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<title>The Last Chance: A Tale of the Golden West, by Rolf Boldrewood—A Project Gutenberg eBook</title>
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<body>
<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 61385 ***</div>

<hr class="ww" />

<div class="frontcover">
<img id="frontcover" src="images/i_cover.jpg"
  alt="[Front cover: The Last Chance—Rolf Boldrewood]" />
</div>

<div class="halftitle">
<a name="png.001" id="png.001" href="#png.001"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>i<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>


<p><big>THE LAST CHANCE</big></p>

<p>A TALE OF THE GOLDEN WEST</p>

</div>

<div class="colophon">
<a name="png.002" id="png.002" href="#png.002"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>ii<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a><img id="macmillan" src="images/macmillan.jpg"
   alt="[Publisher’s Device: MM &amp; Co]" />
</div>


<div class="titlepage">
<h1 title="The Last Chance"><a name="png.003" id="png.003" href="#png.003"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>iii<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a><big>THE LAST CHANCE</big><br
 /><small><small>A Tale of the Golden West</small></small></h1>

<p class="author"><small>BY</small><br
 /><big>ROLF BOLDREWOOD</big><br
 /><small class="allsc"><small class="tight">AUTHOR OF<br
 />‘ROBBERY UNDER ARMS,’ ‘THE MINER’S RIGHT,’ ‘THE SQUATTER’S DREAM.’<br
 />‘A COLONIAL REFORMER,’ ETC.</small></small></p>

<p class="publ"><span class="oldenglish">London</span><br
  />MACMILLAN AND CO., <span class="smc">Limited</span><br
  /><small><small class="allsc">NEW YORK : THE MACMILLAN COMPANY</small></small><br
  /><span class="oldstyle">1905</span></p>

<p><small><small><i>All rights reserved</i></small></small></p>
</div>


<div class="copyrt">
<p><a name="png.004" id="png.004" href="#png.004"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>iv<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a><small><small><i>Copyright in the United States of America.</i></small></small></p>
</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter I"><a name="png.005" id="png.005" href="#png.005"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>1<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER I</h2>


<p><span class="smc">As</span> a Commissioner of Goldfields, and Police
Magistrate, in New South Wales, it is hardly
necessary to say that Arnold Banneret’s pay was
not conspicuously in advance of the necessaries of
life. Necessaries which may be thus catalogued:
a couple of decent ride-and-drive horses, a light,
much-enduring buggy, clothes and books, boots
and shoes, bread and butter, for half-a-dozen
growing boys and girls—with an occasional
trip to the seaside, and a regularly recurring
doctor’s bill; while the Rev. Mr. Wilson’s
quarterly accounts for the eldest boy’s board and
tuition had also a knack of turning up inconveniently
soon, as it appeared to paterfamilias,
after his departure to school.</p>

<p>He was leaning against the corner of the police
barrack, having just returned from a long official
ride with Inspector Falcon, revolving the question
of ways and means, or else the conflicting evidence
in a knotty, complicated mining case, upon which
he had reserved his decision. He had invested all
the money he could spare (this was before the
<a name="png.006" id="png.006" href="#png.006"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>2<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>latest mining Act) in a promising claim, which
had turned out worthless. His tradespeople,
usually forbearing, had suddenly disclosed monetary
pressure—requiring to be relieved by cash payment.
Altogether, the outlook was overclouded—there
was even a presage of storm and
stress.</p>

<p>The Inspector had departed to dress for dinner,
invited thereto by a wandering globe-trotter,
known to his family in England. The Commissioner’s
clerk, newly married, had gone home
to his wife the moment the clock struck four—indeed,
a few minutes earlier.</p>

<p>It was growing late; the minor officials had
retired to their several quarters. His horse was
finishing the corn which had been graciously
ordered for him by the Inspector, and, strange to
say, though in the centre of a populous goldfield,
a feeling of loneliness and silence, almost oppressive,
commenced to manifest itself.</p>

<p>He was about to bridle his horse, and depart for
his home, a few miles distant from the goldfields
‘township’ of Barrawong, where ten thousand
miners with their families, tradespeople, officials,
and camp-followers generally, had made provisional
homes, when his eye was attracted by a man at some
distance, walking slowly towards him. A footsore
tramp, evidently—‘remote, unfriended, melancholy,
slow.’ As he approached, Banneret’s experienced
eye told him that the man before him had been ill—probably
short of food—had broken down on
the road, and was now straining every nerve to get
to town, probably to be admitted into the Public
<a name="png.007" id="png.007" href="#png.007"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>3<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Hospital, so often a haven of rest and refreshment
to the invalid wayfarer. When the ‘traveller,’
as a nomadic labourer is termed in Australia, came
up to the barrack, the Commissioner was shocked
at his emaciated appearance and deathlike pallor.
His hollow cheeks and bloodshot eyes proclaimed
a struggle with weakness, dangerously protracted.
His patched and threadbare garments told a tale
of want and absolute poverty, rare in this land of
careless plenty and comparative extravagance. It
appeared as if the succour might even now come
too late, as to sailors stricken with that mysterious
malady of the sea, which decimates long-exiled
crews, landing them only to die, with the scent in
their nostrils of the freshly turned loam. As he
came within a few paces of the Commissioner, he
staggered and almost fell. That official sprang
forward and caught him by the arm. ‘Why,
Jack Waters!’ he said—‘I should hardly have
known you. What have you been doing to yourself?’</p>

<p>‘It’s what’s left of me,’ said the exhausted
man, hardly able to speak, it would seem, and
trying as he did so to manage a sickly smile—a
most melancholy attempt. ‘Where I’ve been
and what I’ve gone through’s a long story;
you might be in it towards the end, so we’d
better come into the “Reefer’s Arms” (old Bill
Barker’s alive yet, I suppose) and talk it over a
bit. You know me, Mr. Banneret, this years
and years, and you always found me straight,
didn’t you?’</p>

<p>‘Certainly I have; I never thought anything
<a name="png.008" id="png.008" href="#png.008"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>4<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>to the contrary. But what’s this great affair you
want me to hear about? Won’t it do to-morrow?
Stay at Barker’s to-night; I’ll shout your night’s
lodging, you know.’</p>

<p>‘To-morrow mightn’t do, sir; and if you’ll
take a fool’s advice, you’ll get his back room to
sit in, where we can yarn without people hearin’ all
we say, and do a bit o’ business, comfortable like.
And it <em>is</em> business, my word! You don’t hear the
like every day.’</p>

<p>The Commissioner, as became his office, was
not in the habit of hobnobbing with miners promiscuously.
He was reserved of manner, more
affable indeed to the ordinary miners than to his
equals, whom he treated with scant courtesy—particularly
if his temper was ruffled.</p>

<p>But this man was an exceptional inhabitant of
the gold region. Having known him for many
years, he was in a position to prove against all
comers that he was one of the most energetic,
honest, capable workers that he had ever known
upon this or other goldfields.</p>

<p>When about to be sold up, through no fault
of his own, having gone security for a friend,
the Commissioner came forward and provided
a guarantee. This prevented the forced sale,
after which Jack had a stroke of luck, and repaid
every farthing. Since this occurrence he had
been what the Commissioner called ‘ridiculously
grateful.’</p>

<p>Departing from his ordinary custom, and walking
into the ‘Reefer’s Arms,’ he asked the landlord,
a burly ex-miner, popularly known as Bill the
<a name="png.009" id="png.009" href="#png.009"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>5<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Puddler, ‘if there was any one in the inner
parlour?’</p>

<p>‘The shareholders in the “Blue Lookout”
had it all the morning—a-settling after their last
wash-up—but they’ve just cleared, and you can
set there, quiet and comfortable, Commissioner.
<em>Why</em>, what’s the matter with <em>you</em>, Jack?’ he continued,
looking with sudden interest at the worn
limbs and sunken features of the digger.</p>

<p>‘Had the fever at Ding Dong. Want the
Commissioner to get me into the hospital—going
to make my will first. Send us in a bottle o’
beer, and a bite o’ bread and cheese, and don’t
yabber.’</p>

<p>As he spoke, the exhausted man reeled rather
than walked along the passage leading to an inner
apartment, and opening the door with a show of
familiarity, threw himself upon the well-worn sofa,
which, with a few chairs of various patterns, and a
serviceable table, made up the furniture of the
room. Then he closed his eyes as if about to
faint.</p>

<p>Mr. Banneret walked quickly towards him, but
he put up his hand warningly, and murmured, ‘All
right directly. Wake up when Bill’s a-coming;
that’s what’s the matter.’</p>

<p>Although the wayfarer closed his eyes and lay
as if insensible, he raised himself when the host
appeared a few minutes later, and assumed an air
of comparative alertness.</p>

<p>That it was a miserable assumption Mr. Barker
appeared to divine, as he drew the cork, and poured
out two glasses of the bitter beer, departing without
<a name="png.010" id="png.010" href="#png.010"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>6<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>further comment, and casting as he went a searching
glance at the miner who was so ‘infernally
down on his luck,’ as he would have phrased it.
His footsteps had no sooner ceased to be audible,
after reaching the end of the corridor, than the
miner drained his glass, with a sigh of deepest
satisfaction, saying, ‘Here’s luck this time.
Would you mind lockin’ the door careful, sir?
It’ll save my bones a bit, and they won’t stand
much. You’ll see my dart directly.’</p>

<p>This precaution being duly carried out, he proceeded
to unbutton a tattered woollen shirt. Below
this was another in rather more careful preservation.
Placing his hand in the region of his belt he
produced a long canvas package, which had been
secured to it, and which fitted closely round his
body above the hips.</p>

<p>‘Blest if I didn’t think it was goin’ to cut me
in two this last week,’ he said, throwing it on the
table; ‘it rubbed me awful, and I dursn’t take it off
and give any one a show to collar it. There was
rough coves where it come from, you bet, as would
have had a man’s life for half the stuff that’s there.
Please to open it, sir. Take your knife to the
stitchin’; it ain’t been touched since I put it
in.’</p>

<p>The end being ripped open, and part of the
side of the twine-stitched casing, the quartz
specimens thus released rolled out on the table.
They were rich indeed—almost fabulously so.</p>

<p>The Commissioner’s experienced eye gleamed,
and even the sunken orbs of the miner showed a
fresh, though faint glimmer, as the pale stones
<a name="png.011" id="png.011" href="#png.011"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>7<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>‘strung together with gold,’ in miner’s parlance,
lay heaped together.</p>

<p>‘And do you mean to say, with five hundred
pounds worth of specimens and nuggets in your
pocket’—here he took up a small lump of pure
gold—‘a five-ounce bit, if it’s anything—you
nearly starved yourself to death—nearly died on
the road? Hang it, man! you’ve run it too fine
altogether.’</p>

<p>‘Couldn’t help it, Commissioner. What was
I to do? You know what a new rush is like.
Wouldn’t they have tracked me up, and pegged
over the ground, if they’d known I’d gold about
me? I’d have lost my year’s work—hard work,
and lonely—starving myself all the while; perhaps
had a crack on the head as well. And then where’d
we been? For I’m going to give you a half share,
Commissioner, if you’ll see me through, so’s I can
go back, and take up the lease proper and shipshape.
I hadn’t a shillin’ when I come away from
the find, nor an ounce of flour, nor a bit of sugar;
meat I hadn’t seen for a month; I was afraid to
go for it. So I gammoned sick when I come in.
It didn’t take any painting to do that. Said I’d
been doin’ a “perish” in the ranges (wrong direction,
of course), and was all broke up. Begged
most of the way back—many a long mile, too—and
here I am!’</p>

<p>‘Take another glass of beer,’ said the Commissioner,
‘and finish the bread and cheese. I’m
going to dine. And now what do you want me
to do?’</p>

<p>‘You’ll find me five hundred pound,
<a name="png.012" id="png.012" href="#png.012"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>8<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Commissioner; less won’t do. It’s a long way to travel,
but that says nothin’. That’ll about fix up the
lease deposits—the rations, cart and horses—and
what’s wanted for me and a mate. That’s all I’ll
take <em>if</em> I can get a good one that can work and
hold his tongue. I’ll transfer half my share in the
lease to you, and a better day’s work you never
done in your life. You see this—it’s nothing to
what’s below. I covered the reef up. Sixteen
foot wide, good walls, thick with gold, reg’lar
jeweller’s shop.’</p>

<p>‘Well, of course, you know, I’ve heard all this
before. Heard it all, and more too. Seen specimens
as good as these, and better; and what did
it all come to? Duffered out inside of three
months, and never paid for candles.’</p>

<p>‘I’ve been diggin’ nigh hard thirty year—been
a “forty-niner,” and so help me, God Almighty!
I never dropped across a show like this afore—or
within miles of it—for the real, solid stuff.’</p>

<p>‘Well, but five hundred pounds is a large sum.
I’m not a rich man, you all know. It gives me
enough to do to pay the butcher and baker. I
should have to give security over everything I
possess to raise it. Mr. Bright, the banker, would
not advance it without security, to save my life,
I had almost said. He dared not do it, for one
thing.’</p>

<p>‘Now, look here, Commissioner! did you ever
know me tell a lie? I drink a bit, sometimes,
but’—and here the wasted form was straightened
with an effort, and the hollow eyes gazed into the
magistrate’s face with an intensity almost appalling—‘no
<a name="png.013" id="png.013" href="#png.013"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>9<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>living man can say that Jack Waters told a
lie, or hid the truth. When I say I <em>saw</em> and
<em>touched</em>, by the Lord Almighty! what ’ud make
you and me, and a dozen more, rich for life, won’t
you believe me?’ and here, as if exhausted by the
temporary excitement, the old man sank upon his
knees, and raising his hands, as if in prayer, cried
aloud, ‘For God’s sake, Commissioner! for the
sake of your wife and children, go into this thing
with me, or you’ll repent it to the last day of
your life.’</p>

<p>Arnold Banneret gazed at the kneeling figure,
stood for one minute in earnest thought, and
then said: ‘All right, I’ll risk it. We’d better
call it “The Last Chance,” for if it fails, I’m a
ruined man.’</p>

<p>‘You’ll never be ruined this side of the grave,
sir,’ said the miner, as he slowly rose to his feet.
‘If you mortgage the shirt on your back, and the
shoes off your feet, it’s the best day’s work you
ever did. I’ve seen a man write a cheque for a
half share in the No. 1 British Hill, as was offered
him on the ground floor. He jibbed on it, and
tore up the cheque. He knows <em>now</em> that he tore
up a fortune that day. But you’ll be right, Commissioner.
There’s no go-back in you, I know
from old times.’</p>

<p>‘True enough, Jack; I don’t change my line.
Well, we must get to business. I’ll have an
agreement drawn up, in case of accidents, as well
as a transfer of the half share in the claim—I’ll
find the five hundred pounds. By the bye, there’s
another thing—how about the grog?’</p>

<p><a name="png.014" id="png.014" href="#png.014"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>10<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘From the day I leave here, sir, I don’t touch
a drop, if it was to save my life, till the first
crushing’s out. Then you’ll have enough to pay
managers and wages men, enough to run a town—you
can do without poor old Jack Waters, even
if he does break out, and something tells me he
won’t—till the biggest part of the thing’s through.
What’s more, I’ll make my will, and leave you the
whole boiling, so if anything should happen to me,
you’ll have the lot.’</p>

<p>‘That’s unnecessary. I couldn’t take your
share, in any case, on any account. Your relations
ought to come first, you know.’</p>

<p>‘Relations?’ echoed the old man, with a
strange laugh. ‘When I ran away from home in
Cornwall, I had only two people as cared to own
me—my poor mother, the fellow that married her,
and killed her with ill usage. She’s dead years
ago, and he’s in—well, I won’t say where—he
might have repented, you know. There’s no
living soul claimed kin with me when I was poor,
and I’m not going to give ’em a chance when I’m
rich. No, you shall have the lot, to do what you
like with, when poor old Jack takes up his last
claim in the alluvial. And now I’ll have a bath,
a square meal, and a good sleep till to-morrow,
while you take charge of these specimens, and
work the Bank business—Mr. Bright is a good
sort, and he’ll spring a bit if he sees his way.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The Commissioner proceeded to his office,
where he carefully locked up the precious stones—precious
in every sense of the word—in the
<a name="png.015" id="png.015" href="#png.015"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>11<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Government safe. He made a second inspection,
after which his brow cleared, and the usual confident
expression returned to his features. Before
leaving for his home he had a private interview
with his banker, who was fully acquainted with
his pecuniary position.</p>

<p>‘How do, Banneret? pleased to see you; your
quarter’s pay has just come in. That’s all right
as far as it goes—so you want five hundred pounds
for a mining venture? Rather a speculation, of
course. But we’re all in that line here, worse
luck. I dropped a hundred over that rascally
“Blue Lookout”—blue enough it turned out—and
there’s “Flash in the Pan” that I nearly
bought into, paying a whacking dividend, and
getting better as it goes down. You’ll give
security, of course? What is it?’</p>

<p>‘Every mortal thing I’ve got—cows and horses,
buggy and harness, furniture, saddles and bridles.
Everything but the wife and children. You may
put the whole lot into a Bill of Sale, and sell me up
if the thing goes wrong.’</p>

<p>‘Hum! ha! We’ll see about that. But of
course the directors look at the security, and slang
me if I give you an over-draft without it. I’ll
have it ready to-morrow. The show’s extra good,
I suppose?’</p>

<p>‘Out and out; never saw anything like it.’</p>

<p>‘Yes—of course, I know, and as safe as houses.
They all are. Well, good-bye; I wish you luck.
You won’t stay and dine with me?’</p>

<p>‘Thanks very much. I must go home’; and
they parted—the banker to dine at the hotel
<a name="png.016" id="png.016" href="#png.016"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>12<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>ordinary, and forget his business worries over a
game of billiards afterwards; the Commissioner to
ride home in the dark, revolving in his mind the
pros and cons of the most risky speculation in
which he had embarked for a while—after indeed
resolving that <em>never again</em> would he risk a penny
in those infernal gambling, deceitful, fascinating
gold shares which, like the Sirens of old, lured the
unwary to destruction, sooner or later.</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter II"><a name="png.017" id="png.017" href="#png.017"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>13<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER II</h2>


