She sprang
from her seat, and advancing towards Frank, exclaimed:
"Maybe you'll be wanting a veil, Sir. I've plenty nice ones, stronger,
better, and cheaper than you'll get at the store. Summer dust's coming,
Sir. You'll want one, won't you? I havn't sold one this week," she
added, almost imploringly, perceiving what she fancied a "no-customer"
look in his face.
"I'll have one, little girl," he answered in a kindly tone, "and what
price is it to be?"
"Eighteen pence, Sir, if you'd please be so good."
Frank put the money into her hand, but returned the veil. This action
seemed not quite to satisfy her; either she did not comprehend what he
meant, or it hurt her self-pride, for she said quickly:
"I havn't only green veils - p'raps you'd like some candles better - I
makes them too."
"YOU make them?" said Frank, laughing as he glanced at the little hands
that were still holding the veil for his acceptance. "YOU make them?
Your mother makes the candles, you mean."
"I have no mother now," said she, with an expression of real melancholy
in her countenance and voice. "I makes the candles and the veils, and
the diggers they buys them of me, cos grandfather's ill, and got nobody
to work for him but me."
"Where do you and your grandfather live?" I asked. "In there?" pointing
to the blanket tent.
She nodded her head, adding in a lower tone:
"He's asleep now. He sleeps more than he did. He's killed hisself
digging for the gold, and he never got none, and he says 'he'll
dig till he dies.'"
"Dig till he dies." Fit motto of many a disappointed gold-seeker, the
finale of many a broken up, desolated home, the last dying words of
many a husband, far away from wife or kindred, with no loved ones near
to soothe his departing moments - no better burial - place than the very
hole, perchance, in which his last earthly labours were spent. These
were some of the thoughts that rapidly chased one another in my mind as
the sad words and still sadder tone fell upon my ear.
I was roused by hearing Frank's voice in inquiry as to how she made her
candles, and she answered all our questions with a child-like NAIVETE,
peculiarly her own. She told us how she boiled down the fat - how once it
had caught fire and burnt her severely, and there was the scar still
showing on her brown little arm - then how she poured the hot fat into,
the tin mould, first fastening in the wicks, then shut up the mould and
left it to grow cold as quickly as it would; all this, and many other
particulars which I have long since forgotten, she told us; and
little by little we learnt too her own history.
Father, mother, grandfather, and herself had all come to the diggings
the summer before. Her father met with a severe accident in digging,
and returned to Melbourne. He returned only to die, and his wife soon
followed him to the grave. Having no other friend or relative in the
colonies, the child had been left with her aged grandfather, who
appeared as infatuated with the gold-fields as a more hale and younger
man. His strength and health were rapidly failing, yet he still dug on.
"We shall be rich, and Jessie a fine lady before I die," was ever his
promise to her, and that at times when they were almost wanting food.
It was with no idle curiosity that we listened to her; none could help
feeling deeply interested in the energetic, unselfish, orphan girl. She
was not beautiful, nor was she fair - she had none of those childish
graces which usually attract so much attention to children of her age;
her eyes were heavy and bloodshot (with work, weeping, cold, and
hunger) except when she spoke of her sick grandfather, and then they
disclosed a world of tenderness; her hair hung matted round her
head; her cheek was wan and sallow; her dress was ill-made and
threadbare; yet even thus, few that had once looked at her but would
wish to look again. There was an indescribable sweetness about the
mouth; the voice was low and musical; the well-shaped head was firmly
set upon her shoulders; a fine open forehead surmounted those drooping
eyes; there was almost a dash of independence; a "little woman" manner
about her that made one imperceptibly forget how young she was in
years.
A slight noise in the tent - a gentle moan.
"He's waked; I must go to him, and," in a lower, almost a deprecating
tone, "he doesn't like to hear stranger folks about."
We cheerfully complied with the hint and departed, Frank first putting
some money into her hand, and promising to call again for the candles
and veils she seemed quite anxious we should take in return.
Our thoughts were as busy as our tongues were silent, during the time
that elapsed before we reached home. When we entered, we found a
discussion going on, and words were running high. My brother and
Octavius were for going somewhere to work, not idle about as
they were doing now; William. wanted to go for a "pleasure trip" to
Forest Creek, and then return to Melbourne for a change. Frank listened
to it all for some minutes, and then made a speech, the longest I ever
heard from him, of which I will repeat portions, as it will explain our
future movements.
"This morning, when going down the gully, I met the person whom we
bought the dray-horses of in Melbourne. I asked him how he was doing,
and he answered, 'badly enough; but a friend's just received accounts
of some new diggings out Albury way, and there I mean to go.' He showed
me also a letter he had received from a party in Melbourne, who were
going there.
