Archie carried the box up the steep stairs, and Sarah’s mistress herself opened the door and held a candle. A thin, weary-looking body, with whom Sarah seemed to be on the best and most friendly terms.

“Brought my young man,” said Sarah. “Ain’t he a smartie? But, heigho!

green!

You

never!”

“Come in a minute, sir, and rest you. Never mind this silly girl.”

Archie did go in a minute; five, ten, ay fifteen, and by that time he had not only heard all this ex-policeman’s wife’s story, but taken a semi-attic belonging to her.

And he felt downright independent and happy when next day he took possession.

For now he would have time to really look round, and it was a relief to his mind that he would not be spending much money.

Archie could write home cheerfully now. He was sure that something would soon turn up, something he could accept, and which would not be derogatory to the son of a Northumbrian squire. More than one influential member of commercial society had promised “to communicate with him at the very earliest moment.”

But, alas! weeks flew by, and weeks went into months, and no more signs of the something were apparent than he had seen on the second day of his arrival.

Archie was undoubtedly “a game un,” as Sarah called him; but his heart began to feel very heavy indeed.

Living as cheaply as he could, his money would go done at last. What then? Write home for more? He shuddered to think of such a thing. If his first friend, Captain Vesey, had only turned up now, he would have gone and asked to be taken as a hand before the mast. But Captain Vesey did not.

A young man cannot be long in Sydney without getting into a set. Archie did, and who could blame him. They were not a rich set, nor a very fast set; but they had a morsel of a club-room of their own. They formed friendships, took strolls together, went occasionally to the play, and often had little “adventures” about town, the narratives of which, when retailed in the club, found ready listeners, and of course were stretched to the fullest extent of importance.

They really were not bad fellows, and would have done Archie a good turn if they could. But they could not. They laughed a deal at first at his English notions and ideas; but gradually Archie got over his greenness, and began to settle down to colonial life, and would have liked Sydney very much indeed if he had only had something to do.

The ex-policeman’s wife was very kind to her lodger. So was Sarah; though she took too many freedoms of speech with him, which tended to lower his English squirearchical dignity very much. But, to do her justice, Sarah did not mean any harm.

Only once did Archie venture to ask about the ex-policeman. “What did he do?”

“Oh, he drinks!” said Sarah, as quietly as if drinking were a trade of some kind. Archie asked no more.

Rummaging in a box one day, Archie found his last letter of introduction. It had been given him by Uncle Ramsay.

“You’ll find him a rough and right sort of a stick,” his uncle had said. “He

was

my steward, now he is a wealthy man, and can knock down his cheque for many thousands.”

Archie dressed in his best and walked right away that afternoon to find the address.

It was one of the very villas he had often passed, in a beautiful place close by the water-side.

What would be his reception here?

This question was soon put at rest.

He rang the bell, and was ushered into a luxuriously-furnished room; a room that displayed more richness than taste.

A very beautiful girl – some thirteen years of age perhaps – got up from a grand piano, and stood before him.

Archie was somewhat taken aback, but bowed as composedly as he could.

“Surely,” he thought, “

she

cannot be the daughter of the rough and right sort of a stick who had been steward to his uncle. He had never seen so sweet a face, such dreamy blue eyes, or such wealth of hair before.

“Did you want to see papa? Sit down. I’ll go and find him.”

“Will you take this letter to him?” said Archie.

And the girl left, letter in hand.

Ten minutes after the “rough stick” entered, whistling “Sally come up.”

“Hullo! hullo!” he cried, “so here we are.”

There he was without doubt – a big, red, jolly face, like a full moon orient, a loose merino jacket, no waistcoat or necktie, but a cricketer’s cap on the very back of his bushy head. He struck Archie a friendly slap on the back.

“Keep on yer cap,” he shouted, “I was once a poor man myself.”

Archie was too surprised and indignant to speak.

“Well, well, well,” said Mr Winslow, “they do tell me wonders won’t never cease. What a whirligig of a world it is. One day I’m cleanin’ a gent’s boots. Gent is a capting of a ship. Next day gent’s nephew comes to me to beg for a job. Say, young man, what’ll ye drink?”

“I didn’t come to

drink

, Mr Winslow, neither did I come to

beg

.”

“Whew-ew-ew,” whistled the quondam steward, “here’s pride; here’s a touch o’ the old country. Why, young un, I might have made you my under-gardener.”

The girl at this moment entered the room. She had heard the last sentence.

“Papa!” she remonstrated. Then she glided out by the casement window.