<p>‘<span class="smc">What’s</span> been bothering you, my dear?’ queried
the partner of his joys and sorrows—of which,
indeed, she had borne more than her share during
the latter years of their married life. ‘Those
Antimony Lead people been having a deputation
again? Or the “Western Watchdog” been
barking at you? Never mind them, now. Come
and look at Baby—she’s fast asleep, and looks so
sweet and good—you can tackle those dreadful
people after breakfast to-morrow—the proper
time, as you always say.’</p>

<p>‘The Antimony Lead has relieved me, by
“duffering out,” at No. 14—“No gold, no litigation,”
is a safe rule in mining—and the
“Watchdog’s” bark is stilled for a time. But
you are right. I have something on my mind,
connected with mining’—and here he seated
himself in an arm-chair, and with his wife’s hand
in his, opened his heart, by a full disclosure of
facts, to that faithful helpmate and capable
adviser.</p>

<p>Mrs. Banneret was a woman of exceptional
courage, and capacity in business matters—such
as few men are privileged to win and wear in
<a name="png.018" id="png.018" href="#png.018"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>14<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the alliance matrimonial. Without binding himself
to be guided by her advice in the battles
of life, her husband made a point of hearing her
views—if time permitted—before engaging in
action. Cool, sensible, and, withal, courageous
to dare, as well as to suffer, his plans were
often modified, if not changed, after hearing her
opinion.</p>

<p>In this particular skirmish with fortune, he
had, however, been compelled to act promptly on
his own responsibility. He knew mines and
miners,—that strange earth table, where lay such
wondrous prizes; the game on which the cards
meant want or wealth, and of which the counters
were men’s lives. The opportunity—one of those
which come rarely, if more than once in life—was
too precious to let slip. Weak and low, after his
hardships—if he had refused to accede to the old
man’s proposals—he might, in despair, have
adopted the fatal remedy, lost his gold, or transferred
the greater part of his interest to one of
the astute speculators always so numerous upon
goldfields.</p>

<p>He had made the plunge. He had put fame
and fortune on the cards—more or less—and must
stand the hazard of the dip. Not, of course, that
an officer of his character and experience would
have lost his position by being sold up, and
rendered temporarily homeless, as long as nothing
worse could be laid to his charge than imprudence
in speculation.</p>

<p>There were very few residents in any class,
caste, or occupation in Barrawong who had not
<a name="png.019" id="png.019" href="#png.019"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>15<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>had a throw for a prize in the game of ‘golden
hazard.’ But none the less, if it came out a
blank, it would involve serious loss, bitter mortification,
and more or less privation to be shared
by every member of the household.</p>

<p>Mrs. Banneret listened gravely to the narrative,
after the first few sentences, which contained the
key to the situation. She said nothing until the
story was ended, and then proceeded to a cross-examination
very much to the point, as her
husband had had previous occasion to note. She
commenced cheerfully. So does the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">rusé</i> barrister,
affecting an air of light raillery, as he reassures
the witness, out of whose heart he resolves to
tear the truth before he has done—regardless of
laceration, how cruel soever, to that organ, in
the process.</p>

<p>But this advocate had no such feeling. She
was not an advanced woman. Gifted with intelligence
sufficiently clear to perceive the differing
treatment of the sexes at the hands of society, she
was yet fixed in the opinion that, by marriage
and motherhood, a woman’s individuality has
deeply, irrevocably merged in the welfare of the
household. Thenceforth, her sphere was circumscribed.
It was her duty, her privilege, to administer
the limited monarchy of that small but
vitally important kingdom. If for insufficient
cause she wandered from it—if for vain
pleasures, or intellectual pride, she neglected her
realm—she deserved reprobation as an enemy
of the State—deserved to forfeit the crown of
her womanhood. So it was with a heart touched
<a name="png.020" id="png.020" href="#png.020"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>16<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>with wifely sympathy, as well as anxiety for
the safety of the family ark, that she began her
inquiry.</p>

<p>‘Well, my dear, you seem to have “put on
the pot,” as your friend Captain Maurice says—I
daresay you have good reason—but we must look
out to have something left <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pour tout potage</i> besides.
You put full faith in old Jack Waters; I have
heard you speak of him.’</p>

<p>‘With hardly an exception—gentle or simple—I
do not know a man whose word I would more
absolutely trust, and I have known him for ten
years or more.’</p>

<p>‘You think the specimens beyond all doubt
the richest you have ever seen? Remember those
in the “Coming Event.”’</p>

<p>‘Yes, they were good—though nothing to these.
I’m almost sorry I didn’t bring them home with
me. I left them in the office safe, to be quite
sure.’</p>

<p>‘You are to have a half share also, and the old
man wills the whole to you, in case of accidents?
That looks well.’</p>

<p>‘I’m sure if you saw him, and them, you would
think more of the affair.’</p>

<p>‘Very likely—(thoughtfully). Now, suppose
you drive in to-morrow, instead of riding, and
take me to lunch with Mrs. Herbert? I can see
old Waters and drop into the Bank besides. Then
I’ll say what I propose. I’d like to think it over—and
now, it’s nearly bedtime—I suppose you
want to smoke?’</p>

<p>Mr. Banneret was a reasonable, though not an
<a name="png.021" id="png.021" href="#png.021"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>17<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>inveterate smoker. He told himself that if ever a
man needed the great sedative and composer of
thought, this was one of the periods specially
suggested by Fate. So he sat for nearly an hour
before the fire in the dining-room, and meditatively
smoked a couple of pipes of ‘rough cut,’ after
which, his habitation being within a few miles of
a populous goldfield, and not in a highly civilised
and police-guarded city, he went to bed without
locking a door or securing a window.</p>

<p>‘They know there’s nothing worth taking in
the house of a Police Magistrate—why should
they run the risk of a bullet or a gaol?’ he
was wont to reply, when taxed by his wife with
leaving the front door or the dining-room window
open; and as no one ever essayed to break
through and steal during their ten years’ sojourn
in Barrawong, his argument apparently had force.</p>

<p>Since dawn he had been in Court or office for
eight or nine hours—had ridden ten miles and
walked five, so that when eleven o’clock came, he
had done a fair day’s work. As a consequence,
he slept soundly until cockcrow, when he arose
with a clear head and renewed faculties, ready for
whatever duties might be cast upon him.</p>

<p>The family breakfast concluded, the boys had
been despatched to school, the girls to the daily
ministrations of the governess, and the infantry
division duly provided for, when Mr. and Mrs. Banneret departed for Barrawong, in the buggy of
the period, behind a pair of extremely useful nags,
moderate as to condition, to which the grass of
the field had chiefly contributed, but exceptional
<a name="png.022" id="png.022" href="#png.022"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>18<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>as to pace and courage. They were equally good
in single or double harness, in saddle also, the
near-side horse carrying Mrs. Banneret, who was a
daring rider, with ease and distinction, while no
pair within a hundred miles could, as to road
action, ‘see the way they went.’ So the groom
phrased it. They were, in fact, the Commissioner’s
chief treasures and possessions. It was
idle to lock up the house while these invaluable
animals were left in an open paddock. Years
since, when robbed by bushrangers, he had
shivered in his shoes, <em>not</em> from personal apprehension,
but for fear that the marauders should
take a fancy to Hector, or Paris, and felt quite
grateful when they only relieved him of a couple of
gold watches, which he happened to have about
him.</p>

<p>When, therefore, as the clock struck nine,
Mr. and Mrs. Banneret rattled out of the front
gate, at the rate of twelve miles an hour, old
Hector holding up his head, and sending out his
forelegs, as if he wanted to do the two hundred
miles to the metropolis in forty-eight hours—the
spirits of the ‘leading lady’ and the hero, in what
might be a successful melodrama or a tragedy, as
the Fates should decree, visibly rose.</p>

<p>‘Feels like old times, doesn’t it? This turnout
was new when we were married. How we
used to rattle about! Now we’re a dozen years
older, and still “going strong,” thank God!
Steady, Hector! what an old Turk you are to
pull!’</p>

<p>‘Yes, my dear,’ said the lady, looking softly in
<a name="png.023" id="png.023" href="#png.023"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>19<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>his face, with an added lustre in her dark eyes—‘we
have not done so badly, considering we lost
every penny in the world not long after that
interesting event. We have known hard times,
but as long as you and the children are well, and
we can give them a decent education, I care for
nothing. But we are going to risk nearly everything
<em>again</em>, it seems to me—poor Hector and
Paris too! It’s a plunge, isn’t it?’</p>

<p>‘Oh, I can get a friend to buy them in, and we
must live on bread and cheese, till times improve,
if the shot misses. But you come in, and see
Waters and his quartz before you form an opinion.
Then we’ll talk it out.’</p>

<p>It was a quarter to ten o’clock when they
entered the yard of the inn, where the horses and
trap were put up. Throwing the reins to the
groom, and telling him to give the horses no water
for half an hour, Mr. Banneret and his wife
entered the hotel—in the parlour of which, reading
the <cite>Western Watchman</cite>, that morning issued, sat
Jack Waters with a serene and satisfied air. Refreshed
by sleep it was wonderful what rest and
refreshment had done for him. Though painfully
emaciated, his eye was brighter, his colour improved—his
very voice altered, as he respectfully saluted
Mrs. Banneret.</p>

<p>‘I’m afraid you’ve had a hard time of it, Jack,
since you left last year?’ she said; ‘you’re
terribly fallen away, I can see.’</p>

<p>‘It was “a close call,” as the Yankee diggers
say, ma’am! I thought I was goin’ under, many
a mile from here—but I never gave in, and what
<a name="png.024" id="png.024" href="#png.024"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>20<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>with the water getting better, and the weather
cooler, I pulled through. Yes, Mrs. Banneret!
and it was a good day for you and the children,
and the Commissioner here, as I did. If poor old
Jack had dropped, in that fifty-mile dry stage—I
won’t say where—it mightn’t have mattered much
to him. It was all in the day’s work—one more
fool of a digger rubbed out. But to <em>you</em>, ma’am,
that has always had a kind word and a bit of help
for every one, and your boys and girls that’s been
brought up to do the same—it <em>will</em> matter to the
last day of your lives. You believe me, it’s God’s
truth, as I’m a living man this day.’</p>

<p>And here the miner stood up and gazed with a
far-off, dreamy look, as if beyond the place in
which he stood—beyond other lands and seas—as
he named a desert region as yet scarce heard of,
from which even the reckless prospector often
turned away, the haunt of the thirst demon and the
fever fiend.</p>

<p>‘Westhampton!’ said the pair simultaneously.
‘Why, you don’t mean to say you’ve been <em>there</em>!
Whatever made you think of it? Why, it’s
thousands of miles from here.’</p>

<p>‘I <em>was</em> there, anyhow—and now I’m back here.
There was a voyage to take—I had money enough
for that, and I saved as much as would take me
back. I had to walk over a hundred mile to get
there, and double as much to come back. What I
went through, no one will ever know. But I got
back to the ship. Then I started to walk from
the coast, and here I am; but there wasn’t much to
spare, was there, Commissioner?’</p>

<p><a name="png.025" id="png.025" href="#png.025"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>21<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘My time’s up,’ he replied, looking at his
watch. ‘Court morning, and there’s always some
one waiting to see me. I must go now, but you
tell Mrs. Banneret all about it. She’ll be in the
claim too, you know’; and the man of many
duties and responsibilities walked forth to receive
a report from the police of a mining accident,
with loss of life; to fix the date for hearing an
exhaustive action for trespass; to issue warrants—sign
summonses and Miners’ Rights; to report
upon complaints made against himself to the
Secretary for Mines; to sit in a bankruptcy meeting—as
also to act as general adviser, father confessor,
and guardian of minors in pressing cases
of the most delicate social and financial nature.</p>

<p>The lady’s colloquy with the miner was short,
but material to the issue. ‘I have come in to-day,’
she said, ‘on purpose to see you about this speculation.
Mr. Banneret believes in you, as a straight,
reliable man! So do I, from what I have seen
and heard. But this is a neck or nothing venture.
We have little to spare as it is, and if we lose this
five hundred pounds we shall be ruined—and you
know that the oldest miners are deceived sometimes.
It is a long way off, too.’</p>

<p>‘If it wasn’t a long way off, it wouldn’t be what
it is, ma’am. I’ve been mining these thirty
year, and never see a reef like it afore. Of course
it’s not too late to go back on it, though I’d rather
you had it than any one else I know—you helped
me afore, you see, when I had my tent burnt, and
I’d like to do you good.’</p>

<p>‘How did you come to know of it?’</p>

<p><a name="png.026" id="png.026" href="#png.026"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>22<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘Well, it was this way. You know, ma’am, us
diggers often write and lay one another on to
good things. An old mate of mine had been
campin’ out and prospectin’ round there, for more’n
a year, livin’ hard, eatin’ lizards, pigface, what not—nigh
perished for want of water, until he come
across this here reef. Well, he goes back to
Southern Cross, where he gets laid up with
rheumatic fever, and close up dies—ain’t right yet.
Well, he wires and lays me on, and I’m to give
him an eighth share, when it’s floated—as floated
it will be—and for a price that’ll astonish some
people. I can’t say more, ma’am, now, and every
word of it’s God’s truth.’</p>

<p>‘I think you’ve said enough,’ said the lady,
bending her gaze upon him with a searching
glance, which he returned steadfastly and half wistfully.
‘Whatever Mr. Banneret has promised, of
course he will perform. You may trust my
husband to carry it out, and I feel more satisfied
now I have heard you explain matters.’</p>

<p>‘If we can’t trust the Commissioner, ma’am,
we can’t trust nobody—that’s what all of us
miners says; there’s not a man on the field that
don’t say the same. So I’ll wish you good-bye,
ma’am, and my sarvice to you.’</p>

<p>‘Good-bye, and I hope it will bring good
fortune to all of us.’</p>

<p>That afternoon, about half-past four o’clock, the
Commissioner closed his office earlier than usual.
As they were speeding along the homeward road,
winding between yawning shafts and over the
insecure bridges spanning the water-races, which
<a name="png.027" id="png.027" href="#png.027"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>23<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>gurgled and bubbled beneath the horses’ feet,
Mrs. Banneret thus addressed her husband:</p>

<p>‘Had a good day, my dear?’</p>

<p>‘Very fair, all things considered. Long Small
Debts Court. Big police case. Inquest on poor
fellow killed in Happy Valley. Deputation from
the “Great Intended”—want the base line swung.
Report urgently required in the last jumping case.
Got through them all except the last—they can
wait a week. I must go on the ground.’</p>

<p>‘Not a bad day’s work either, for an overpaid,
under-worked Civil servant, as the Radical papers
call you; and now I’ll bring in <em>my</em> report, which
is urgent—immediate, and can’t “wait a week,”
whatever else can.’</p>

<p>‘Go ahead, my dear!’ said her husband, lighting
his pipe, and steadying the impatient horses to a
ten-mile trot. ‘I’m all attention.’</p>

<p>‘In the first place, I had a short talk with old
Waters which impressed me. He thoroughly believes
in the find, and I believe in <em>him</em>. So do you.
If his tale is true, our fortune is made; and though
the risk is great, the speculation is no more
imprudent than some we know of that ended
triumphantly.’</p>

<p>‘Of course, there was Lindsay, district Surveyor,
just as hard worked and no better paid than I am,
took early shares in Rocky Hill, went home with
£200,000 or more! Desmond went in with the
“first robbers” in Valley Gorge—came out with
over £100,000. Very cautious men both of
them, too. Nearly not going in. Higgleson
declined—swears now, when he thinks of it.’</p>

<p><a name="png.028" id="png.028" href="#png.028"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>24<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘Well, my dear, these are truths—stranger than
fiction, as the eminent person says. Shows that
all mining ventures are not swindles; and now for
my proposal. You haven’t had leave of absence
lately?’</p>

<p>‘Not for four years. Leave obtainable, but no
visible means, if I had gone.’</p>

<p>‘Quite so—couldn’t be better put. But now
the case is different. You have the five hundred
pounds to come and go on—Oh! I may say here
that I called at the Bank and asked Mr. Bright to
show me the specimens. They made my mouth
water. What necklaces and rings—pearls and
diamonds I saw in the future—<em>if</em> the reef “went
down,” as old Waters said. How the shares would
go up! That wasn’t the only thing I saw. I saw
schools and colleges—travel, society for the
children, a house in town—a carriage (which my
soul loveth),—all these I saw in those pretty white
and fawn-coloured stones with their threads and
veins of gold—pure gold running through and
through them. Mr. Bright thinks well of the
affair too, I can see.’</p>

<p>‘Yes, he does—and he ought to be a judge.
How many a ton of that same quartz, more or
less auriferous, has he handled in his time! Many
a pound has he lost over it too.’</p>

<p>‘Well, we can’t all win, of course; but I’m
with you in this, my dear, heart and soul—and
if it breaks down, and we have to live on dry
bread for a couple of years, you shall never hear a
whimper from me.’</p>

<p>‘I know that, my dear. Pluck enough for
<a name="png.029" id="png.029" href="#png.029"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>25<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>half-a-dozen men—let alone women. What about
this leave? Do you mean——?’</p>

<p>‘Of course I do; apply <em>at once</em> for three
months’ leave. Pressure of work, and so on.
I’ve noticed you <em>do</em> look rather fagged now and
then—though I never said so. Urgent private
affairs also. Then <em>go with him</em>. You’ll have the
spending of the cash. He can’t object to that.
I’m surprised you didn’t see it yourself. He
might drink, or be drugged, and lose it all.
Where should we be then? Depend upon it,
that’s the thing to do. It makes all safe, once for
all.’</p>

<p>‘I see your point. I might have thought of it,
as you say; but they’ll have to send a man in my
place. Every one wouldn’t do. However, there’s
sure to be some goldfields official knocking about
who’d like the change. In for a penny, etc. I’ll
write to-night. But how will <em>you</em> get on?’</p>

