as you do, continue, for in that you do according to your conscience."

"But, John, if what you say is true, people could make themselves believe, but still not do right."

"They will not make themselves so believe unless they have some authority to guide them, for it is not an easy matter by any means. As I have said, if they do and feel that they have done right, you may, I think, take it for granted they go pretty near the mark, for I hold that the conscience of man will soon let him know if he does wrong. But let us talk of something which we understand better, for this is a subject I regret I know too little of. What think you of the advertisement? Shall you go down to Ballarat, or simply write and wait?"

"Well, I know not. I am all impatience, but I shall not perhaps forward matters by going immediately. What do you think?"

"I think you would do well to first of all communicate with Hubbard, and learn more from him first. But be not too hasty; let the matter rest till the morning."

"I agree with your opinion," said Matthew, "and will leave the question open till to-morrow, and then we can talk further and decide."

The next morning John asked Matthew what he had decided to do.

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"I shall certainly send and await the reply," was the answer, "for my rushing down will not help matters until I know something more definite. I don't expect to find her there, but my anxiety is hard to hold in check."

"I have no doubt it is, but I too think waiting by far the best; for if you once know where she is, you will then be better able to tell what to do, and with our present increase of business it at all times requires both of us to manage. When you learn how far you have to go, you will be the better able to make your arrangements."

"Then so it shall be," said Matthew; and accordingly a letter was at once despatched to John Hubbard, asking for full particulars.

Grant's patience was to be more tried than ever. Day by day he almost expected to see Clara walk into the store, and day by day did he expect to receive a special messenger from Hubbard, but none come. He became more impatient; ofttimes he felt the old rebellious feeling springing up as strongly as ever, although he strove to keep it down as much as possible.

"I think," said he at last, "the time will never pass. I wish I had gone, or perhaps it is only another hoax. How do I know but what some of the Philosopher Bill's sort want another lark at my expense."

"You may, I think, rest satisfied, Matthew, that there is nothing of that kind. The paper which inserted such an advertisement would want to be assured beforehand that they were right in so doing."

"I trust it may be so; for when once I am satisfied I shall feel more at rest. At present I know not how to contain myself."

"And when you do learn more particulars you will be just as restless to see her as you are now to find out where she is."

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"No, I think not; but we shall soon see."

Many weary days did Matthew wait, until the time seemed as though it would never pass. For hours would he walk up and down when not otherwise busy, and watch for any indications of a messenger; but his patience was to be tried further. At last he began to despair of hearing any more, and had nearly made up his mind to start down and see Hubbard himself, for he felt he could endure suspense no longer, and he determined to find out if it were really a hoax.

"Do as you will, Matthew. As to its being a hoax, I am quite sure it is not that, but I can feel for you under the circumstances, so will not advise you either way."

"I will but wait until to-morrow's post," said Matthew, "and then I will go down myself."

So Grant tried his best to resign himself to this delay, but patience was now out of the question. As the time drew near he knew not how to contain himself, and long before the morning of the last night before the one on which he had decided to start, tossed about restlessly in his bed, and cried out, "The morning will never dawn, and even now I fear I am the object of some mistake. Yet the advertisement seems to point to me;" and then Matthew rose from his bed to seek the paper which contained the precious news, and again read it. There sure enough he saw, "formerly of Crayford Kent, then of Van Dieman's Land, and later of Ballarat." No, there could be no mistake, it must be he. Then again the thought would come that she may have known his whereabouts the whole time, perhaps was near at hand, and was now sick—perhaps dying,— and this was the only reason why she intended letting him know. So he thought on until waiting became an infliction to him. At the first peep of day he arose, and tried to busy himself in the store, but do what he would his thoughts could not be diverted. Slowly the time wore on, and gradually the day page 213passed off, for long before the time did he watch impatiently for the coach to pass. As luck would have it, the coach on this occasion had been delayed by the loss of a bolt, or some such accident. Five o'clock arrived, but no coach, and Matthew's powers of endurance were further tested. He returned to the store to await another day, for he knew it would be past post time.

After tea, of which he could not partake, for his anxiety had so increased, John said, "Well, Matthew, has the coach yet arrived?"

"Aye," said Matthew, "the coach has; but I suppose, after my waiting until to-morrow, I shall be again disappointed."

"I shall," said John, "just leave you for about half-an-hour, as I must go up town. I will return as quickly as possible after I have done my little business."

Now John, after leaving Matthew, made at once for the Post Office, and as he was rather intimate with one of the clerks there, he concluded he would be able to see if a letter had come for Matthew. After some little delay, sure enough he was successful, and from the clerk he got for Matthew the much-coveted letter. On the envelope he saw the name of the firm of "Stone, solicitor, Ballarat," and with all haste he hurried back to Matthew, saying, as he gave him the letter, "I did not like to let you know my hopes, for fear of my being disappointed, and it should turn out there was no letter."

To this Matthew made no reply, but with trembling fingers he tore open the envelope, and there sure enough was the joyful news.

The letter proved to be from Hubbard, and ran as follows:—

Matthew Grant, Beechworth.

Dear Sir,—I have much pleasure in being the medium of some news to you of your daughter, but as the letter which I enclose gives you a better page 214idea of how the circumstances of the matter have come to light, it is needless for me to go into particulars, any further than that immediately on receipt of yours I wrote to Mr Perryman, of New Zealand, and enclosed him your letter to me. I await further news from him; but should you desire to go over before his answer arrives, there can be no reason why you should not do so at once. I shall at once, on receipt of news from him, let you know.

Trusting you are well, &c.,

Believe me to remain, Yours faithfully,

John Hubbard.

"What do you think of that, Matthew?" said his partner, after Grant had seen and read this letter.

"I think Providence, John, has been most kind to me, for I get the return of that which I most covet when I least deserve it."

"Just so; but what says this Mr Perryman?"

"Ah, I forgot, but we will see."

The letter proved to be one sent by the Editor of the paper, asking for further information concerning the paragraph telling the story of the practical joke, asking whether the jealous father's name was Matthew Grant, and if so would the person into whose hands the letter fell try and find out his whereabouts and let the writer know at once. Of course the letter gave all necessary particulars that were required for the identification of Matthew, and it was also a request that Grant should be informed that his daughter Clara was most anxious to find him. One thing was evident, and that was that the lucky discovery was entirely due to Philosopher Bill's practical joke.

"Well, Matthew, now I trust you will say that this Bill, who played you such a trick, is forgiven."

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"I never felt otherwise; but what a splendid lesson this is to prove that we should be satisfied with anything that comes to us."

"Quite a matter of opinion, Matthew; for my part I think it is quite natural to growl, and, as you say, rebel."

"I trust I may never again," said Matthew, "for this is certainly a lesson for me."

"I wonder who this Perryman is. Of course he is a solicitor, but what further you do not know. Perhaps he may be now married to your daughter."

"We can but conjecture," returned Matthew, "time will show. I only trust I may, on this occasion, display that submission I should."

"You will, of course, write, for this will be your best course."

"I shall do so at once, and as soon as I receive an answer, if it is not convenient for her to come, I shall go; and this time, when I find my long lost Clara, I will try for the future to remain near her."

"I trust then she may come, Matthew, for I shall much regret your leaving me, even for ever so short a time."

"Next to my daughter, John, I would be with you; but she is now the only one that I have living belonging to me, and I feel that I shall be most happy where she is."

And so it was decided that, when the news came of Clara, if convenient, she would come to Victoria; if not, Matthew was to go and join her in New Zealand.