Burning blushes suffused Archie’s cheeks as he hurried over the lawn soon after; angry tears were in his eyes. His hand was on the gate-latch when he felt a light touch on his arm. It was the girl.

“Don’t be angry with poor papa,” she said, almost beseechingly.

“No, no,” Archie cried, hardly knowing what he did say. “What is your name?”

“Etheldene.”

“What a beautiful name! I – I will never forget it. Good-bye.”

He ran home with the image of the child in his mind – on his brain.

Sarah – plain Sarah – met him at the top of the stairs. He brushed past her.

“La! but ye does look glum,” said Sarah.

Archie locked his door. He did not want to see even Sarah – homely Sarah – that night.

Chapter Thirteen

“Something in Soap.”

It was a still, sultry night in November. Archie’s balcony window was wide open, and if there had been a breath of air anywhere he would have had the benefit of it. That was one advantage of having a room high up above the town, and there were several others. For instance, it was quieter, more retired, and his companions did not often take him by storm, because they objected to climb so many stairs. Dingy, small, and dismal some might have called it, but Archie always felt at home up in his semi-attic. It even reminded him of his room in the dear old tower at Burley. Then his morsel of balcony, why that was worth all the money he paid for the room itself; and as for the view from this charming, though non-aristocratic elevation, it was simply unsurpassed, unsurpassable – looking far away over a rich and fertile country to the grand old hills beyond – a landscape that, like the sea, was still the same, but ever changing; sometimes smiling and green, sometimes bathed in tints of purple and blue, sometimes grey as a sky o’ercast with rain clouds. Yes, he loved it, and he would take a chair out here on a moonlight evening and sit and think and dream.

But on this particular night sleep, usually so kind to the young man, absolutely refused to visit his pillow. He tried to woo the goddess on his right side, on his left, on his back; it was all in vain. Finally, he sat bolt upright in his little truckle bed in silent defiance.

“I don’t care,” he said aloud, “whether I sleep or not. What does it matter? I’ve nothing to do to-morrow. Heigho!”

Nothing to do to-morrow! How sad! And he so young too. Were all his dreams of future fortune to fade and pass away like this – nothing to do? Why he envied the very boys who drove the mill wagons that went lazily rolling past his place every day. They seemed happy, and so contented; while he – why his very life – had come to be all one continued fever.

“Nothing to do yet, sir?” It was the ordinary salutation of his hard-working mite of a landlady when he came home to his meal in the afternoon. “I knows by the weary way ye walks upstairs, sir, you aren’t successful yet, sir.”

“Nothink to do yet, sir?” They were the usual words that the slavey used when she dragged upstairs of an evening with his tea-things.

“Nothink to do,” she would say, as she deposited the tray on the table, and sank

sans cérémonie

into the easy-chair. “Nothink to do. What a ’appy life to lead! Now ’ere’s me a draggin’ up and down stairs, and a carryin’ of coals and a sweepin’, and a dustin’ and a hanswering of the door, till, what wi’ the ’eat and the dust and the fleas, my poor little life’s well-nigh worrited out o’ me. Heigho! hif I was honly back again in merrie England, catch me ever goin’ to any Australia any more. But you looks a horned gent, sir. Nothink to do! My eye and Betty Martin, ye oughter to be ’appy, if you ain’t.”

Archie got up to-night, enrobed himself in his dressing-gown, and went and sat on his balcony. This soothed him. The stars were very bright, and seemed very near. He did not care for other companionship than these and his own all-too-busy thoughts. There was hardly a sound to be heard, except now and then the hum of a distant railway train increasing to a harsh roar as it crossed the bridge, then becoming subdued again and muffled as it entered woods, or went rolling over a soft and open country.

Nothing to do! But he must and would do something. Why should he starve in a city of plenty? He had arms and hands, if he hadn’t a head. Indeed, he had begun of late to believe that his head, which he used to think so much of, was the least important part of his body. He caught himself feeling his forearm and his biceps. Why this latter had got smaller and beautifully less of late. He had to shut his fist hard to make it perceptible to touch. This was worse and worse, he thought. He would not be able to lift a fifty-six if he wanted to before long, or have strength enough left to wield a stable broom if he should be obliged to go as gardener to Winslow.

“What next, I wonder?” he said to himself. “First I lose my brains, if ever I had any, and now I have lost my biceps; the worst loss last.”

He lit his candle, and took up the newspaper.