<p>‘Have your pay put into my private account
while you’re away. I’ll manage somehow. The
five hundred pounds ought to frank you there,
and do all the taking up and so on—with care.’</p>

<p>‘Yes, and careful enough we shall have to be;
there’ll be no more when that’s gone. It’s the
“last chance” in every sense of the word.’</p>

<p>‘I shall be lonely enough while you’re away, my
dear; but we have had to do without each other
before—and must again. You’ll write regularly—a
letter will always cheer me up. I shan’t suffer
for want of employment, that’s one thing.’</p>

<p>The Commissioner got his leave of absence on
the ground of ‘urgent private affairs’—which was
<a name="png.030" id="png.030" href="#png.030"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>26<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>only just, as he had been hard at it for several
years, without change or respite, in one of the most
difficult, anxious, wearing occupations in the Civil
Service: that of Warden, and Police Magistrate,
on a large alluvial goldfield. To rule over an
excitable population, varying from ten to twenty
thousand; to hear and decide the interminable
mining lawsuits arising from the production of
tons of gold—literally <em>tons</em>, won, held, and distributed
under a code of mining laws, of a
sufficiently complicated nature, and appearing to
the unlearned a mass of confused, contradictory
regulations, was no sinecure. The amounts, too, in
question were often incredibly large, so that a mistake
in law, or an error in judgment, magnified by
the local press, assumed gigantic proportions in the
eye of the public. In the police department of
jurisdiction, murders and robberies, though not
alarmingly frequent, were occasionally matters of
by no means a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">quantité négligeable</i>. Excitable
public meetings were common, and, as an outlet
for smouldering popular feeling, answered a good
purpose.</p>

<p>But, on the whole, Barrawong was an appointment
which a gentleman with prejudices in favour
of a quiet life would have found singularly
unsuitable.</p>

<p>As for Jack, he fell in with the proposition
warmly and loyally from its first mention. Distrustful,
from past experience, of his will-power
in the way of resistance in the grip of terrible
drink temptation, to which, in the past, he had
succumbed full many a time and oft, he was not
<a name="png.031" id="png.031" href="#png.031"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>27<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>sorry to have the custody of the joint capital
placed in safe hands. And yet nothing is a more
astonishing psychical phenomenon than the unbroken
abstention from alcohol which the intermittent
drunkard will and can practise. Having
so resolved, the whilom victim will sit with
roystering comrades, whose full glasses pass before
his face—lodge in hotels, where he sees (and
smells) the soul-destroying liquid from morning
to night, and under the fire of this temptation—over
the grave of so many broken vows and
tearful resolutions—he will remain as unshaken as
a teetotaller in a coffee-house.</p>

<p>What a miracle it seems! What a superhuman
effort must the first days of sobriety
require! How does it put to shame the better
born, the better instructed, whose every-day
resolutions they are often so powerless to abide
by!</p>

<p>But it is a time-bargain with the fiend, alas!
in so many—in by far the majority of instances.
In ‘an hour that he knoweth not,’ the Enemy of
man asserts his power, and the victim falls—to be
cast into the outer darkness of despair—of hopeless
surrender—to a ruined life, an unhonoured death.</p>

<p>A fortnight’s rest and good living set up the
returned prospector to such an extent that his
former comrades hardly recognised him in the neatly
dressed, alert personage, who gave out that he was
open to invest in a ‘show,’ but wasn’t up to any
more prospecting for a while. ‘Not good enough,’
and so on. Thought he’d take a trip to Melbourne
to see a friend. This resolve he carried out rather
<a name="png.032" id="png.032" href="#png.032"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>28<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>suddenly, it having been so arranged, the partners
not holding it expedient that they should leave in
company, or that it should be matter for general
information that they were bound upon a joint
mining speculation. As to the tempting local
ventures, then common among all classes on a
large goldfield, Mr. Banneret had always studiously
abstained from the slightest connection with them.</p>

<p>‘No!’ was his uniform answer to applications
of a persuasive nature—‘I am here to decide upon
questions of immense importance to these people
over whom I am placed as a judge and a ruler.
To inspire confidence in the impartiality of my
decisions, I cannot be financially associated with
any mining property on <em>this</em> goldfield. Say that
my partner, or partners, do not come before me in
any judicial matter. Such are the ramifications of
mining association, that the partners, and friends
of <em>their</em> partners, are certain at some time or other
to be suitors in my Court. I should not then
stand in the same relation to them as to perfectly
unknown or detached parties to a suit. Thus I
fully resolved, from my first acceptance of this
office, to hold myself free from the slightest
ground of suspicion.’</p>

<p>‘As for this affair,’ he told his wife, talking
over the matter before his departure, ‘it is entirely
different; the locality is in another colony, under
different laws and another government. If it
comes off, I shall be indifferent to all mining law,
except as it affects our particular lease—which I
shall take up directly I get there.’</p>

<p><a name="png.033" id="png.033" href="#png.033"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>29<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>The last farewell was said, the last embrace
given. With a brave and tearless face, but an
aching heart, the loyal wife bade adieu to the one
man that the world held for her—stood looking
after the fast-receding vehicle which was to meet
the coach at the country town—waving her
handkerchief till the turning-point of the road
was reached, then, with falling tears, walked slowly
back to the cottage, and busied herself with the
never-ending needlework—over which the tears
flowed so fast at times that a pause in the stitching
was necessary. In her chamber she poured out her
heart in fervent supplication, that he whom she
loved and trusted above all other created beings
might return to her, safe as to health and successful
in his enterprise, if so God willed, but if otherwise,
in His good Providence, let him only be spared
to return in health to glad his wife’s and children’s
eyes, and her soul would be satisfied—‘Thy will,
not mine be done, O Lord!’ were the closing
words of the heartfelt, simple petition. Rising
with an expression of renewed confidence and
trusting faith, she smoothed her hair, bathed her
face, and with a composed and steadfast countenance
betook herself to the ever-recurring duties of the
household.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The wrench of parting with wife and children
was over. Mr. Banneret, like most strong men of
an observant turn of mind, enjoyed change. A
born traveller, he was equally at home on sea and
land, hill or dale, plain or forest—hot or cold, wet
or dry—it made no difference to him. There
<a name="png.034" id="png.034" href="#png.034"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>30<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>was always some one, or something, to see and
be interested in. His was a chiefly sympathetic
constitution of mind, which could, in all literal
truth, be described as irrepressible and universal.</p>

<p>Such being the case, he had no sooner looked
up Waters, whom he found well and hearty, at the
hostelry agreed upon, in Melbourne, and taken
passage in the first steamer bound for far Westralia,
than Hope, the day star, which had illumined so
many darksome passages of his life, arose, and amid
the twilight of the uncertain adventure, commenced
to glow with a mild but steady irradiation. The
next afternoon found them on the wave, units of
a crowd, bound for the newest Eldorado.</p>

<p>Under instructions, an agent had arranged for
the purchase of a strong, but light-running
waggonette, and three horses, together with the
ordinary necessaries for an overland journey
through new, untried country. Reduced to their
smallest weight and compass, there was still a
sufficient load for the team, probably condemned
to indifferent fare on the road. The selection had
been careful—no one is a better judge of travel
requisites than that man of many makeshifts and
dire experiences, the mining prospector. The
outfit needed but to be paid for, and shipped, and
the first act of the melodrama began.</p>

<p>Voyages are much alike. They differ occasionally
in length, safety, comfort, and convenience.
But these are details. The chief matters are
departure, and arrival in port. When the second
part of the contract is unfulfilled, the performance
borders on a tragedy. In this case the contract
<a name="png.035" id="png.035" href="#png.035"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>31<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>was carried out—after a week’s voyage, they duly
arrived at their distant stage.</p>

<p>‘So this is another colony,’ said Mr. Banneret,
looking around on the small old-fashioned town—so
long settled—so sparsely populated—so meagre
in tokens of civilisation, in contrast with the coast
cities of the East. They were not, of course, over-fastidious.
There were decent hotels—even a
Club for people with introductions. To the Commissioner
unstinted hospitality was tendered. He
considered it, however, expedient to pitch the tent
and pack their movables in the waggon: to begin
to camp in earnest, as indeed they would be compelled
to do during the remainder of the journey.
This would be the more economical method of
travelling, and the safety of their property, including
the horses, would be assured.</p>

<p>On the morrow Waters proceeded to explain
his plan of action.</p>

<p>They had, first of all, to travel for a week in a
nor’-westerly direction, at the end of which they
would reach a mining camp or township.</p>

<p>The track after that was fairly well marked;
but the feed was bad, or none at all—water scarce
and precarious. There were all sorts of disadvantages.
‘It was the worst country in Australia,’
Jack said, averring that he had seen everything
bad in his time. It would take them more than
a month, even if they had luck. They would
have to carry everything with them; even forage
for the horses. But at the end, however long and
wearisome, there was a claim—a reef, the like of
which he, John Waters, had never seen before.
<a name="png.036" id="png.036" href="#png.036"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>32<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>‘Then the sooner we’re off the better,’ said Mr. Banneret. ‘We can get everything ready to-morrow,
and make a short journey at any rate.
The great thing is the <em>start</em>. It’s mostly plain
sailing afterwards.’</p>

<p>So the next day everything was done, fitted, and
made ready for a three months’ journey, as indeed
it needed to be. Waiting and working at the
claim would not be very dissimilar from the
wayfaring—except that they would be stationary.
As for the hard work, with fare to match, Mr. Banneret had had similar experiences in his youth,
and believed that he could do what any other man
could do, of whatever age, class, or condition.</p>

<p>By this time his ‘mate’—a ‘dividing mate,’
in the eye of the law, socially and otherwise—had,
as he himself expressed it, ‘picked up surprisin’’—after
the first week or two on the road, he
would be (he stated) in hard condition again, fit
to go for a man’s life. Originally of the flawless
constitution peculiarly the heritage of the Anglo-Saxon,
and, as such, contemptuous of hardship by
land or sea, nothing but his own folly had power
to harm it. The wonderful recuperative power
common to the race had reasserted itself—conjointly
with a regular system of food and rest.
The typical miner’s boundless optimism and
sanguine expectation bore him up as upon wings—and,
as they drove along in the clear atmosphere,
under a cloudless sky, the Commissioner’s face
lost its troubled expression.</p>

<p>The ‘township,’ when they got there, was such
a one as the Commissioner had never before seen
<a name="png.037" id="png.037" href="#png.037"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>33<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>in all his varied experiences; never in his dreams
had he imagined such a mining camp. A person
of restricted imagination, or feeble sympathies,
might even have described the landscape as
‘unspeakably desolate, and ghastly.’ A certain
appearance of grass, even if trodden down, and
fed off by horses and bullocks, had always been
visible on goldfields where he had borne rule
formerly.</p>

<p>Here there was none, absolutely <em>none</em>. Dust
of a red hue, subtly pervading all nature, was the
chief elemental feature. Water was more or less
available for sluicing, puddling, cradling, or other
purposes connected with mining operations,—here
there was <em>none</em> to be seen except in the small
quantities required for partial lavation and for
engine work. This last was of course procurable,
but being generally salt or brackish, required to be
subjected to the condenser, lest damage to the
engine should ensue. In the hotels it was dearer
than wine or beer in the coast cities—was always,
indeed, <em>charged for separately</em> in the bars when
supplied with alcohol!</p>

<p>‘What a desert!’ thought the Commissioner.
‘Have we reached Arabia by any magical
process? And here come the camels proper to
the scene.’ As he spoke, a long string of those
Eastern-seeming animals came nearer, and the
Afghan drivers, turbaned and with flowing garb,
heightened the resemblance.</p>

<p>‘This is a queer shop, sir,’ said Waters, as he
observed his companion’s looks of amazement and
curiosity. ‘Barrawong wasn’t over-pleasant, as you
<a name="png.038" id="png.038" href="#png.038"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>34<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>might say, on a hot day, with the north wind
blowin’ the dust in your eyes—but it was a king to
this; and then the river—you could allers have a
swim; and nothing freshens a man up like a good
header into cool, deep water after his day’s work.’</p>

<p>‘It certainly is not a place a man would pick
to spend his honeymoon—though I suppose some
adventurous couples have done that; but, of course,
the main thing is the gold. Men didn’t come out
here to hunt for scenery, or farm-lands. Are they
on good gold? If they are, all the rest will
follow.’</p>

<p>‘Well, sir, this is the richest goldfield in
Australia, just now, and likely to be the biggest.
<em>You</em> know, if that keeps on, they’ll get everything
else they want, and more too, directly; but we
shan’t stop here long enough to think about it,
hot or cold,’ said Waters. ‘I’ll watch the horses
to-night, for there’s a lot of cross coves about,
who’d steal the teeth out of your head if you
slept sound enough. We’d better load up all we’ll
want for a month or two, and get away afore
sundown to-morrer. You might write out a list
of things we’ll want. I’ll mind the camp till you
come back.’ This being arranged, Banneret went
into town after a frugal lunch, and walked down
the main street, which, with a few others crossing
it at right angles, constituted the nucleus of the
infant city. A few large and fairly well kept
hotels, with ornamental bars and spacious billiard
and dining rooms, accommodated the floating
population, of whom the greater number took
their meals there, in preference to undergoing
<a name="png.039" id="png.039" href="#png.039"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>35<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the doubtful experiment of housekeeping. The
expense was considerable; but those who had
shares in dividend-paying mines could well afford
war prices, while to those making short visits to
this and other ‘fields’—partly on business, and
partly for curiosity—a few pounds could make but
slight difference. Of course, the township bore a
family likeness to all other mining centres,—one
long main street, with others branching off at right
angles, the frontage to which was filled with cabins,
huts, cottages, tents, of every size, shape, and colour.
The roofs were chiefly of corrugated iron, which,
unsightly as a building material, yet enabled the
possessor to collect rain-water. When the walls,
or rather sides, were not of the same material they
were of hessian—of slabs, or weatherboard. Some
indeed were of bark—the climate being consistently
hot and dry. The nights, however, were cool, as
the goldfield stood fairly high above sea-level.
When it did rain, it came down with tropical force
and volume, as was seen by the depth of the
ravines. But this state of matters occurred too
rarely to occasion serious thought. Here and
there tiny gardens, wherein grew a few carefully
tended vegetables and flowers, showed that the
soil was not wholly barren. The pepper tree
(<cite>Schinus molle</cite>), friend of the pioneer horticulturist,
had already made a lodgment, as well as the
Kurrajong or Cooramin (<cite>Sterculia</cite>), the slow growth
of which, however, few of the present population
would remain to witness.</p>

<p>All purchases made, the team fed and rested,
the loading arranged as only the experienced
<a name="png.040" id="png.040" href="#png.040"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>36<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>overlander knows how, and supper over, a start
was made by the light of a rising moon.</p>

<p>‘We take this track, sir,’ said Waters. ‘It’s the
main road to the “twenty-mile soak,” and give out
as we’re goin’ to Kurnalpi. There’s whips o’ tracks
for ten or twelve mile; and then we strike due
west. If any of ’em follers us up, we can say
we’re makin’ for Kimberley—that’ll choke ’em off,
if anything will.’</p>

<p>‘I suppose there are men on these fields that
will track up prospectors if they believe they’ve
made a find?’</p>

<p>‘In course there are, sir. Chaps as like pickin’
up the fruits of other men’s work, and ain’t game
to tackle the hardships theirselves.’</p>

<p>So the strangely constituted companions journeyed
on, by the faint wavering light of the struggling
moon, sometimes obscured, but generally
available, as the track, so far, was across open plains
or downs, sandy, gravelly, or rock-strewn by turns,
but offering no serious obstacle to the passage of
horse or man. What timber there was consisted
chiefly of scrub and brushwood, mulga or mallee.
Some of it was available for camel food; but, in a
general way, it appeared to the Commissioner as a
land accursed of God and man—unfitted for providing
sustenance for man or beast.</p>

<p>As the night dragged through, he could not
but consider the contrast between his present
position and that which he had abandoned in
order to follow what might be a delusive phantom,
a ‘Will-o’-the-wisp’—an ‘ignis fatuus,’
specially provided for leading astray wayfarers,
<a name="png.041" id="png.041" href="#png.041"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>37<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>blinded by the ‘auri sacra fames.’ Suppose he
lost his way, broke down in health or eyesight—the
most vulnerable point in the explorer’s armoury?
Waters was old, and though apparently strong,
and inured to hardship, could not go on for ever,
or if he missed his way to the Waterloo Spring?—they
were far apart and the aboriginal natives were
indifferent or hostile—in any case, averse, from
their standpoint, to point out or conduct the party
to the inestimable water-store. What might be
his fate? And what—still more harrowing
thought—the condition of his wife and family,
deprived of his protecting care, and having exhausted
his slender store of earnings—the fruit of
many an hour of toil and self-denial? He had
reached the point of almost intolerable doubt and
distress of mind when a cheery shout from his
companion, who held the reins, dislodged the
nightmare which he had conjured up.</p>

<p>‘Yes, Captain, yonder’s the Black Peak! I
was pretty near told out when I struck it, and that
done when I got there that I never expected to
see home again. I’d been walking half the night,
and all day—my water-bag was empty—I’d had
nothing to eat to speak of for a week past, just a
morsel of biscuit now and then. My boots was
wore through, my feet bleedin’, and that sore I
could hardly drag myself along. By George! if
a digger wants to have the heart of a lion, as
people say, what must a prospector? Heat and
cold, hunger and thirst—blacks to fight, off and
on—whites if he’s got a bit of gold, nigh hand as
bad, perhaps worse, as they’re more cunning.
<a name="png.042" id="png.042" href="#png.042"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>38<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>How many a heap of bones lies bleaching in the
sun, between here and Kurnalpi! Sometimes
they’re found, and there’s papers on ’em that tells
where the only son, or the favourite youngest one,
laid down to die, and never come home, all the
years they was expecting of him to open the door
of the old place and say, “Here I am, with a brown
face and a bag of nuggets”—as the story-writers
tell us. Well, well! I’m ramblin’ away, just like
a chap I <em>did</em> hear once, as I come on just in
time to give him a bite and a sup, and save his
precious life. How he was a-talkin’ and goin’
on! I heard him a matter of half a mile afore I
got to him. He talked and talked—thought he
saw his people again, and they wouldn’t let him in.
Then he’d scream and yell, and curse frightful,
and say the devil was coming for him—just for
all the world like a man with the jim-jams—the
D.T.s, or whatever doctors call it. There ain’t so
much difference between what men and women say
when once they’re off their head. We’re all queer
animals—larned or unlarned—and that’s a fact.</p>

