The Golden Dream (A Western Classic). R.M. Ballantyne

you think, then, that you would make a good digger?”

      “Well, perhaps I would,” replied Ned, modestly.

      Mr Shirley gravely regarded the powerful frame that reclined in the easy-chair before him, and was compelled to admit that the supposition was by no means outrageous.

      “Besides,” continued the youth, “I might turn my hand to many things in a new country. You know I have studied surveying, and I can sketch a little, and know something of architecture. I suppose that Latin and Greek would not be of much use, but the little I have picked up of medicine and surgery among the medical students would be useful. Then I could take notes, and sketch the scenery, and bring back a mass of material that might interest the public, and do good to the country.”

      “Oh,” said the old gentleman, shortly; “come back and turn author, in fact, and write a book that nobody would publish, or which, in the event of its being published, nobody would read!”

      “Come, now, my dear uncle, don’t laugh at me. I assure you it seems very reasonable to me to think that what others have done, and are doing every day, I am able to do.”

      “Well, I won’t laugh at you; but, to be serious, you are wise enough to know that an old man’s experience is worth more than a youth’s fancies. Much of what you have said is true, I admit, but I assure you that the bright prospects you have cut out for yourself are very delusive. They will never be realised, at least in the shape in which you have depicted them on your imagination. They will dissolve, my boy, on a nearer approach, and, as Shakespeare has it, ‘like the baseless fabric of a vision, leave not a wrack behind,’ or, at least, not much more than a wrack.”

      Ned reverted to the golden dream, and felt uneasy under his uncle’s kind but earnest gaze.

      “Most men,” continued Mr Shirley, “enjoy themselves at first, when they go to wild countries in search of adventure, but they generally regret the loss of their best years afterwards. In my opinion men should never emigrate unless they purpose making the foreign land they go to their home. But I won’t oppose you, if you are determined to go; I will do all I can to help you, and give you my blessing; but before you make up your mind, I would recommend you to call on Mr Moxton, and hear what prospects he holds out to you. Then take a week to think seriously over it; and if at the end of that time, you are as anxious to go as ever, I’ll not stand in your way.”

      “You are kind to me, uncle; more so than I deserve,” said Ned earnestly. “I’ll do as you desire, and you may depend upon it that the generous way in which you have left me to make my own choice will influence me against going abroad more than anything else.”

      Ned sighed as he rose to quit the room, for he felt that his hopes at that moment were sinking.

      “And before you take a step in the matter, my boy,” said old Mr Shirley, “go to your room and ask counsel of Him who alone has the power to direct your steps in this life.”

      Ned replied briefly, “I will, uncle,” and hastily left the room. Mr Shirley poked the fire, put on his spectacles, smoothed out the wrinkles on his bald forehead with his hand, took up the Times, and settled himself down in his easy-chair to read; but his nephew’s prospects could not be banished from his mind. He went over the whole argument again, mentally, with copious additions, ere he became aware of the fact, that for three-quarters of an hour he had been, (apparently), reading the newspaper upside down.

      CHAPTER THREE.

       Table of Contents

      Hopes and Fears—Mr Shirley receives a Visit and a Wild Proposal.

      When Edward Sinton left his chamber, an hour after the conversation related in the last chapter, his brow was unruffled and his step light. He had made up his mind that, come what might, he would not resist the wishes of his only near relative and his best friend.

      There was a day in the period of early boyhood that remained as fresh on the memory of young Sinton as if it had been yesterday—the day on which his mother died. The desolation of his early home on that day was like the rising of a dark thunder-cloud on a bright sky. His young heart was crushed, his mind stunned, and the first ray of light that broke upon him—the first gush of relief—was when his uncle arrived and took him on his knee, and, seated beside the bed where that cold, still form lay, wept upon the child’s neck as if his heart would break. Mr Shirley buried the sister whom he had been too late to see alive. Then he and his little nephew left the quiet country village and went to dwell in the great city of London. From that time forward Mr Shirley was a father to Ned, who loved him more than any one else on earth, and through his influence he was early led to love and reverence his heavenly Father and his blessed Redeemer.

      The subject of going abroad was the first in regard to which Ned and his uncle had seriously disagreed, and the effect on the feelings of both was very strong.

      Ned’s mind wandered as he put on his hat, and buttoned his great-coat up to the chin, and drew on his gloves slowly. He was not vain of his personal appearance; neither was he reckless of it. He always struck you as being a particularly well-dressed man, and he had naturally a dashing look about him. Poor fellow! he felt anything but dashing or reckless as he hurried through the crowded streets in the direction of the city that day.

      Moxton’s door was a green one, with a brass knocker and a brass plate, both of which ornaments, owing to verdigris, were anything but ornamental. The plate was almost useless, being nearly illegible, but the knocker was still fit for duty. The street was narrow—as Ned observed with a feeling of deep depression—and the house to which the green door belonged, besides being dirty, retreated a little, as if it were ashamed of itself.

      On the knocker being applied, the green door was opened by a disagreeable-looking old woman, who answered to the question, “Is Mr Moxton in?” with a short “Yes,” and, without farther remark, ushered our hero into a very dingy and particularly small office, which, owing to the insufficient quantity of daylight that struggled through the dirty little windows, required to be lighted with gas. Ned felt, so to speak, like a thermometer which was falling rapidly.

      “Can I see Mr Moxton?” he inquired of a small dishevelled clerk, who sat on a tall stool behind a high desk, engaged in writing his name in every imaginable form on a sheet of note paper.

      The dishevelled clerk pointed to a door which opened into an inner apartment, and resumed his occupation.

      Ned tapped at the door indicated.

      “Come in,” cried a stern voice.

      Ned, (as a thermometer), fell considerably lower. On entering, he beheld a tall, gaunt man, with a sour cast of countenance, standing with his back to the fire.

      Ned advanced with a cheerful expression of face. Thermometrically speaking, he fell to the freezing-point.

      “You are young Sinton, I suppose. You’ve come later than I expected.”

      Ned apologised, and explained that he had had some difficulty in finding the house.

      “Umph! Your uncle tells me that you’re a sharp fellow, and write a good hand. Have you ever been in an office before?”

      “No, sir. Up till now I have been at college. My uncle is rather partial, I fear, and may have spoken too highly of me. I think, however, that my hand is not a bad one. At least it is legible.”

      “At least!” said Mr Moxton, with a sarcastic expression that was meant for smile, perhaps for a grin. “Why, that’s the most you could say of it. No hand is good, sir, if it is not legible, and no hand can possibly be bad that is legible. Have you studied law?”

      “No, sir, I have not.”

      “Umph! you’re too old to begin. Have you been used to sit at the desk?”

      “Yes; I have been accustomed to study the greater part