“I’ll pocket my pride, and take a porter’s situation,” he murmured. “Let us see now. Hullo! what is this? ‘Apprentice Wanted – the drug trade – splendid opening to a pushing youngster.’ Well, I am a pushing youngster. ‘Premium required.’ I don’t care, I have a bit of money left, and I’ll pay it like a man if there is enough. Why the drug trade is grand. Sydney drug-stores beat Glasgow’s all to pieces. Druggists and drysalters have their carriages and mansions, their town and country houses. Hurrah! I’ll be something yet!”

He blew out the candle, and jumped into bed. The gentle goddess required no further wooing. She took him in her lap, and he went off at once like a baby.

Rap – rap – rap – rap!

“Hullo! Yes; coming, Sarah; coming.”

It was broad daylight; and when he admitted Sarah at last, with the breakfast-tray, she told him she had been up and down fifty times, trying to make him hear. Sarah was given to a little exaggeration at times.

“It was all very well for a gent like he,” she said, “but there was her a-slavin’ and a-toilin’, and all the rest of it.”

“Well, well, my dear,” he cut in, “I’m awfully sorry, I assure you.”

Sarah stopped right in the centre of the room, still holding the tray, and looked at him.

“What!” she cried. “Ye ain’t a-going to marry me then, young man! What are ye my-dearing me for?”

“No, Sarah,” replied Archie, laughing; “I’m not going to marry you; but I’ve hopes of a good situation, and – ”

“Is that all?” Sarah dumped down the tray, and tripped away singing.

Archie’s interview with the advertiser was of a most satisfactory character. He did not like the street, it was too new and out of the way; but then it would be a beginning.

He did not like his would-be employer, but he dared say he would improve on acquaintance. There was plenty in the shop, though the place was dingy and dirty, and the windows small. The spiders evidently had fine times of it here, and did not object to the smell of drugs. He was received by Mr Glorie himself in a little back sanctum off the little back shop.

The premium for apprenticing Archie was rather more than the young man could give; but this being explained to the proprietor of these beautiful premises, and owner of all the spiders, he graciously condescended to take half. Archie’s salary – a wretched pittance – was to commence at once after articles were signed; and Mr Glorie promised to give him a perfect insight into the drug business, and make a man of him, and “something else besides,” he added, nodding to Archie in a mysterious manner.

The possessor of the strange name was a queer-looking man; there did not appear much glory about him. He was very tall, very lanky, and thin, his shoulders sloping downwards like a well-pointed pencil, while his face was solemn and elongated, like your own, reader, if you look at it in a spoon held lengthways.

The articles were signed, and Archie walked home on feathers apparently. He went upstairs singing. His landlady ran to the door.

“Work at last?”

Archie nodded and smiled.

When Sarah came in with the dinner things she danced across the room, bobbing her queer, old-fashioned face and crying —

“Lawk-a-daisy, diddle-um-doo, Missus says you’ve got work to do!”

“Yes, Sarah, at long last, and I’m so happy.”

“’Appy, indeed!” sang Sarah. “Why, ye won’t be the gent no longer!”

Archie certainly had got work to do. For a time his employer kept him in the shop. There was only one other lad, and he went home with the physic, and what with studying hard to make himself

au fait

in prescribing and selling seidlitz powders and gum drops, Archie was pretty busy.

So months flew by. Then his long-faced employer took him into the back premises, and proceeded to initiate him into the mysteries of the something else that was to make a man of him.

“There’s a fortune in it,” said Mr Glorie, pointing to a bubbling grease-pot. “Yes, young sir, a vast fortune.”

“What is the speciality?” Archie ventured to enquire.

“The speciality, young sir?” replied Mr Glorie, his face relaxing into something as near a smile as it would permit of. “The speciality, sir, is soap. A transparent soap. A soap, young sir, that is destined to revolutionise the world of commerce, and bring

star to the ascendant after struggling for two long decades with the dark clouds of adversity.”

So this was the mystery. Archie was henceforward, so it appeared, to live in an atmosphere of scented soap; his hope must centre in bubbles. He was to assist this Mr Glorie’s star to rise to the zenith, while his own fortune might sink to nadir. And he had paid his premium. It was swallowed up and simmering in that ugly old grease-pot, and except for the miserable salary he received from Mr Glorie he might starve.

Poor Archie! He certainly did not share his employer’s enthusiasm, and on this particular evening he did not walk home on feathers, and when he sat down to supper his face must have appeared to Sarah quite as long and lugubrious as Mr Glorie’s; for she raised her hands and said:

“Lawk-a-doodle, sir! What’s the matter? Have ye killed anybody?”

“Not yet,” answered Archie; “but I almost feel I could.”

He stuck to his work, however, like a man; but that work became more and more allied to soap, and the front shop hardly knew him any more.