<p>‘And now, sir, as I’ve talked enough rot for a
while, only I thought you was lookin’ rather down
on it, and it might liven you up a bit, I see we’re
on a bit of good saltbush where we can stop and
give the horses a feed. I’ll fry a bit of the mutton
for a relish, and make a pot of tea. There’s a
plenty of the damper left as I baked a while back.
We can take it easy while you have a “bange.”
I’ll watch the nags, in case any one comes along.
We can push on afterwards. Anyhow the horses
will be all the better for a spell.’</p>

<p><a name="png.043" id="png.043" href="#png.043"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>39<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>Waters bustled about, unharnessing and hobbling
the horses, which immediately began to nibble
the saline bushes that seemed to have found a
patch of congenial soil. Walking down a small
gully or shallow ravine, he was fortunate enough
to discover a tiny ‘soak’ under a rock, being
directed thereto by a brace of the beautiful bronzewing
pigeons. These birds will fly great distances
to a spring or water-hole of any sort, but
are difficult to shoot, as their habit is to drink
rapidly, and fly back to their haunts so suddenly
that it is a case of snap-shot, or too late.</p>

<p>The soak proved sufficient to give the team
a drink, and also to fill up the ten-gallon keg,
which was kept as a reserve in case of need.</p>

<p>After this halt Mr. Banneret felt easier in his
mind, and more sanguine as to the results of the
expedition.</p>

<p>The sky was cloudless, of course. The desert
sun had shone its fiercest for the last two hours.
The pocket thermometer and aneroid registered
90 degrees. Before the close of day it would
probably reach 105 or 110.</p>

<p>‘We’ll not start till after sundown, sir,’ said
the practical partner. ‘I want to blind our trail
a bit, so as we shan’t be follered up just yet. By
gum! if this ain’t the very identical mob o’ horses
come a purpose, like as if it was ordered. See
them camels?’</p>

<p>‘Yes! what a string of them, with Afghan
drivers. What have they to do with us?’</p>

<p>‘You’ll find out, sir, soon’s they come a bit
closer.’</p>

<p><a name="png.044" id="png.044" href="#png.044"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>40<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>It may not be generally known that horses
have an insuperable dread of camels when first
seen. It is on record that, on the first progress
of an explorer’s expedition down the Darling
River, the station horses with one accord fled from
the river frontage, stampeding towards the ‘back
blocks,’ and were recovered with difficulty days
and weeks afterwards.</p>

<p>On this occasion, there happened to be an overland
mob (drove) of horses on their way to the
Southern Cross goldfield—coming in a different
direction from that of the travellers. Directly they
caught sight of the camel train, they swung across
the road, and headed apparently for Coongarrie,
in spite of the utmost efforts of the drivers, who
by cries, yells, and stockwhip cracks, strove to
stop or wheel them. ‘That’s all right for us, sir,’
said Waters, who, after several perfunctory efforts
to assist the men in charge, was content to let
them go their own way. ‘We’ll be off as soon
as we can harness up, sir, and drive along the way
they’ve gone. They’ve made tracks enough to
cover ours ten times over. Next day we’ll hit out
due north, where the ground’s that bloomin’ hard
and rocky as it won’t hold a track—unless they
had a nigger with them, which it’s not likely—not
hereabouts, anyway.’<!-- TN: closing quote invisible --></p>

<p>As they drove quietly along in the line of the
flying squadron, it really appeared as if circumstance
had aided them in an unforeseen but perfectly
effectual manner. Some miles farther on
they met the runaway mob, considerably steadied
by their escapade, being driven quietly back, with
<a name="png.045" id="png.045" href="#png.045"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>41<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>a man in front of them, who was keeping closely
to their track, as in the outward run.</p>

<p>‘That makes it just right for us, sir,’ said the
old man; ‘they’ll knock out the track of our
wheels, for good and all, so that no man can tell
where we left the main trail—and they’ve twisted,
and twisted so, as any feller that’s trackin’ us up
won’t have any show of hittin’ our dart, any more’n
a mob of kangaroos.’</p>

<p>Both partners knew enough of the working of
claims on new goldfields to judge how essential it
was to their success that they should be able to
take possession, undisturbed by the tumult and
confusion of a rush on new ground, known or
reported to be rich. Wild exaggerations, and
rumours of Aladdin’s caves, would pass from camp
to camp, with every fresh arrival of miners. The
Commissioner had seen before the lonely creek flat,
or fern-fringed gully, converted within forty-eight
hours into a populous township, with main street,
shops, hotels, billiard-rooms, more or less effective
for their needs; while every acre for miles around
the reef or alluvial deposit was pegged out and
jealously guarded by armed men, whom it needed
but little imagination to believe capable of shedding
blood in defence of their legal or fancied rights.</p>

<p>He now began to comprehend that their present
action was decided by an experienced and capable
coadjutor, and resolved to continue in the position
of sleeping partner until circumstances demanded
a change.</p>

<p>Many days and nights were passed in desert
travelling, in more or less monotonous fashion.
<a name="png.046" id="png.046" href="#png.046"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>42<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>The days were hot—almost intolerably so; the sand
and gravel of the soil, unrelieved by pasture, even
of the humblest description, seemed to burn the
very soles of their boots. What then would
happen if they were attacked by the dreaded
ophthalmia, the ‘sandy blight’ of the colonists, he
shuddered to think of. He had known of terrible
experiences when the sufferers were far from
medical aid, so of course had brought the accepted
tinctures with them, had invested in ‘solar
topees’ and sunshades—that is to say, <em>he</em> had;
but his companion, with the reckless indifference
of the average miner to every kind of danger,
trusted to chance and a hitherto unbroken constitution.
‘That fever pretty nigh knocked me
out, sir—I <em>was</em> bad when you seen me in
Barrawong. But it was the starvation and it
together that near settled me. I won’t cut it
so fine again, believe me.’ This statement was
made at the close of the day—when the final
journey was commenced. The nights, Banneret was
glad to remark, were fairly cool, and free from
the mosquito pest, the elevation above the sea
being greater than would be at first conjectured.</p>

<p>‘We strike an old camel track,’ said his
companion, after they were fairly started; ‘it was
made just after the Kurnalpi field broke out.
They don’t take that line now, and just as well.
It’s wonderful how they missed our “bonanza,”
but that’s what you’ll notice on every field—they’ll
go washin’ and cradlin’ in every gully <em>but</em>
the right ’un, and almost break their shins over
the real thing without ever knowin’ it.’</p>

<p><a name="png.047" id="png.047" href="#png.047"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>43<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>The dawn was painting the pale east with gold
streaks and crimson patches as they broke camp
and headed for a peak, of which the irregular
outline stood in sharp relief against the glowing
sky. They had quitted the camel-track, obscured
in places by the blown sand and occasional
storm showers, and now struck boldly across the
limitless plain. Their landmark was distinct, and
encouraging, as relieving them from anxiety about
the route. As the Commissioner gazed upon
the bold outline of the fantastic peak, one
thought possessed his mind, dominating all others.
Here was the goal of his ambition: the secret
hope which had during long years of struggle and
self-denial kept alive the prospect of eventual
prosperity, such as should comprehend peace of
mind, in a well-ordered country home near the
metropolis, education of the children, social
privileges, with a modest allowance of travel and
art culture, and generally unrestricted rational
enjoyment. Would this mysterious mountain
lead them to a veritable Sinbad’s valley of
diamonds, or would the fairy gold, by virtue of
the magical transmutation which seems connected
with rich deposits of the precious metals, be for
them rendered illusionary and disappointing?
Would they find the sacred spot already captured
and despoiled; desecrated by alien pegs, and filled
with defiant claimants? He knew the keenness
with which a prospector’s track could be followed
up—by men versed in the lore of the wilderness—the
outcome of those who, like his guide and
partner, ‘had done a perish,’ in goldfields argot,
<a name="png.048" id="png.048" href="#png.048"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>44<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>not less hazardous than he; their safety, their very
existence, dependent upon such a hazard—a mere
cast of the die, as might be this. It grew, this
dark surmise, raged and traversed his brain,
increasing in force and virulence, until he almost
imagined that he saw in the dim distance the outline
of a tent, the form of a man, the thin thread of
smoke which goes up from a tiny desert fire,
such as, God in Heaven! he remembered noting
so well of old. It was a trick of the imagination
doubtless. Was he indeed becoming lightheaded?
Was distemper of the brain setting in? He was
wont to regard himself as a level-headed person,
cool in emergency, steadfast to bear untoward
circumstance. He would wait, and divert his
thoughts for a while. He would drive out one
frame of mind by compelling another—several
other imagined states of mind to take its place.
He thought then, at first resolutely—then as the
picture became more clear and vivid, of the happy
day of his arrival—by coach, of course: they had
quitted the train at midnight, and taken their seats,
secured by telegram, in the well-horsed, well-lighted,
punctual conveyance of Cobb and Co.,
which has earned so many a blessing from home-returning
travellers. The long night was past;
the dawn discovered the well-known goldfields
road, from which in half an hour—ye gods! but
half an hour!—the main street of the old familiar
township, with its improvised banks, stores, shops,
and hotels, would burst upon the view. Ha!
well—I have been dreaming to some purpose.
The vision fades. Let us hope that the hill will
<a name="png.049" id="png.049" href="#png.049"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>45<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>not suffer the fate of ‘Poor Susan’s,’ in those
exquisite lines of the poet. Yes! it stands there,
clear, neutral-tinted—nude—frowning, as doubtless
it has done for centuries, æons, if you will—since
the central fires lifted it from the womb of
Dame Hertha. The day is older, but the unclouded
sky and the atmosphere are of such clearness
that distant objects can be discerned with
almost perfect certainty; he is awake and alert
now, if ever—his senses have <em>not</em> played him false—there
<em>is</em> a tent, at no very great distance, and
sitting by it, on a box, is a man smoking, while
another appears to be putting together articles of
camp furniture.</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter III"><a name="png.050" id="png.050" href="#png.050"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>46<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER III</h2>


<p><span class="smc">Apparently</span> at the same moment the guide, who
is walking ahead as usual, has made up his mind
as to the apparition, for he halts and walks back
to the cart.</p>

<p>‘What the deuce is that? Who do you think
they are?’</p>

<p>‘Well, sir, they’re a couple of “travellers,” on
the same lay as ourselves—far as I can make out.
They’ve no horse, nor cart—so they’ve been goin’
slow, naturally. They’ve not found our show, or
they’d ’a stopped on it—or be makin’ back to raise
an outfit. I can’t quite make out whether they’re
goin’ on to the hill, or just on the turn-back for
want of grub. We’d better act cautious with them
after seein’ who they are.’</p>

<p>‘We ought to go over to them?’</p>

<p>‘That’s my idee, sir. If we head for the
mountain, they’ll be sure to foller us up, thinkin’
we’ve reasons for it. It’s too late to pretend to go
back. They’ve seen we <em>were</em> headin’ for the hill,
anyway, and it won’t bluff ’em if we turn round,
besides losin’ time.’</p>

<p>‘I agree with you,’ said the Commissioner.
<a name="png.051" id="png.051" href="#png.051"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>47<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>‘Put the saddle on the leader; I’ll ride over and
talk to them.’</p>

<p>‘All right, sir; if they’re men to be trusted
we can take ’em in as mates. We can’t hold a
Reward Claim, or leastways work it, with only our
two selves. There’s enough for all, if we can only
get to work.’</p>

<p>The leading horse was saddled. On riding over
to the camp of the wayfarers, the Commissioner was
at once struck by its peculiar appearance. The
articles scattered about the door of the bell tent
were certainly not those of the ordinary miner.
The towels were of better than usual quality;
the bath sponges, arranged for drying, were larger
than usual—other articles of the toilet similarly
distinctive.</p>

<p>‘Pleased to see you, sir!’ said one of the young
men, with a clear British accent. ‘’Fraid we can’t
offer you much in the way of refreshment. Point
of fact we’ve had nothing to eat for the last forty-eight
hours but dried apples—they’re not so bad
when they’ve been well soaked.’</p>

<p>‘Don’t exaggerate, Denzil!’ said his companion.
‘They’re just a trifle better than stewed boots, if
you ask me. But we’re alive, which is something—though
how long we shall last out is a very,
very doubtful question.’</p>

<p>‘Permit me to introduce myself as Arnold
Banneret. My mate and I are travelling due
north, unless we strike something attractive.’</p>

<p>‘Just our case,’ said the elder of the two young
men—they were neither of them far from the
legal standard of manhood—‘except that we’re
<a name="png.052" id="png.052" href="#png.052"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>48<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>travelling due south—isn’t it south, Denzil?
I’m not much of a geographical chap, but we’re
going back to Coolgardie—if we can get there.
Sorry we can’t join forces—awfully so; give you
my word.’</p>

<p>The Commissioner gazed searchingly at the
strangers. Accustomed to reading faces—and in
circumstances where a mistake might have cost
him dear, he had often been forced to act upon
a hasty summing-up of presumed character.
He did so in this instance. ‘Swells out of luck,’
was his unspoken verdict. ‘Temporarily, of
course. The dark one has the face, the bold and
steady look, of a born explorer. He’ll go far
yet. The other boy is the well-bred youth of
the day, with little experience but that of Oxford
or Cambridge. Athletics are chiefly in his line.
But they are men as well as gentlemen, I’m
convinced.’</p>

<p>‘Our acquaintance has been short,’ he said,
‘but may develop later on. As I have a proposal
to make, may I ask whom I have the pleasure of
addressing?’</p>

<p>‘My friend’s name is Southwater. My own
name Newstead,’ said the ‘traveller.’ ‘As you
say, we haven’t seen each other before, but are
quite ready to consider any offer that it suits you
to make.’ His friend nodded assent. ‘From
present appearances the advantage seems likely to
be entirely on our side.’</p>

<p>‘We shall see,’ said the Commissioner; ‘probably
it may be mutual. In the meanwhile, will you
come over and take breakfast with me? I’ll go
<a name="png.053" id="png.053" href="#png.053"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>49<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>on ahead and speak to my mate.’ And he
cantered off.</p>

<p>The young men lost no time in collecting
their property, and arranging it into the ‘swags’
of the period, with a celerity to be acquired only
by experience.</p>

<p>‘This <em>is</em> a throw-in!’ said the younger man to
his friend. ‘I wonder who our distinguished
stranger is? There was a note of authority in
his manner, though nothing could be more
courteous than his bearing. Looks like an army
man—though we can’t be certain. But I’ll swear
he’s held a command somewhere. At any rate we
are sure of getting something to eat. People
with a waggonette always have a stock of provisions
which we poor swagmen can’t rival.’</p>

<p>‘Swagmen, indeed!’ laughed his friend. ‘I
wonder what the girls at Brancepeth or Aunt
Eleanora would think if they saw us now?’</p>

<p>‘Why, of course, that they always knew it
would come to this. Probably turn bushrangers
before we’d done. At any rate we’re not likely
to be robbed. <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Cantabit vacuus</i>—eh?’</p>

<p>On reaching the waggonette they found the
regulation meal laid out upon a board supported
by tressels, a portable affair such as surveyors
carry. People living much in tents are ingenious
in contrivances for comfort. There were also
camp-stools, equally light and effective. Corned
beef and damper, with tin plates, were set out,
while the inevitable ‘billy’ was boiling near a
small but hot fire.</p>

<p>‘This is John Waters, my partner, gentlemen,’
<a name="png.054" id="png.054" href="#png.054"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>50<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>said their entertainer; ‘as a miner of experience
I guarantee him.’ Here old Jack shook hands
solemnly with the new arrivals, while regarding
them with fixed and scrutinising eye. ‘You will
find him a “white man” in the best sense of the
word. After lunch I shall be happy to talk
business. Allow me to help you to this excellent
corned beef.’</p>

<p>‘Thanks awfully; we shan’t be long, I assure
you—we’ve not had a square meal since we
left Coolgardie. You mustn’t mind if we seem
greedy. As for me, I’m ravenous, but still
capable of self-restraint.’</p>

<p>‘Fellows grumble at a tough steak at home,’
said Southwater; ‘talk about having no appetite
till 8 <span class="allsc">P.M.</span> I wonder what they would say to
camp fare in Australian deserts? Lucky we
didn’t fall across any blacks, or roast picaninny
would have suggested itself.’</p>

<p>The meal concluded, at which the strangers
did not, in spite of their confession, exhibit extraordinary
eagerness, their entertainer lit his pipe
and commenced the conference. ‘I was doubtful
lest our interests might be antagonistic,’ said he,
‘but we meet now on a different footing.’</p>

<p>‘We should have started back to Coolgardie
in half an hour,’ said Mr. Newstead. ‘Denzil and
I were played out, and had resolved on turning
back in preference to leaving our bones to
bleach by the wayside. Your appearance decided
us to reconsider. I take it you have a “show”
farther on?’</p>

<p>‘That is the precise state of the case. Here is
<a name="png.055" id="png.055" href="#png.055"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>51<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the prospector who discovered our bonanza, and
will explain.’</p>

<p>‘Best reef I ever seen,’ interposed the grizzled
veteran—‘and I’m a “forty-niner.” So that says
somethin’. If no one’s dropped across my cache
(as the trappers say) there’s enough to make all
our fortunes twice over. We can be t’other side
of that there hill inside of twelve hours.’</p>

<p>‘Shortly. You understand enough of mining
law, I presume, to see that though we can take
up a Reward Claim, we can’t work it with two
men. I see by your hands—excuse me—that the
manual part of mining is not unknown to you.
We <em>must</em> take in some one. I prefer, and so does
Jack, to work with gentlemen, so I’m prepared
to offer you such shares as may be further agreed
between us when the allocation takes place.’</p>

<p>‘It sounds too good to be true,’ said Newstead.
‘You are not going to lure us into a
cavern and slay us for our property, are you?
But one can’t help regarding oneself as the
modernest Aladdin. In any case, I say, done
with you, magician or no! and so does Denzil, if
I know him. Allow me to help pack, and follow,
as Dick Burton used to write to his wife—the pay
portion of the injunction must await developments.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The journey was resumed, the saddle was
removed from the leader’s back, and placed in
the waggonette, as were also the effects of the
new associates. Apparently willing workers, they
proved themselves cheery and entertaining companions.</p>

<p><a name="png.056" id="png.056" href="#png.056"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>52<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>Unaffected in manner and simple of speech,
it was yet apparent, though they conversed on
perfectly equal terms with old Jack as with the
Commissioner, that they had moved in the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">haute
volée</i> of English society.</p>

<p>They made no statement to that effect, but it
was indirectly plain to the Commissioner, himself
an aristocrat by birth and social surroundings,
that such was the case. It was many a year since
he had been ‘home,’ yet, nevertheless, the merry
chatter of these youngsters, which, though careless,
was redolent of the best English ‘form,’ was refreshing
in the life of a man who, though long
absent from the old country, was yet in full
sympathy with her ideas and traditions. So they
fared on for the long remaining hours of the day,
until they reached the spinifex flat, immediately
adjacent to the base of the hill which had been
so long within sight, but without reaching the
gradually ascending ‘rise’ which led to a plateau
slightly above the level of the plain. Here they
halted—to feed the horses and await the rising
of the moon—after which the journey would
recommence.</p>

<p>‘We can’t afford to take no risks,’ said the old
man; ‘we might have another party comin’ along
from “the Cross” way. And if they got there
first—some men’s that smart, you’d a’most swear
as they could smell the gold—there’d be a barney
over it; and law, likely as not, which you never
know how it might turn out. So I’m thinkin’ it’s
best to go on, and collar right away—that’ll put
an end to all bother in one act.’</p>

<p><a name="png.057" id="png.057" href="#png.057"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>53<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>As the other members of the party were, more
or less, excited and ardent with the thought that
the tedious journey was nearly at an end, with
fame and fortune almost within their grasp (for
when is fortune achieved without fame following
dutifully behind the triumphal car?)—the Commissioner,
with the far-off cottage ready to be
illumined with the glad tidings, and the children’s
shouts almost in his ears; the young men, fired
with the idea of a return to England with a record
rivalling that of the hero who ‘broke the bank at
Monte Carlo,’—no objection was raised. And
when the moon, nearly at her full, rose slowly
over the horizon, commencing to flood the wide
bare solitudes, the plain, the hill crags, the mighty
sweep of waterless silent landscape, and deserted
save for themselves, it seemed a weird mockery to
expect anything of the nature of wealth won from
a region so far removed from the benevolence of
Nature or of man.</p>

<p>Leaving one of the ‘jackeroos’ (as the old
man called them, apologising, however, and explaining
the term) to take charge of the waggonette,
the others followed the prospector for a few
hundred yards until, as they came to a spot where
a few stones had been carelessly thrown together,
he stopped, and pointed to a stake. ‘There it is!’
he gasped; ‘no one’s been next or anigh it. I’ll
go round, sir, with you and see the other ones.
If Mr. Southwater’ll go back to the cart, and feed
the horses, and start a fire to boil the billy, we’ll
make sure that nothing’s been touched since I left
here months ago. It’s not far from daylight, and
<a name="png.058" id="png.058" href="#png.058"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>54<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>after a bit of breakfast we can open up the reef,
and you’ll see what sort of a show it is.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>‘Well, this is something what we went into the
wilderness to see—not to be profane—but isn’t it
exactly what one would have thought in the old,
old days? This <em>is</em> a wilderness, and no mistake.
I used to wonder what one was like when I was at
school. Now I know.’</p>

<p>‘Wild and bare, and open to the air,’ continued
Mr. Newstead. ‘It takes a lot of imagination to
think of villages, towns, cities, and so on—“in this
neglected spot,” as Gray’s <cite>Elegy</cite> hath it. But
<em>gold</em> rules the court, the camp, the grove, rather
more strongly than t’other imperial power.
Everything else follows in its train, so they tell
me—Denzil and I are too young to lay down the
law on these great subjects. We’ll live and learn,
I surmise, as our American friend said.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The stakes had been duly cut, sharpened, and
driven in, as far as the rocky nature of the hill
permitted. There was no path or track to the
wondrous spot itself. The faint footsteps of a
weak, overwrought, famished man left no imprint
upon rock or sand.</p>

<p>An aboriginal tracker on the man-hunt for foe
or felon might have read, from a displaced pebble,
a bent or broken twig, a deeper indent from a
stumbling boot, that a white man had passed that
way, but no senses less keen than those of the desert
roamer could have followed the tokens of travel.</p>

<p>‘I’d been in an’ out them upper gulches,’ said
<a name="png.059" id="png.059" href="#png.059"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>55<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Jack, reminiscent of Californian digger talk, ‘and
what with bein’ tol’ble used up when I come,
and dead beat afterwards, was just about stumblin’
downhill again when I spots this here openin’.
It’s the last chance, thinks I, but I’d better
prospect the lot afore I give in. And this is what
I come on afore I’d been ten minutes at work.
Reg’lar jeweller’s shop, and no mistake.’ While
he was talking, his hands were not idle: he had
brought a pick and shovel from the waggonette,
and after shovelling back the rock and earth from
the tiny shaft, commenced to break down the ‘cap’
of the reef. This was almost incredibly rich.
The rock appeared to be (as the Commissioner
said) half gold—indeed, in some of the specimens
there was more gold than quartz.</p>

<p>Strings of the precious metal hung down,
which, indeed, seemed to loosely unite fragments
of the dull, cloud-coloured quartz—so dear to the
miner’s soul—while here and there were ‘nuggets’—actual
lumps of the gold. ‘This one’s not
short of fifty ounces,’ said he, lifting one of four
or five pounds’ weight. ‘And there’s bigger ones
to come, I’ll go bail.’</p>

<p>‘I’ve always doubted,’ said Newstead, ‘whether
my relations believed my statements about rich
finds in Australia. Certainly my banking account
was not such as to inspire credence. But I shall
pour contempt on their incredulity after this
display.’</p>

<p>‘I should think so,’ said Mr. Banneret. ‘And
now we must have a council of war. What do
you say about the next move, Jack?’</p>

<p><a name="png.060" id="png.060" href="#png.060"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>56<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘I vote we dolly all the gold as we can get
out of the picked stone. Then, in course, the
mine’ll have to be registered, and a company
floated on the strength of these here specimens. It
won’t take long to do that once they get to Melbourne.
The Commissioner and Mr. Newstead
can go back to Coolgardie with the team and
waggonette, leaving us enough to go on with.
There’s a “soak” not far off, and we can fill the
ten-gallon keg afore they leave. A team can be
sent up with all the things we want. Mr. Southwater
and I’ll work on the “stope,” if he’s agreeable—feeling
along the reef as we go, like. And
now I’m beginning to think about summat to eat.’</p>

<p>The adjournment was carried <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">nem. con.</i> When
they reached the camp Mr. Southwater had got
everything in fine order. He was pleased with
the idea of having to stop behind, as old Jack had
told him that he was a born bushman, and would
make a first-class prospector some day. Mr. Banneret said little, but, looking at the bold
expression and steady eye of the young Englishman,
was fully of opinion that he was destined to
be a leader of men.</p>

<p>Next week the Commissioner and Newstead
started back on the homeward track, taking with
them five thousand ounces of gold and specimens.
There was a good deal of business to be done, as
he reflected, when they reached civilisation. A
Report in terms provided for by the Goldfields
Act and Regulations had to be made to the Commissioner
of the district, as well as a Lease to be
applied for; a deposit in cash paid to the Mining
<a name="png.061" id="png.061" href="#png.061"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>57<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Registrar; a Prospecting Area had been pegged
out, and must be registered, and the whole
auriferous area would be floated as a company,
with a hundred thousand shares of 20s. each.
Machinery for a quartz mill with fifty stamps and
all the newest improvements, Diehl process, etc.,
had to be purchased and forwarded by team at once,
and provisions, tools, extra tents, bedding, books,
cooking utensils—in fact, everything necessary for a
large staff; with engineer, manager, metallurgist,
wages men, shift-bosses, and others—the numbers
in such case amounting to hardly less than fifty
men to begin with. The unpretending vehicle
carried a considerable amount of treasure, tempting
enough to outlaws sure to be included in every
goldfields rush. But both men were well armed,
and not likely to surrender without a desperate
struggle; the chances of an ambush were small—the
open, waterless nature of the country being against
such a mode of attack. Many thousand ounces of
gold were indeed carried on horseback, or in the
unpretending buggy of the period, without much
knowledge of the same being noised abroad.
Their journey to Coolgardie, and afterwards to
Perth, was, in this instance, wholly devoid of incident,
and Mr. Banneret had the satisfaction of
banking his precious cargo without any but the
officials of the institution being aware of the nature
of the transaction.</p>

<p>The only incident of note which bordered upon
risk occurred during an enforced stoppage at a
stage a few miles distant from Perth. Here a
large detachment of navvies had just been set down,
<a name="png.062" id="png.062" href="#png.062"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>58<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>and apparently they had managed to possess themselves
of more beer than was good for them. They
were consequently in a state of humorous, if not
aggressive excitement. This displayed itself in
curious inquiry as to the contents of the portmanteau
over which such jealous guard was kept.
Both men were dressed in ordinary miner’s costume,
and therefore lacked the prestige which in Australia
ensures respect for all men presumably of the rank
of ‘gentleman.’ However, a miner who had been
at Barrawong just before the ‘breaking out’ of the
West Australian goldfields, happened to arrive in
a waggonette. He and his mate were ‘going east,’
in order to float a company for the working of a
mine, which they had discovered, and declared to
be of great promise. The man from Barrawong
was affected almost to tears by the sight of the
Commissioner, that dread and august potentate,
in working man’s garb. He looked as if he
wished to fall down and worship him. But,
introducing his mate, he said, with a choking
voice:</p>

<p>‘Bill, this here’s our Commissioner, same as I
told yer of, when I was on Barrawong; he’s struck
it rich, he tells me, and as we’re on the road to
Perth, he’ll be obliged to us for a lift in our
waggonette if you’re agreeable.’</p>

<p>‘I’ve heard of Commissioner Banneret,’ said
the mate, making what he imagined to be a bow
suitable to the occasion, ‘and he should have my
seat if I had to walk every bloomin’ step of the
road to the coast.’</p>

<p>‘There isn’t a man as was on the field when I
<a name="png.063" id="png.063" href="#png.063"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>59<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>left,’ responded the mate, ‘that wouldn’t do the
same; but there’s no call for any of us to walk—the
horses are in good fettle, considerin’ the price
of feed, and they’ll take the four on us—not leavin’
the portmanter behind—into Perth, flyin’.’</p>

<p>This settled the matter. The portmanteau, so
curiously regarded, was promptly lifted into the
waggonette, and, as well as the Commissioner, was
driven briskly along the road to the city, Mr. Newstead being left with the baggage of the
expedition to follow at his leisure, and rejoin his
chief at the township. That gentleman lost no
time after being dropped at the Bank of Barataria.
The mineral collection was produced.</p>

<p>‘What name shall I enter?’ said the young
banker at the counter. ‘Gold and specimens, how
many ounces?’</p>

<p>‘Seven thousand four hundred and twenty-three,
seventeen pennyweights, and ten grains.’</p>

<p>‘Oh!’ said the bank clerk, with an instant
change of manner. ‘You’re Mr. Banneret! Very
glad to see you, sir! The Bank had advice of
your expected arrival. I’ll take the weights, and
give you a receipt directly. Won’t keep you
waiting.’</p>

<p>‘Well, good-bye, Captain!’ said the miner
from Barrawong. ‘You’re all right now. Anything
more we can do for you—drive you anywheres?
Say the word.’</p>

<p>‘No; thanks very much! As it’s early yet,
I’ll take a stroll round the town until Mr. Newstead
comes up. It’s a little different from New
South Wales, eh?’</p>

<p><a name="png.064" id="png.064" href="#png.064"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>60<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘It is that, sir. I suppose you couldn’t lay us
on to the spot where that show come from?’</p>

<p>‘Hum! it won’t be long before we’re tracked
up, I daresay. I don’t see why you shouldn’t have
a chance as well as another. What is the leading
hotel here, Mr. Carter?’—this to the bank clerk.</p>

<p>‘Oh, “The Palace.” It’s that two-storeyed
place at the corner of the street. Clean, and the
cookery fair. The Mining Registrar’s office is
next door.’</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter IV"><a name="png.065" id="png.065" href="#png.065"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>61<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER IV</h2>


<p>‘<span class="smc">Thanks</span> very much. Perhaps you’ll dine with
me to-night. One of my partners is coming
along, who will be pleased to make your acquaintance.
We’ll drive over, Con. Now then,’ he
continued, after they had trotted a short distance
along the dusty street, ‘The “Last Chance,”
as you have seen, is one of the richest claims in
Australia. All the vacant ground within miles of
it will be rushed in a week. Would you and your
mate like to register four men’s ground on No. 1,
north of the Reward Claim—on half shares?
There’s plenty for all.’</p>

<p>‘All right, sir. We’ve got our Miners’ Rights
all square and regular—and glad of the offer. I
know a couple more chaps here—old mates that’ll
go in with us, so as to make up the claim. You
know Murphy, and Crowley, don’t you, sir?
They’ll come, quick and lively. Good men to
work, too.’ The next step was taken without
delay. It was legally necessary to register the
Prospecting Area—to take out Miners’ Rights—to
apply for a lease. They were entitled under
Regulation No. 15 of the Goldfields Act of 189–
to twelve acres, in the shape of a rectangular
<a name="png.066" id="png.066" href="#png.066"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>62<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>parallelogram. These matters rendered it necessary to
remain for the day at Swantown, so Mr. Banneret
surrendered himself to the inevitable without much
uneasiness. He took rooms for himself and partner
at the hotel called ‘Palace’—large and fairly commodious,
though by no means so much so as in
the stage to which the city was destined to develop.
He expected Newstead to arrive about lunch-time,
and philosophically set off on a tour of
inspection.</p>

<p>That this was destined to be the centre of the
largest, richest goldfield in Australia, his experience
enabled him to decide. From all directions prospecting
parties were converging—immediately
importing themselves at the Bank. There was
but one, at present. The shops and stores were
much the same as those on every promising
goldfield, perhaps more comprehensive and
high-priced. The surroundings were, however,
distinctly suggestive of a dry country in a dry
season.</p>

<p>For rain <em>does</em> come to these ‘habitations in
sicco,’ though chiefly with reluctance and economy.
The animals for team and burden were half-starved,
sometimes emaciated to a degree. The strings of
camels, with their turbaned Afghan drivers, were
strangely foreign to his unaccustomed eyes. They
stood patient, and uncomplaining, before the larger
stores, or arrived laden with wool from the more
distant stations, which, owing to the dry season,
were unable to forward their fleeces, or obtain
supplies without the aid of the ‘ship of the desert.’
There he stood, huge, ungainly, unpopular with
<a name="png.067" id="png.067" href="#png.067"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>63<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the teamsters, terrifying to their horses—and all
others.</p>

<p>Sullenly regarded by the white labourers as
alien to their country and their trade, it yet could
not be denied that here, at least, was the right
burden-bearer in the right place—in spite of his
queer temper, his general unpleasantness, and his
incongruous appearance in this twentieth-century
Australia, utterly, manifestly indispensable, as he
had been in the long-past ages when ‘the famine
was sore in the land.’</p>

<p>Mr. Banneret having a taste for exploring, and
being also a practised pedestrian, took a longish
walk around the outskirts of the town, before
returning to the hotel and taking his seat at the
dinner-table. This was a long, substantial piece
of furniture, amply supplied with materials for
a meal of the same character. All sorts and
conditions of men were there represented: aristocratic
tourists, on the look-out for mining
investments—directors, or managers of syndicates,
companies, exploring parties, mercantile
partnerships, what not. All were animated by
the common attraction, most successful of all
baits with which to ensnare the soul of man,
from the dawn of history. Recruits for the great
army of industry, from all lands, of all colours,
castes, and conditions—the coach-driver, the
teamster, the newly arrived emigrant, the army
deserter, the runaway sailor, the stock-rider,
the navvy, the shepherd,—all men were free
and equal at the Palace Hotel, so long as they
could pay for bed and board. Nor was there
<a name="png.068" id="png.068" href="#png.068"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>64<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>observable any objectionable roughness of tone or
manner, in a company formed of such heterogeneous
elements.</p>

<p>It is surprising to the ‘observer of human
nature’ how the higher tone seems instinctively
adopted by the mass, when leavened with gentlefolk,
though they may have been wholly unused
to its rules and limitations in earlier life.</p>

<p>To Arnold Banneret this was nothing new.
Accustomed in his official journeyings to mix
occasionally, though not, of course, habitually,
with all classes of Australian workers, he knew—no
man better—that, given a courteous and unpretending
manner, no gentleman, in the true
sense of the word, need fear annoyance or disrespect
in the remote ‘back block’ region, or the
recent goldfield ‘rush.’ It had leaked out that
he had ‘come in’ from a find of more than
ordinary value, the locality of which was deeply
interesting to everybody. But the unwritten code
of mining etiquette prevented direct questioning.
They knew, these keen-eyed prospectors and
workers on so many a field, that the necessary
information would soon disclose itself, so to speak,
and that the last who followed the tracks of the
earlier searchers would have as good a chance of
success as the first.</p>