He had informed the fellows at the club-room that he was employed at last; that he was apprenticed to the drug trade. But the soap somehow leaked out, and more than once, when he was introduced to some new-comer, he was styled —

“Mr Broadbent,” and “something in soap.”

This used to make him bite his lips in anger.

He would not have cared half so much had he not joined this very club, with a little flourish of trumpets, as young Broadbent, son of Squire Broadbent, of Burley Old Castle, England.

And now he was “something in soap.”

He wrote home to his sister in the bitterness of his soul, telling her that all his visions of greatness had ended in bubbles of rainbow hue, and that he was “something in soap.” He felt sorry for having done so as soon as the letter was posted.

He met old Winslow one day in the street, and this gentleman grasped Archie’s small aristocratic hand in his great brown bear’s paw, and congratulated him on having got on his feet at last.

“Yes,” said Archie with a sneer and a laugh, “I’m ‘something in soap.’”

“And soap’s a good thing I can tell you. Soap’s not to be despised. There’s a fortune in soap. I had an uncle in soap. Stick to it, my lad, and it’ll stick to you.”

But when a new apprentice came to the shop one day, and was installed in the front door drug department, while he himself was relegated to the slums at the back, his cup of misery seemed full, and he proceeded forthwith to tell this Mr Glorie what he thought of him. Mr Glorie’s face got longer and longer and longer, and he finally brought his clenched fist down with such a bang on the counter, that every bottle and glass in the place rang like bells.

“I’ll have the law on you,” he shouted.

“I don’t care; I’ve done with you. I’m sick of you and your soap.”

He really did not mean to do it; but just at that moment his foot kicked against a huge earthenware jar full of oil, and shivered it in pieces.

“You’ve broke your indenture! You – you – ”

“I’ve broken your jar, anyhow,” cried Archie.

He picked up his hat, and rushing out, ran recklessly off to his club.

He was “something in soap” no more.

He was beggared, but he was free, unless indeed Mr Glorie should put him in gaol.

Chapter Fourteen

The King may come in the Cadger’s Way

Mr Glorie did not put his runaway apprentice in gaol. He simply advertised for another – with a premium.

Poor Archie! His condition in life was certainly not to be envied now. He had but very few pounds between him and actual want.

He was rich in one thing alone – pride. He would sooner starve than write home for a penny. No, he

could

die in a gutter, but he could not bear to think they should know of it at Burley Old Farm.

Long ago, in the bonnie woods around Burley, he used to wonder to find dead birds in dark crannies of the rocks. He could understand it now. They had crawled into the crannies to die, out of sight and alone.

His club friends tried to rally him. They tried to cheer him up in more ways than one. Be it whispered, they tried to make him seek solace in gambling and in the wine-cup.

I do not think that I have held up my hero as a paragon. On the contrary, I have but represented him as he was – a bold, determined lad, with many and many a fault; but now I am glad to say this one thing in his favour: he was not such a fool as to try to drown his wits in wine, nor to seek to make money questionably by betting and by cards.

After Archie’s letter home, in which he told Elsie that he was “something in soap,” he had written another, and a more cheerful one. It was one which cost him a good deal of trouble to write; for he really could not get over the notion that he was telling white lies when he spoke of “his prospects in life, and his hopes being on the ascendant;” and as he dropped it into the receiver, he felt mean, demoralised; and he came slowly along George Street, trying to make himself believe that any letter was better than no letter, and that he would hardly have been justified in telling the whole truth.

Well, at Burley Old Farm things had rather improved, simply for this reason: Squire Broadbent had gone in heavily for retrenchment.

He had proved the truth of his own statement: “It does not take much in this world to make a man happy.” The Squire was happy when he saw his wife and children happy. The former was always quietly cheerful, and the latter did all they could to keep up each other’s hearts. They spent much of their spare time in the beautiful and romantic tower-room, and in walking about the woods, the grounds, and farm; for Rupert was well now, and was his father’s right hand, not in the rough-and-tumble dashing way that Archie would have been, but in a thoughtful, considering way.

Mr Walton had gone away, but Branson and old Kate were still to the fore. The Squire could not have spared these.

I think that Rupert’s religion was a very pretty thing. He had lost none of his simple faith, his abiding trust in God’s goodness, though he had regained his health. His devotions were quite as sincere, his thankfulness for mercies received greater even than before, and he had the most unbounded faith in the efficacy of prayer.

So his sister and he lived in hope, and the Squire used to build castles in the green parlour of an evening, and of course the absent Archie was one of the kings of these castles.