<p>Having satisfied his appetite, a fairly keen one,
he betook himself to his bedroom, and wrote at
length to his wife, detailing all progress since his
last letter, and finishing up with this exceptional
statement: ‘This journey has, of course, not
been without a certain share of inconvenience,
<a name="png.069" id="png.069" href="#png.069"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>65<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>and what some people might call hardship. But
you know that such wayfaring is in the nature
of holiday-making for me. It was, of course, a
hazardous adventure, inasmuch as all our small
reserve of capital was embarked. A miscalculation
would have been wreck, and almost total
loss: would have taken years of painful saving
and rigid self-denial to have made up the deficit.
But now success, phenomenal, assured, has more
than justified the risk, the apparent imprudence,
everything. Our fortune is made! as the phrase
goes; think of that! When the company is
floated, the shares allotted, the machinery on the
road to Perth, a hundred thousand pounds will
be the lowest valuation at which our half share
in the “Last Chance” can be calculated. A
hundred thousand pounds! Think of that! Of
what it means for you, for me, for the children.
For everybody concerned. And a good many
people will be concerned beneficially in the venture
as soon as the money is paid to my account in
the Bank of New Holland.</p>

<p>‘I don’t intend that there shall be any risk or
uncertainty in the future—apart from those apparently
accidental occurrences from which, under
God’s providence, no man is free. But I will
invest fifty thousand pounds in debentures, well
secured; so that, come what will, a comfortable
home, a sufficing income, will always be assured
to you and the children. Of course I shall resign
my appointment as soon as I return, giving the
Government all proper notice. Our future home
will be in Sydney or Melbourne, on whichever we
<a name="png.070" id="png.070" href="#png.070"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>66<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>may decide. The children are just at the age
when higher educational facilities are required.
They have not done badly so far. But they are
growing up fast, and upon what they assimilate,
intellectually, for the next few years will their
social success largely depend.</p>

<p>‘It is needless to dilate upon the endless
pleasures and the general advantages of the
possession of ample means, now, for the first
time in our lives, enjoyed, or about to be provided
for us, <em>before</em> the fruition is accomplished.
I have always been averse to a too sanguine appropriation
of the probable treasure. Alnaschar’s
basket is still to be met with. And I must
cross both desert sand, and ocean wave, before
I can pour into your ear the tale of my strange
adventures and their marvellous ending. For
the present, I conclude, full of thankfulness, but,
I trust, not unduly elated. “People I have met”
will furnish many an hour’s talk, not the least
of whom are my two mates and partners—one
of whom is now delving away at the claim with
old Jack Waters, as if to the manner born; and
the other, whom I expect will rejoin me before
sunset, is unromantically driving the light waggon
containing all our goods and chattels. These
“labouring men” are of a type unlikely to be
found in any land less contradictory to all preconceived
ideas than Australia. They are, in fact and
truth, genuine English aristocrats—one being
Lord Newstead, the other the Honourable Denzil,
son of the Earl of Southwater. They are quite
young, hardly past their majority, in fact; but
<a name="png.071" id="png.071" href="#png.071"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>67<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>full of pluck, hungering for adventure, and
resolving to see it out before they turn their
backs on this Eldorado of the West. Particularly
the Honourable Denzil, who is a born explorer
and pathfinder. He will make his mark, if I
mistake not, before he is many years older.</p>

<p>‘It is a great pleasure to me, as you may
believe, to work with men of this sort. No
doubt we are mutually helpful—their high spirits,
and sanguine anticipations, tend to raise mine,
which my experience (not to mention that of old
Jack) moderates. We have been, since we forgathered,
as Scotch people say, a cheerful and
congenial party, destined, I think, to become firm
friends and attached comrades in the future.’</p>

<p>The afternoon was well advanced when
Newstead made his appearance, having come
quietly along, sparing his horses, as he had
already learned to do since his arrival in
Australia. Mr. Banneret had finished his letter
and his walk; was therefore not disinclined to
have a companion with whom to discuss the
situation. He was pleased to find that a share
of the only available bedroom had been engaged
for him, and deposited his personal property
therein with unconcealed satisfaction.</p>

<p>‘One can’t help being childishly pleased with
the certainty of a real bed, and a dinner to match,
again,’ he said. ‘Denzil and I have roughed it as
thoroughly as any two “new chums” (which is
Australian for English here), and it’s done us no
end of good. But there’s a time for all things,
and after six months’ hard graft, with a trifle of
<a name="png.072" id="png.072" href="#png.072"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>68<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>hunger and thirst thrown in, it’s awfully jolly to
come to a land of chops and steaks, sheets and
blankets, with a prospect of yet higher life in the near
future. But on that we must not dwell yet a while.
I suppose you made it all right with the Bank?’</p>

<p>‘Yes; the nuggets are safe for the present, and
I can draw against them to any reasonable amount.
That’s consoling. Our next move will be to fix
up about the lease, and so on. I’ve just bought
the W.A. Act and Regulations, which I needn’t
tell you it is vitally necessary to be well up in, on
a goldfield. Any big show is sure to be well
scrutinised by the “jumper” fraternity, and any
joint in the armour pierced, if possible. Litigation,
too, always means delay, if not loss and anxiety.’</p>

<p>‘How long do we stay here?’</p>

<p>‘Only as long as it will take us to complete
arrangements. Then you return to the claim,
“Waters’ Reward.” We must call it after old
Jack, who has certainly the best title to it, after
doing such a “perish,” as he would say, in its
discovery. You’ll see it all in the paper to-morrow
morning, for, of course, I’ve been attacked by the
ferocious reporter of the “Dry, dry desolate Land”
(with apologies to Mr. Kipling).’</p>

<p>‘And you told him all about it?’</p>

<p>‘Of course—he has a quasi-legal right to the
information, now that the Mining Registrar is in
possession of the facts. Payable gold, as you are
aware, must be declared within so many days.
And as any miner, for a small fee, is entitled to
search the Registration Book, there is no object to
be gained by secrecy.’</p>

<p><a name="png.073" id="png.073" href="#png.073"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>69<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘What a rush there’ll be, directly it gets wind!
No doubt about that. When does the <cite>Miner’s
Friend</cite> come out?’</p>

<p>‘At breakfast time to-morrow. We had better
stable the horses to-night, and keep a good lock
on the door, for there’ll be many a nag missing by
the morning light.’</p>

<p>His conjecture was correct. The news had
leaked out accidentally through the office. Told
to a few comrades at first, the group had widened.
Then like the trickling rill from the faulty
reservoir, the rivulet gained width and force, until
the volume of sound and objurgation swelled,
echoing amid the encampment of huts, tents, and
shelter contrivances. The tramp of a thousand
men, the galloping of horses, the strange cries of
Afghan camel-drivers, formed no inadequate presentment
of, in all but the discipline, an army
brigade on the march.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>A few hours of the night were devoted to a
carefully-thought-out list, and programme of
future proceedings, as well as the formation of
a list of requisites for Newstead to take back to
the claim. A couple of wages men were also
engaged, it being thought expedient to strengthen
the man-power of the expedition, in view of the
crowd of probable fellow-travellers which would
be heading for Pilot Mount on the morrow—indeed
on that very night. Mr. Banneret was
fortunate in picking up a couple of ex-residents on
his old field.</p>

<p>They had not been successful, so far, and so
<a name="png.074" id="png.074" href="#png.074"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>70<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>were only too ready to embark under the auspices
of the Commissioner, in whom, like all his former
subjects (so to speak), they had unbounded faith.
‘These men,’ he said, ‘have been known to me for
years, and two better men than Pat Halloran and
Mickey Doyle never handled pick and shovel.
They are perfectly straight, plucky, and experienced.
In anything like danger I would
trust my life to them. We were lucky to have
fallen in with them. They have travelled, too, in
their day, and know New Zealand, from the Thames
to Hohitika—as well as Ballarat and Bendigo.’</p>

<p>‘So far, so good,’ said Mr. Newstead. ‘We
shall want a lot of stores—machinery too. All
sorts of eatables and wearables. No end of
sundries, which will “foot up” to a total of some
importance. Where shall we get them in your
absence? Everything seems to be at war prices.’</p>

<p>‘I’ve fallen on my feet in that matter also.
That you can get everything on a goldfield, has
always been a contention of mine. It’s a sort of
Universal Provider shop, once it’s been established
sufficiently long to attract the regulation army of
Adullamites. A goldfield is created for them, and
they for a goldfield. We’ve got two first-class
wages men, and I’ve found the ideal storekeeper
and general agent.’</p>

<p>‘What’s he like?—has been a gentleman, Lord
help him! I can’t say I care for that brand.’</p>

<p>‘Wait till you see him, that’s all. He’s an old
schoolfellow of mine, and his wife’s a lady, if ever
there was one, as I think you’ll admit. I guarantee
him.’</p>

<p><a name="png.075" id="png.075" href="#png.075"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>71<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘Well, if you do that, it’s all right, of course.’</p>

<p>‘I vouch for him absolutely. We can depend
on not paying a shilling more than the current
market price, and on getting everything good of
its kind.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The return journey and voyage were so little
eventful that they require no mention in detail.
The local papers were full of highly coloured
references to the phenomenal find at Waters’
Reward, for which a lease had been granted to
Messrs. Banneret and Waters.</p>

<p>‘The actual prospector was Mr. John Waters, a
pioneer miner, experience in California, Australia,
New Zealand, and South America. His name was
sufficient among the mining community to account
for any fortunate discovery in the world of metals.
It was not the first, by a dozen or more. That
he had not profited permanently by his well-known
rich finds in former days and other climes, must
be attributed to the spirit of restless change and
hunger for adventure, so characteristic of the
miner’s life. He had “struck it rich,” in mining
parlance, again and again. But the “riches had
been of the winged description,” had flown far and
wide—were, for practical purposes, non-existent.
There may have been a certain degree of imprudence,
but what golden-hole miner hasn’t done
the same? The fortunate rover lends and spends,
ever lavish of hospitality and friendly aid, as if the
deposit was inexhaustible. “Plenty more where
that came from,” is the miner’s motto.</p>

<p>‘Doubtless there is, but delays occur, protracted
<a name="png.076" id="png.076" href="#png.076"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>72<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>not infrequently within our experience, until the
prodigal, like his prototype, is reduced to dire
distress and unbefitting occupation. In our
respected comrade’s case the fickle goddess has
again smiled on his enterprise. Let us trust that
he will learn from the past to be independent of
her moods for the future. The senior shareholder,
well known and respected as a Goldfields
Warden in another State, has gone east to arrange
for the necessary machinery, and the thousand-and-one
requisites for a quartz-crushing plant of fifty
stamps, with everything, up to the latest date, in
the way of metallurgical reduction. No time will
be lost in getting it on the ground, and the results
will be, it may be confidently stated by this journal,
such as will startle the mining world, and give
fresh impetus to all industrial occupation in our
midst.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>At home once more. What a blessed sound!
comprehensive, endearing, filled with the domestic
joys which wife and children supply—a joy such
as no other earthly pleasure can simulate. The
Commissioner was ‘once more on his native
heath,’ so to speak; and as he walked into his
well-remembered office, earlier than usual, in order
to take a leisurely survey of the great mass of
papers, private and official, which awaited his
return, and noted the gathering crowd which had
already formed around the Court House door,
a certain feeling of regret arose in his mind at
the idea that his ministerial and judicial functions
were about to cease and determine within so short
<a name="png.077" id="png.077" href="#png.077"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>73<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>a time. True, at times his position had been one
of great, even painful responsibility.</p>

<p>It could hardly have been otherwise, when the
hundreds, even thousands, of disputes, inevitable
on a rich and extensive alluvial goldfield, had, as
a Court of First Instance, to be decided by the
Commissioner hearing evidence ‘on the ground’—the
centre of an excited crowd; or in the district
Court House, with counsel for and against, and
all legal accessories, but chiefly with the Commissioner
as sole adjudicator and all but final
referee. To be sure, there was an appeal to the
District Court, attending quarterly; beyond that,
if doubt existed, and the claim was sufficiently rich
to fee counsel and support the great expense of a
Supreme Court trial. A thousand-pounds brief
had been handed to the leader of the Bar, in his
experience, before now in an important claim.
But, so far, his decisions had been chiefly unchallenged.
In fewer instances still, had they
been reversed. Long years of goldfields wars
and rumours of wars had given him such thorough
knowledge of the intricacies of that abstruse and
(apparently) complicated subject, mineral law, that
he was seldom technically doubtful, while his
staunch adherence to equity, with an unflinching
love of abstract justice, were universally recognised.
So, on the whole, as ‘a judge, and a ruler in
Israel,’ his reign had been satisfactory.</p>

<p>And now he was about to relinquish the
trappings of office—the prestige—the social weight
and authority—which he had held and, in a sense,
appreciated for the last decade. True, the
<a name="png.078" id="png.078" href="#png.078"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>74<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>accompanying distinctions were purely honorary.
The salary was barely equal to the family needs,
for education, apparel, travelling, and other expenses.
But it had sufficed in time past. He
was admittedly the leading personage in his provincial
circle; the universal referee in art, letters,
sport, and magisterial sway. And the declension
to the status of a private individual is after such
prominence not unfelt.</p>

<p>On the other hand, what glories, even triumphs,
lay in the future, if this marvellous Reward Claim
‘kept up,’ or ‘went down’ equally rich!
Travel—books—pictures—education—society—all
on the higher scale,—money being no object in
the coming Arabian Nights existence. Aladdin’s
lamp would speedily be brought into requisition.
Sydney or Melbourne would be their headquarters
for the next few years. Of course they would
‘go home’ as the children grew up. Harrow
or Eton—Oxford or Cambridge for the boys.
Continental tours—lessons in languages—Henley,
in the green English spring. The Derby, the
Grand National—Kennington Oval (had they not
a cousin a renowned Australian cricketer, who
had made the record score in a world-renowned
match!). It was too fairy-like—too ecstatic!
They would never live to go through the programme.
Fate would interfere after her old
malign, mysterious fashion, to withhold such superhuman
happiness.</p>

<p>But more matter-of-fact mundane considerations
had to be considered, and primarily dealt with.
Three months’ further leave had to be applied for
<a name="png.079" id="png.079" href="#png.079"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>75<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>‘upon urgent private affairs,’ at the conclusion of
which period the applicant proposed to retire from
the New South Wales Civil Service. This was
tolerably certain to be granted. The appointment
was a fairly good one, as such billets go. There
are always aspiring suitors for promotion, or
officials of equal rank and qualifications, who, from
family or other reasons, desire removal.</p>

<p>Of course the truth leaked out after a few
days. The departure of the Commissioner and
the old prospector had not been unnoticed. No
joint enterprise could have been possible in his
own district; such a partnership would have been
illegal. Even if veiled, it must inevitably have
led to complications between private and official
relations. Against all such enterprises, however
alluring, he had set his face resolutely. So the
public came to the conclusion even before the first
copies of the <cite>Western Watchman</cite> came to hand,
that the ‘show’ must be in another colony;
and so would result only in the loss of their
Commissioner and Police Magistrate—in addition
to the usual exodus of that section of the population
which invariably follows the newest ‘rush,’
whether to Carpentaria or Klondyke. Then
waifs and wasters could be well spared, while the
steady workers would be useful in sending back
reliable information to their mates and friends.
Con Heffernan had started, Patroclus the Greek,
Karl Richter, and the two Morgans; they would
write quick enough after they got there, and if
the find was half as good as was talked about,
every man in Barrawong who wasn’t married, or
<a name="png.080" id="png.080" href="#png.080"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>76<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>had cash enough to take him there, would be on
the road within forty-eight hours.</p>

<p>Of course they would be sorry to lose the
Commissioner; they wouldn’t get another in a
hurry who was as smart, straight, and decided.
He was fair, between man and man, and didn’t
care a hang what creed, country, or caste a man
belonged to when he was trying a case. All he
wanted was to do justice, and he didn’t mind
making the law himself sometimes, so as he could
give the claim to the right man. Didn’t he fight
the great No. 4 Black Creek Block case for Pat
Farrell and party against the Dawson crowd, and
them having a lot of money behind them—after
it was adjourned, and remanded and sent to the
Full Court in Sydney—fresh magistrates being got
to sit on the bench; and, after all, old Pat Farrell
got it, with heavy costs against the jumpers?
And Mrs. Banneret—wasn’t she the kind woman
to the diggers’ wives and kids?—though she had a
young family of her own, and little enough time or
money to spare from them. Well, good luck go
with them, and the poor man’s blessing, wherever
they went, far or near! They’d be remembered in
Barrawong for many a year to come, anyhow—as
long as there was a shaft or a windlass left on
the field.</p>

<p>What thoughts and emotions struggled for
precedence in Arnold Banneret’s breast when he
reached the country town near his home, and saw
the familiar faces of the provincial inhabitants,
mildly interested in the arrival of the daily coach,
bringing as usual novelties, human and otherwise—last
<a name="png.081" id="png.081" href="#png.081"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>77<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>from the sea-port, and by that medium
from the world at large. Casting his eyes around,
after a few hurried but warm greetings, they fell
on the well-worn buggy and the favourite pair of
horses. His eldest son, a boy of fourteen, held
the reins, which he transferred to his father, after
replying in the affirmative to the important inquiry,
‘All well at home?’</p>

<p>As he gave the accustomed touch, the horses,
needing no other hint, started along the metalled
high road at a ten-mile-an-hour trot, which they
showed no disposition to relax until they came
to the turn-off track leading to the home
paddock.</p>

<p>‘Well, father,’ said the youngster, ‘you’ve had
a fine time of it, I suppose? I’d have given all
the world to have gone with you. I suppose you
couldn’t take me when you go back?’</p>

<p>‘No, my man! You’ve got your education
to attend to, and to see mother and the children
settled in Sydney first. I can’t afford to stay
long. So you’ll have to be mother’s right-hand
man while I’m away.’</p>

<p>‘I suppose I’m to go to school when we get to
Sydney?’—in a slightly aggrieved tone.</p>

<p>‘Of course you are—and to the University
afterwards, unless you are not able to pass the
Matric.—which I should be sorry to think for a
moment you couldn’t manage.’</p>

<p>‘Oh dear! I suppose it will be years and years
of Latin and Greek, and history and geometry,
before I can make a start in life for myself. If
I’m to be a squatter—and I’m not going to be
<a name="png.082" id="png.082" href="#png.082"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>78<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>anything else—what is the use of losing all this
time?’</p>

<p>‘My dear boy, you are to have the education
of a gentleman. Whether you decide for a bush
life or a profession, a mining investor’s or a
soldier’s, it will be equally useful—I may say, indispensable—to
you. But there is ever so much
time before us in which to settle such a very
important question. How well the country is
looking! I haven’t seen so much grass and water
since I left home.’</p>

<p>‘It ought to look well—we nearly had a flood
in the river last week. The flats were covered,
feet deep, but it soon went off again. It won’t
do any harm, they say; but we thought it would
come into the house one evening, and mother sat
up half the night. It began to fall next day.’</p>

<p>‘That was fortunate. Everything looks
flourishing now. Oh, here are the children, all
come out to meet Dad, who is a man from a far
country. Pull up, Reggie! and I’ll get out.
Steady, Hector!’</p>

<p>Hector, the impatient, didn’t see the use of
stopping so near home: indeed, gave two or three
tugs and rushes before Mr. Banneret got clear of
the buggy. Then there was great kissing and
hugging, to be sure, from the half-dozen children,
who hung round Daddy’s neck and kissed impartially,
taking any part of him that came handy.
There were four girls and three boys of differing
ages and sizes, from Reggie, aged fourteen, and
Eric, ten, to Jack and Jill, aged five, and a
rose-faced pet of three, who demanded to be taken
<a name="png.083" id="png.083" href="#png.083"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>79<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>into the buggy forthwith. So did the entire troop.
But a compromise was effected by the girls getting
in, and the boys electing to walk home. The load
made no appreciable difference—eleven, including
five adults and six children, had been carted
eight miles on their first introduction to the
district, in the same trap, the redoubtable Hector
being quite as hard to hold then as now.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Such a paradise as home (blessed place and
blessed word) appeared to the far-travelled father
and husband! We pass over the mutual greetings
of wife and husband—matters too sacred for
descriptive analysis—‘with whose joy the stranger
intermeddleth not.’ That they ‘kissed again with
tears,’ on one side at any rate, may be conceded.
All had gone well during the house-father’s
absence. Hector had been lame for a week—which
had led to anxiety. No cause could be
assigned; but the shoeing smith was suspected of
a tap with his hammer, as a hint to stand still.
He declined to confess, but relieved his mind by
abusing Hector as the most impatient, troublesome
old wretch whose leg he had ever lifted. Anyhow,
he was quite well again, and ‘flasher than ever’—this
was the second son’s contribution to the
case.</p>

<p>Next morning, in the pre-breakfast stroll,
the springing crops—the wide alluvial flats—the
lucerne fields—the dairy herd—the stud of
well-bred horses—all appealed to the wanderer’s
tastes and early associations; the delightful
country attributes of a long-held fertile
<a name="png.084" id="png.084" href="#png.084"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>80<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>estate—inherited by the present proprietor. The
Commissioner was indeed but a tenant, dwelling
in the ‘barton,’ so to speak, in old
English term—the manor was the Squire’s by
inheritance and occupation since he had come of
age. A new house had been built soon after the
auspicious occasion of his marriage; while, on
the Commissioner’s arrival in the district, the
roomy, old-fashioned cottage, with large rambling
garden and aged orchard, had been gladly rented
by him. For a man in his position, no more
suitable place could have been found. The
families became fast friends, and, what is more to
the purpose, remained so for the whole decade
during which the Commissioner’s official duties
attached him to the district. The green fields
and pastures were as much his as their owner’s, in
the sense that a woodland scene belongs to him
who can appreciate the lovely, verdant landscape.
In earliest spring—in the bracing, but never
severe winter of the South land—amid evergreen
forests and running streams, even in the torrid
summer, when the fresh, dry air has no enervating
tendency—in the still dreamy autumn, ere yet the
first hint of frost has shown itself in the yellowing
oaks and elms—children they of the far north
home-land—how good was the outlook! The
Commissioner loved these demarcations of the
changing year. In the river, which divided the
great meadows from the estate of a neighbouring
potentate, his boys learned to swim, and, both in
the early summer morn and lingering eve, were
eager to plunge into its cool depths, or unwilling
<a name="png.085" id="png.085" href="#png.085"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>81<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>to return in time for the evening meal, to race and
splash over the pebbly shallows. There were
well-grassed paddocks for their ponies as well as
for Hector and Paris, and their father’s hackney.
They established also, it may be easily surmised,
trial races and contests with the sons of the house,
and by degrees developed the equine association,
which helped them notably in the aftertime of
polo, hunting, and four-in-hand driving—when
such pastimes and practice became suitable to their
age and position.</p>

<p>It was a happy time then, with occasional
exceptions, for the years of early youth that the
children spent at Carjagong; for the parents also,
though work was constant, and the just soul of
Proconsul Paterfamilias was often vexed by malign
editors and Radical demagogues, who stirred
up strife in his kingdom, but he was supported
by the more thoughtful of the mining population,
as well as by the gentry of the district, with whom
the family were always on good terms. A yearly
or biennial visit to the cities of the coast gave all
hands a taste of social life, and, with a breath of
the sea breezes, a sight of the ocean wave and the
world-famed harbour. So the family grew up:
the girls into vigorous, independent maidens,
riding and driving, reading and dancing alternately—with
equal enthusiasm, as is the wont of
the country-reared damsel, whether in Britain or
Australia, Galway or Goulburn. There is, it must
be allowed, in both hemispheres a note of freshness,
vigour, and vitality observable in the country
cousins, to which the town denizens, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">blasées</i> with
<a name="png.086" id="png.086" href="#png.086"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>82<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>unnumbered dissipations, rarely attain. Added to
the ordinary accomplishments, in which they were
fairly proficient, they had from time to time
personal experience of the household duties, which
the dearth of female domestics—then as now a
grave matter of concern on the part of matrons—rendered
necessary. Thus it must be allowed
that for the position of chatelaine, to which, in
due course of time, they might reasonably aspire,
they were fairly equipped.</p>

<p>And the sons of the house, destined in days to
come to work in distant States, or ‘outside’
regions, calling for leaders in the various industries
of a great, almost boundless continent, would be
found not unequal in brain or muscle to the duties
imposed on them. Sons and grandsons of pioneers,
they inherited the thirst for adventure which had
brought the founder of the family, sea-borne in his
own galley, like a Viking of old, so far across the
restless main, to the new world under the Southern
Cross. And now the abiding-place of the Bannerets
was again to be changed. Leaving on former
occasions their established residences in or near the
principal cities of the coast, where flower-gardens
bloomed, and orchards bore their annual store of
tropical or British fruits, they had voyaged, or
journeyed, to new, unpeopled regions. The same
experience had been repeated—the building, the
planting, the rearing of stock, the turning of waste
land into fields and gardens, vineyards and olive-yards—sometimes
for the benefit of the exiled
family, more often for the use and reward of others
when the route was given once again.</p>

<p><a name="png.087" id="png.087" href="#png.087"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>83<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>There had been sadness and heartburnings on
all these occasions of uprooting ties and friendships
which more than once had struck deep into a
kindly soil; but the inherited pioneer instinct had
triumphed over all regrets. Sometimes the exodus
had been from a country life to that of cities;
then the regret was softened by the anticipation of
metropolitan privileges—the meeting with friends
and relatives, the enchantments of novelty and
romance. Still, again, the departure from these
new delights to a distant, untried region, a strange
environment, an unknown society, was proportionately
distasteful.</p>

<p>But the Bannerets were an adaptable race:
they soon familiarised themselves with new surroundings.
Hot or cold, plain or forest, ‘out
back’ or near town, it seemed alike to them.
They discovered kindred spirits in the strangers
amongst whom, for the first time, they were
thrown. They were sociable to the point of
tolerating those whom they could not admire;
being civil and friendly to all sorts and conditions
of men, ready to do a kindness whenever such
opportunity came in their way, while preserving,
as far as in them lay, that standard of conduct and
manners which had been habitual from childhood.
Small wonder, then, that they never left one of
the country towns, to which the exigencies of
official or pastoral life guided their steps, without
public regrets being expressed. A presentation in
every case accompanied the address, which, in the
shape of coin of the realm, was not unwelcome.
Their residence in this, a fertile as well as
<a name="png.088" id="png.088" href="#png.088"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>84<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>gold-bearing district, had exceeded the usual term, and
the manifestations of public sympathy were therefore
more general and pronounced.</p>

<p>To be sure, on the following morning after the
Commissioner’s arrival, when it was announced that
he had decided to ask for three months’ leave of
absence, and to retire at the end of that time from
the Government service, there was a certain excitement,
almost a commotion.</p>

<p>Many of the inhabitants, who had accepted the
rule of the Commissioner without any particular
enthusiasm, were always willing to admit that
he was a man ready to work in season or out of
season, whenever there was public duty to be performed—considerate
and impartial—treating the
Christian or the Chinaman according to the Act
and Regulations in such cases made and provided,
and to no other code, moral or otherwise; an
official almost ceaselessly employed during the
waking hours—often before sunrise, or after dark,
by the journeys which his duties of inspection
rendered indispensable; rarely known to be tired,
ill, or discourteous; ready alike to hear as patiently
the case of the humblest miner as that of the most
powerful syndicate;—such was his record for the
ten long years that he had lived among them in
almost daily intercourse. A judge and a ruler,
moreover, whose decisions, in the words of an
influential local journal, ‘had been rarely appealed
against, and still more rarely reversed.’</p>

<p>As in many other possessions and privileges,
the benefits of which are not sufficiently valued
until in danger of being lost, great was the outcry,
<a name="png.089" id="png.089" href="#png.089"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>85<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>many the professions of regret, when the news of
resignation was confirmed. Where were they to
get another man versed in their mining laws?</p>

<p>Then the family, that was another important
consideration. From the lady of the house
downward, they were favourites in the district.
Friendly and sympathetic with all classes, there
was no case of sorrow or distress where they were
not helpful in aid, as far as their means allowed.
Fond of amusement in a rational way, they joined
in all the social and public entertainments with a
cordiality which notably tended towards their success—pecuniary
or otherwise. At bazaars for charitable
purposes, hospital balls, race meetings, and other
enterprises, they were well to the fore—entering
into the spirit of the entertainments and giving
unstinted personal service. And now, the Commissioner
and this exceptional family were about
to leave them and be replaced, possibly, by a
formal, ceremonious personage, who disliked the
mining duties of his appointment, and was concerned
chiefly with the magisterial routine of
Court, and Petty Sessions duty, which he would
(erroneously) consider more dignified and aristocratic
than riding hither and thither in all kinds of
weather, early and late, inspecting shafts, and,
indeed, descending occasionally into the bowels of
the earth, where a feeling of insecurity was painfully
present. On the other hand, this gloomy
probability might not be realised. There were
popular Commissioners and able Police Magistrates
yet to be found in the land. Many of them had
wives and daughters capable of irradiating the
<a name="png.090" id="png.090" href="#png.090"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>86<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>social atmosphere and helping in all good works.
They must keep a good heart, and hope for the
best; and if they could not keep their proconsul,
so to speak, for the term of his natural life—which
would be unjust on the face of it, inasmuch as he
had dropped on a veritable ‘golden hole,’—they
must wish him luck, and give him a good ‘send
off.’ And to that end, the best plan now was to
hold a public meeting, appoint a strong committee,
and show what the miners of the great
alluvial field of Barrawong could do to show their
appreciation of ‘a man and a gentleman,’ a friend
of every miner, rich or poor, and a magistrate
whom every man on the field respected, even
when he decided against him. This, of course,
took time, but everybody worked with a will, and
the committee, composed of leading miners, storekeepers,
bankers, and magistrates of the district,
made great progress. Dinners were given in his
honour, speeches were made, even a ball was
‘tendered to him and his amiable family’—such
were the words of the invitation in which reference
was made to all the good qualities which could be
packed into any given official, and freely attributed
to him. The ball was a great success; the room
was handsomely decorated with the great fronds
of the tree fern, the mimosa, and other botanical
favourites, intermixed with flags of all nations,
which, indeed, the festive company represented.
The Mayor in the opening quadrille danced with
Mrs. Banneret, the Commissioner with the
Mayoress, and according to their degree, as in
more aristocratic circles, the other sets were
<a name="png.091" id="png.091" href="#png.091"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>87<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>arranged. That ball was a pronounced success.
It was referred to, at intervals, for years afterwards,
as the Commissioner’s farewell ball. Not only
were the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">élite</i> of the mining community present,
but the families of the leading residents of the
district for many miles round, who had travelled
long distances in order to attend. Mrs. Banneret
was driven home at a comparatively early period
in the evening, but the Commissioner, who had
been devoted to dancing in his youth, and was not
now beyond the age when that charming exercise
can be enjoyed, remained until the ‘wee short
hour ayont the twal’,’ when finding that the gate
of the stable-yard was locked, and the groom
asleep, he felt himself almost in a quandary.
However, being a man of resource, as from his
varied occupations he needed to be, he saddled his
well-known cob, and leading that well-trained
hackney through the back door of the hotel parlour,
and across the floor, he made a safe exit by the
front, and reached home without let or hindrance.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>After years of settled official work—not hard
or distasteful, but still compulsory and exacting—there
is always an exhilarating feeling, resulting
from the knowledge that henceforth the trammels
of regulated occupation are loosed for ever. Like
the freed bird darting into the blithe sunshine, the
wide world seems opened, as in our boyhood, to
an exhaustless series of wonders and privileges
impossible in the earlier stages of life for
lack of time, opportunity, money—if you will.
Travelling, the very salt of life, has been sparely,
<a name="png.092" id="png.092" href="#png.092"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>88<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>if at all, enjoyed. There are cities to visit—art
treasures in which to revel—every kind and degree
of rational enjoyment open to him and those dear
ones whose welfare had always been his highest
aim and consideration.</p>

<p>It is a matter generally of chastened, peaceful
enjoyment to the released official of any degree,
when, as dear ‘Elia’ phrases it, he can ‘go home
for good’—with an income sufficient to provide
suitably for the declining years of life. But what
must be his feelings when such a man is suddenly
translated into a position of affluence—to wealth
beyond his wildest dreams? Hardly that, perhaps,
as every one connected with a goldfield can dream,
and generally does, of the lease so slow ‘in beating
the water,’ the reef so unwilling to ‘jump’ from
pennyweights to ounces, floating him out to
measureless wealth, celebrity, and world-wide
fame. Now, however, for the Commissioner all
the anxieties, uncertainties, and regrets of daily
life had suddenly come to an end. The ‘Last
Chance’ was a proved, triumphant success—seven
to ten ounces to the ton, the great reef doing
better and better as it went down—the richest
claim in the richest and, for the future, the largest
goldfield in Australia—the end of doubt, debt, and
difficulty had come. “His fortune was made!”<!-- TN: original has single closing quote -->
The well-worn phrase in commonest use among all
classes and conditions, trite and terse, even vulgarly
so, but how comprehensive! The open sesame to
how many doors, gates, and treasure-caves of
delights innumerable, jealously guarded in the past.
What a heaven in anticipation seemed opening
<a name="png.093" id="png.093" href="#png.093"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>89<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>before him! But even then a half-regretful feeling
arose—a sigh escaped for the old, fully
occupied life of ‘pleasure and pain,’ when ‘the
hardest day was never then too hard.’ Certainly
there had been doubts, wearying anxieties, troubles,
burdens of debt, disappointments; but, as a set-off,
the family had enjoyed, on the whole, excellent
health, high spirits, and reasonable comfort.</p>

<p>He himself had never had, with one exception
(an intrusive fever), a day’s illness, or absence
from work on that account. Would this Arcadian
state of matters be continuous in the future? He
did not know—who can tell what a day may bring
forth? He would be separated from his family
for months at a time. This was inevitable. The
goldfield was distant, and at the most dangerous
period of occupation,—scourged with typhoid
fever, pneumonia, influenza, dysentery, what not?
Afflicting fatally the young and brave, the old and
feeble, the hardy miner and the immature tourist,
how would his family fare? Of course he would not
take his wife and children there—the thought was
impossible. Heat and dust, bad water, bad food,
flies in myriads, no domestic servants, or merely
the outlaws of the industrial army—the thought
was too distasteful! So, even at this stage, the
prosperity was not unalloyed; what condition of
human existence is, when we come to think?
Dangers thicken at every step in the battle of life,
but better they a hundredfold than the cankers,
the ‘moth and rust’ of inglorious peace. ‘However,’
thought Banneret, as he roused himself
from this introspective reverie, ‘here is a state of
<a name="png.094" id="png.094" href="#png.094"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>90<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>so-called prosperity, for which I have been longing,
consciously or otherwise, all my life; and now that
it <em>has</em> come, why am I indulging in useless regrets
and imaginary, unreal drawbacks? Surely, as I
have fought against trouble and discouragement
in the past, I ought not to waver at the ideal fairyland
in the future.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The final arrangements which heralded the
departure of the Banneret family from Carjagong,
where they had led a tranquil and, on the whole,
happy existence, were carried out successfully.
The address and testimonial were presented in
due form. In the address the departing official
was credited with all the virtues; and the testimonial,
which took the form of coin of the realm,
was a liquid asset which had been decidedly useful
in former flittings of exceptional expensiveness.</p>

<p>They reached Sydney, by coach and train, without
mishap or difficulty. The children were joyous,
and unceasing in their wonder and admiration of
wayside novelties, including snow, to a fall of
which they were, for the first time in their lives,
introduced.</p>

<p>The day on which they re-entered Sydney will
always be marked with a white stone in the annals
of the family. It was the opening month of the
southern spring, and no more brilliant specimen
of that gladsome season could have been presented
to the eyes of the travellers. They had left a
region where, though the climate was comparatively
mild, the lingering winter months were austere.
Hence the semi-tropical warmth of the air, the
<a name="png.095" id="png.095" href="#png.095"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>91<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>blue, cloudless sky of the metropolis, were grateful
as novelties to the wayfarers from the interior.
The younger olive-branches had of course in their
ten years’ sojourn rarely seen the sea; the elder
ones had but dim remembrance of it; and when
the first sight of the historic harbour burst upon
their gaze from the balcony of their hotel, a cry
of wonder and amazement could not be suppressed,
in spite of the nurse’s remonstrance.</p>