After a certain number of years of retrenchment, Burley was going to rise from its ashes like the fabled phoenix – machinery and all. The Squire was even yet determined to show these old-fashioned farmer folks of Northumbria “a thing or two.”

That was his ambition; and we must not blame him; for a man without ambition of some kind is a very humble sort of a clod – a clod of very poor clay.

But to return to Sydney.

Archie had received several rough invitations to go and visit Mr Winslow. He had accepted two of these, and, singular to say, Etheldene’s father was absent each time. Now, I refuse to be misunderstood. Archie did not “manage” to call when the ex-miner was out; but Archie was not displeased. He had taken a very great fancy for the child, and did not hesitate to tell her that from the first day he had met her he had loved her like his sister Elsie.

Of course Etheldene wanted to know all about Elsie, and hours were spent in telling her about this one darling sister of his, and about Rupert and all the grand old life at Burley.

“I should laugh,” cried Archie, “if some day when you grew up, you should find yourself in England, and fall in love with Rupert, and marry him.”

The child smiled, but looked wonderfully sad and beautiful the next moment. She had a way like this with her. For if Etheldene had been taken to represent any month of our English year, it would have been April – sunshine, flowers, and showers.

But one evening Archie happened to be later out in the suburbs than he ought to have been. The day had been hot, and the night was delightfully cool and pleasant. He was returning home when a tall, rough-looking, bearded man stopped him, and asked “for a light, old chum.” Archie had a match, which he handed him, and as the light fell on the man’s face, it revealed a very handsome one indeed, and one that somehow seemed not unfamiliar to him.

Archie went on. There was the noise of singing farther down the street, a merry band of youths who had been to a race meeting that clay, and were up to mischief.

The tall man hid under the shadow of a wall.

“They’re larrikins,” he said to himself, and “he’s a greenhorn.” He spat in his fist, and kept his eye on the advancing figures.

Archie met them. They were arm-in-arm, five in all, and instead of making way for him, rushed him, and down he went, his head catching the kerb with frightful force. They at once proceeded to rifle him. But perhaps “larrikins” had never gone to ground so quickly and so unexpectedly before. It was the bearded man who was “having his fling” among them, and he ended by grabbing one in each hand till a policeman came up.

Archie remembered nothing more then.

When he became sensible he was in bed with a bandaged head, and feeling as weak all over as a kitten. Sarah was in the room with the landlady.

“Hush, my dear,” said the latter; “you’ve been very ill for more than a week. You’re not to get up, nor even to speak.”

Archie certainly did not feel inclined to do either. He just closed his eyes and dozed off again, and his soul flew right away back to Burley.

“Oh, yes; he’s out of danger!” It was the doctor’s voice. “He’ll do first-rate with careful nursing.”

“He won’t want for that, sir. Sarah here has been like a little mother to him.”

Archie dozed for days. Only, whenever he was sensible, he could notice that Sarah was far better dressed, and far older-looking and nicer-looking than ever she had been. And now and then the big-bearded man came and sat by his bed, looking sometimes at him, some times at Sarah.

One day Archie was able to sit up; he felt quite well almost, though of course he was not really so.

“I have you to thank for helping me that night,” he said.

“Ay, ay, Master Archie; but don’t you know me?”

“No – no. I don’t think so.”

The big-bearded man took out a little case from his pocket, and pulled therefrom a pair of horn-bound spectacles.

“Why!” cried Archie, “you’re not – ”

“I

, really.”

“Oh, Bob Cooper, I’m pleased to see you! Tell me all your story.”

“Not yet, chummie; it is too long, or rather you’re too weak. Why, you’re crying!”

“It’s tears of joy!”

“Well, well; I would join you, lad, but tears ain’t in my line. But somebody else will want to see you to-morrow.”

“Who?”

“Just wait and see.”

Archie did wait. Indeed he had to; for the doctor left express orders that he was not to be disturbed.

The evening sun was streaming over the hills when Sarah entered next day and gave a look towards the bed.

“I’m awake, Sarah.”

“It’s Bob,” said Sarah, “and t’other little gent. They be both a-comin’ upstairs athout their boots.”

Archie was just wondering what right Sarah had to call Bob Cooper by his christian name, when Bob himself came quietly in.

“Ah!” he said, as he approached the bed, “you’re beginning to look your old self already. Now who is this, think you?”

Archie extended a feeble white hand.

“Why, Whitechapel!” he exclaimed joyfully. “Wonders will never cease!”

“Well, Johnnie, and how are ye? I told ye, ye know, that ‘the king, might come in the cadger’s way.’”

“Not much king about

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From Squire to Squatter: A Tale of the Old Land and the New

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