<p>‘Not quite so much noise, my dears!’ said the
watchful mother. ‘You must learn not to shout
and cry out at everything you see, or else people
will think you are wild bush children, that have
never been taught anything. You will see so
many new things every day.’</p>

<p>‘Yes, we know, mother,’ said the eldest girl.
‘But there is only <em>one</em> harbour! Doesn’t it look
bright and beautiful to-day? It is almost calm,
like a great lake. How the little white-sailed
boats go skimming over it, like sea-birds! There
is a beautiful ship being towed in by a little tug
steamer. And, oh, here comes the mail-boat; how
quiet and dignified she is! She wants no tug,
does she? That’s the best of a steamer: she can
get along, fair weather or foul.’</p>

<p>‘Sometimes, when a great storm catches her,
even she has to “slow down,” as sailors say; but
generally, of course, she is independent of wind
and weather. And now it is nearly lunch time,
so we must all go and get ready.’</p>

<p>‘I went out in a sailing-boat,’ said Reggie, with
an air of experience, ‘last summer when I was
down. Didn’t she lean over, too? But, oh, how
<a name="png.096" id="png.096" href="#png.096"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>92<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>she did cut through the water! It was grand.
And another day Mr. Northam took out me and
the Merton boys in his steam-yacht to Middle
Harbour. I liked that almost better. We had
such a jolly lunch, and went on shore afterwards.
It was ever so hot, so we bathed, and ate rock
oysters, and had no end of fun. The country’s
all very well, but give me the sea at Christmas
time.’</p>

<p>‘You’ll be at the King’s School next week,’
said his mother, with quiet emphasis, ‘so I advise
you to make the most of your time for a few days.
I can’t have you idling about town, and losing
precious opportunities.’</p>

<p>Reggie’s face fell just the least bit at this
announcement, but soon recovered its uniformly
cheerful expression.</p>

<p>‘Can’t we stay till we go into the new house;
that won’t be long, I suppose?’</p>

<p>‘Not a day longer than I can help, my boy.
School is your most important affair for the next
three or four years, and your father expects you
to distinguish yourselves—that is, you and Eric;
Jack must stay with Miss Charters for another
year. Just fancy what a fine time you’ll have!
Ever so many playfellows—cricket and football,
hare and hounds, steeplechases, all kinds of games.
You’ll be so happy after the first week that you
won’t want to come home.’</p>

<p>‘I shall never feel like <em>that</em>, mother!’ said the
boy feelingly. ‘Don’t make any mistake.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The eventful step was fully carried out; a
<a name="png.097" id="png.097" href="#png.097"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>93<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>comfortable house in one of the picturesque
suburbs of Sydney was rented and furnished; the
father’s farewells were made—those adieus sometimes
temporary, but which the heart is prone to
suggest may be eternal; and as the mail-boat
majestically moved on her course through the
great sandstone gates of the landlocked haven, the
tears fell fast from the eyes of more than one of
the little party as her smoke faded from view
behind the lofty headland.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Again the week-long voyage—the sighting of
the far western ports—the hasty landing—the
railway crowding—the short stay at Perth—the
uneventful, uninteresting overland journey through
country which nothing but the possession of goldfields
could render interesting, though occasionally
touching upon patches more or less agricultural or
pastoral. The motley crowd of pilgrims to the
Mecca of Mammon was indeed a medley, as are
all goldfields crusades. Runaway sailors, deserting
soldiers, shepherds, stockriders, navvies, nobodies,
gentlemen ‘formerly in the army,’ Cambridge
and Oxford graduates, ex-Queensland squatters—some
with two horses, some with a packhorse
only, but by far the greater number depending
entirely upon the all-sufficing ‘bluey’ (or blue
blanket) carried on the shoulders, and containing
the owner’s food, wardrobe, cooking utensils, and
worldly possessions generally. Southern Cross, a
year-old town, was not materially different in
architecture, dust, flies, banks, and blasphemy,
from ‘rushes’ with which the Commissioner had
<a name="png.098" id="png.098" href="#png.098"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>94<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>been familiar, only ‘more so,’ perhaps—every
discomfort and departure from civilised life being
strongly accentuated. A much-begrudged hour
or two was spent, or rather wasted here, and
through the clear, starlit night the expedition
pushed silently onward. Taking counsel of past
experience, the leader had left little to the chances
of the journey. He had provided a substantial
waggonette, heavier than the first vehicle in which
he and old Waters had travelled to the Pilot
Mount; a forty-gallon cask for water—a good-sized
condenser, in case they ran short of the
indispensable element—chaff and oats sufficient
for their four horses, with tinned meat and fish to
ensure a variety of ‘cuisine’; rifles, repeaters,
and double-barrels, with revolvers in good order,
and plenty of ammunition; also a fair-sized tent,
with folding-table and seats, as a lengthened stay
at the claim, which was now a certainty, would
need these accessories for reasonable comfort,
now that there was no doubt of the reef
being permanent, rich, wide, and going down
equally so—indeed better the deeper it went down.
After leaving Southern Cross the desert journey
recommenced, but now there was no difficulty in
finding the road. Every kind of track was printed
in large type upon the broad sheet of the Waste.
Carts and waggons, horses and bullock teams, had
been there. The camels, following one behind the
other, had left their soft, narrow paths through
sand-hill and spinifex plain, salt lake and clay
pan. This they could note as they went through
mulga and low acacia scrub until Pilot Hill, as
<a name="png.099" id="png.099" href="#png.099"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>95<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the eminence had been named, was sighted. Some
of the ‘soaks’ emptied by the horses and camel
trains had not refilled, but their reserve of cask
water stood well to them in temporary need. And
after a journey neither protracted nor arduous,
they greeted old Jack and Southwater, who had
managed to put up a comfortable shanty, and
pointed proudly to a ‘township’ of tents, and
hessian edifices, occupying a considerable stretch of
country.</p>

<p>Great congratulations greeted them from the
resident partners, and much curiosity was expressed
as to the nature of the supplies which they had
brought with them, as well as of those which were
to follow on, with the machinery, and all the component
parts of the up-to-date plant, which were
even now on the road. As the prospectors and
shareholders in the Reward Claim, they were objects
of respectful admiration, and praised in the local
newspapers for endurance, high intelligence,
courage, all sorts of heroic qualities—the whole
finished off with the golden crown of success,
which never fails to irradiate the wearer and his
surroundings.</p>

<p>Awaking from his humble but not uncomfortable
couch in the tent, which had been pitched
without loss of time, Arnold Banneret gazed
around the wide expanse with grateful and, indeed,
enviable feelings. Here was, if not the goal of his
ambition, a near approach to it. He had neared
the winning-post, and though the trophy had not
as yet been placed in his hands, there was no
moral doubt that he would shortly be in possession
<a name="png.100" id="png.100" href="#png.100"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>96<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>of the coveted prize—and what a prize it would
be! Well worth the toil, the risk, the anxiety
which he had gone through, the years of hard
work—sometimes indeed pressing closely upon his
powers of mind and body. With but a moderate
income, he had cheerfully faced the task of providing
for the wants of a large family. They had
been fed and clothed, educated and prepared for
their station in life as gentlefolk. At times there
had been but the narrowest margin—at times
painful doubt, depressing anxiety.</p>

<p>But the parents had never despaired. A gleam
of hope—a ray of sunshine even when skies were
darkest—had never failed to illumine the path.
One of the partners in the social-personal-national
enterprise (it is unnecessary to inquire which) had
never faltered or swerved from the solemn contract;
and now, after years of doubt and struggle,
the goal was won. Success was assured—it was
almost a moral certainty,—a life-long provision
for him and his, an assured position, a name and
fame, even distinction, for all their future life.
As he stood before his tent door and watched the
red-gold sun invade the unclouded firmament,
when the morning mists, unlike the heavier masses
of more favoured climes, made haste to disperse
and disappear, he could have fancied himself an
Arab sheikh. There were no Bedouins within
sight, a fact on which he congratulated himself.
But a long line of camels with their turbaned
drivers, coming ‘up from the under world,’ supplied
proof that the desert conditions were not wholly,
absolutely non-existent.</p>

<p><a name="png.101" id="png.101" href="#png.101"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>97<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>How differently indeed the point of view adds
to or subtracts from the treatment of any given
situation. To the famished explorer with beaten
horses or starving camels, how drear and terrible
the outlook over the ‘sun-scorched desert, wild
and bare’—the stunted shrubs, the stony surface,
the arid waste! Weak and low, faint with
hunger, or frantic with thirst, he can barely
summon sufficient energy to make one last effort
for the hidden spring and—life.</p>

<p>Here, before the Commissioner, lay the same
landscape—but for the scattered huts and tents, as
carelessly distributed over the forlorn levels as if
they had been rained down from the sky in some
abnormal storm-burst. Yet the man in front of
the tent saw so much besides the dusky levels—the
stunted, colourless copses, with their distorted,
dwarfish acacia trees—the restless team and saddle
horses crowding around the drays as if imploring
provender, too sensible of the sterility of the land
to waste time in wandering on a vain search for
pasture. The risen sun, which so many a fainting
straggler cursed, as the red globe rose higher
through the pitiless firmament, was to him the
symbol of honour and happiness to come. The
far distance, in which a pale mist shrouded the
naked rocks and scarred cliffs of a barrier range,
was grandly mysterious in his eyes, as concealing
treasure untold. The bells which now commenced
to mingle and blend as the teams came in, or were
driven towards the Pilot Mount, clanged and
jangled not without a certain rude melody. An
occasional flight of waterfowl on their way to the
<a name="png.102" id="png.102" href="#png.102"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>98<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>coast, or a far inland lake, passed in swaying files
high overhead—guided, who shall say by what
course of reasoning or memory, to river, mere, or
lake? And like the historic mariner, his heart
went out to the birds, and ‘he blessed them
unawares.’ His heart, full of joy and thankfulness,
was softened by the relief from care which had
been granted to him, and he wished well to all
living things. The day which began with the
sun’s blessing on him and his, so to speak,
continued and ended with the same—in strict
consonance with the feelings of the principal shareholder
in the ‘Last Chance,’ now far heralded as a
treasure claim. As the sun rose high and yet
higher at mid-day, and lingeringly dwelt up crag
and hollow, sand waste and scrub, until the utmost
limit of his course, it was more or less oppressive
to the crowd of toilers, who had worked since
dawn. But what of that? The air was dry, fresh,
and, to the unworn constitutions of the greater
number of the workers on ‘the field,’ invigorating.
There was no hint of enervating moisture in the
heated air which the north wind sent along, in
steady waves, from the innermost deserts. Clothing
was of the lightest possible texture, and as
little of it as conventions would allow—though
here, as in all Australian congregations, when
leisure and recreation cried truce to the excitement
of toil, the canons of British taste were observed.
And in favour of the climate, which had no
tropical disabilities or defects, the nights—inestimable
blessing—were cool.</p>

<p>The breakfast hour permitted a free and full
<a name="png.103" id="png.103" href="#png.103"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>99<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>discussion of ways and means—men and machinery—past
and present—with sketch notes of the
general rise and progress of the partnership during
his absence.</p>

<p>Nothing could have been more satisfactory.
‘The men had all worked first-rate,’ old Jack said—‘the
swell as hard as any of ’em—perhaps
harder.’ Mr. Southwater was a terror for hard
graft, and would have a claim of his own some
day. He was a born bushman, could work dead
reckoning, and would make a smart sailor-man, if
ever he got the chance. He’d come to something,
no fear! Con Heffernan was as good a chap as
ever handled a pick—a ‘rale white man.’ Everything
had gone on first-rate—no rows, and all as
smooth as a greased hide rope.</p>

<p>Mr. Newstead said he thought he would go
home, now he could raise the passage money
on his shares; but he’d leave a good man in his
place. To which determination he promptly gave
effect. All was now plain sailing. Of course
there was hard unremitting work. From daylight
to dark, no rest for head and hand; but then there
was much to show for it. The arrivals of men
and merchandise were large and exciting. Carpenters,
machinists, ‘wages men’—as ordinary mine
labourers were called—arrived in hundreds.</p>

<p>Claims were taken up for miles around the Pilot
Mount, in every direction: claims for alluvial;
reef claims, wherever there was a lump of quartz
as big as a cricket ball; water claims, wherever<!-- TN: original has linebreak, hyphenated as "where-ever" -->
the drainage from a ‘soak’ would fill a bucket
in a day; ‘dry-blowing claims,’ wherever a
<a name="png.104" id="png.104" href="#png.104"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>100<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>speck of gold could be extracted by one of the
most primitive of all processes. All this various
assemblage contributed doubtless to the name and
fame of the far-bruited ‘Last Chance,’ of which
the shares rose in value until the original holders
looked on themselves as prospective, if not indeed,
actual millionaires. But there was another side
to the shield, which commenced to make itself
clearly apparent through the somewhat blurred
and distorted social atmosphere.</p>

<p>Among the miscellaneous crowd of adventurers
and tourists who had dared the privations of
desert travel, was a contingent of lady nurses.
These meritorious women, not less daring than
the reckless miners who had faced death in so
many shapes, in so many lands, had joined
the army of hope at the earliest stage that
transit could be guaranteed. <em>They</em> knew, none
better, how soon the fever scourge of crowded
camps, civil or military, would ‘take up a claim,’
ever widening and expansive, sheltered by the
dark wing of Azrael. How many a day, how
many a night, in burning heat or freezing cold, had
each volunteer for the ‘forlorn hope’ of Christian
charity watched by the delirious, fever-stricken
patient, whose fate it was to sink lower and lower,
until he gasped out his life, holding the hand of
his truest friend in need, or, faintly rallying, lived
to greet the ‘opening paradise’ of ‘the common
air, the fields, the skies,’ and to know himself once
more a man among men!</p>

<p>At first, in the inevitable turmoil, the rush
and hurry of a big and daily-growing field, but
<a name="png.105" id="png.105" href="#png.105"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>101<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>scant attention was bestowed upon the dread
disease, or the ‘cases’ which began to multiply.
The report that Jack Wilson was ‘down with the
fever,’ or Pat Murphy had ‘got it bad, and
mightn’t recover,’ was little heeded, but when
poor Pat died, and was followed to the grave by
an imposing array of miners, public interest was
aroused. A committee of miners and citizens was
elected, a hospital site was determined upon, and
on the following day (Monday) a building of
hessian and poles was commenced, and notable
progress made before nightfall. Subscriptions
poured in: the big mine gave twenty guineas,
other firms and claims in proportion, but all
liberally, not to say generously, and, within a
week, a building not particularly ornate, but
weather-tight, and suitably provided with beds and
subdivisions, with the all-sufficing corrugated iron
roof, was ‘inaugurated,’ as the local journal
proudly described the opening ceremony, by a
large and influential gathering of citizens. It may
be mentioned that the mining arrangement of
eight-hour ‘shifts’ was resorted to, the urgency
of the occasion justifying this departure from
routine and trade habitudes.</p>

<p>The ex-Commissioner had always, at his several
commands and headquarters, taken an interest
in the hospital question, having in his official life
been brought into contact with the dreadful
accidents and deadly epidemics from which no
mining communities are free. So he made it
his business to call in due form upon the nurses,
who formed the vanguard of the Nightingale
<a name="png.106" id="png.106" href="#png.106"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>102<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>battalion, and assure them of his sympathetic aid
if such should be needed. He ordered improvements
to be made in the buildings, and guaranteed
the expense incurred. He also arranged a ‘little
dinner’ in their honour at the principal (and
only) hotel, to which, besides his partner, Mr. Southwater, he invited the Warden of the district,
as well as other persons in authority, and a few
leading citizens with their wives. The entertainment
passed off extremely well, and was appreciated
by the mining contingent, as recognising the lady
nurses’ position and, as such, giving them social
standing.</p>

<p>It was just as well that Mr. Banneret made
himself acquainted with the hospital and the
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">personnel</i> of its guardian angels—a term used by
himself in the aftertime—as, within a month after
the official opening, he was himself an inmate of
the institution referred to.</p>

<p>Yes! there was no immunity, no safeguarding
by means of careful sanitation at the claim,
temperate living, box baths (though these were
in the nature of luxuries), an elevated situation—precautions
which, under other circumstances, and
in other places, had baffled the fever fiend. First
a queer feeling, half-cold and shivering, half-hot
and feverish; then a racking headache, vainly
endured, and struggled against in hope of relief—worse
on the next day; then the ordinary
symptoms: a sleepless night, a half-conscious
feeling of ‘lightheadedness.’ On the morrow,
word went through the camp that Mr. Banneret,
of the great Reward Claim at Pilot Mount, was
<a name="png.107" id="png.107" href="#png.107"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>103<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>in the hospital, ‘down with typhoid.’ The
building had been full for days, but one bed had
been vacated, at the instance of Head Physician
Death, and into the empty cot the ‘respected chief
shareholder in the well-known Reward Claim’
(see the <cite>Miner’s Mentor</cite> of the day, ‘Personal
Column’) and ex-Commissioner of Barrawong was
deposited. On the morning which followed, the
patient was in a high fever, raving in delirium,
temperature 105 degrees. The doctor pronounced
it a definite case of typhoid. On the first day of
the seizure—how sudden and cruel it was!—he had
written to his wife that he had dropped in for a
‘feverish attack,’ but not to be alarmed—would
probably pass off in a day or two—she knew he
had felt that way before; but had thought it
wiser, considering the heat of the climate, to go
to bed for a day or two. The hospital was really
most comfortable, and well managed; in Mrs. Lilburne he had, she would be glad to hear, a
most capable and attentive nurse. She was on
no account to be alarmed, or to <em>dream</em> of coming
over—which would only be an expensive and disagreeable
journey for her. Mrs. Lilburne would
write and tell her how he was getting on. It was
a great nuisance—indeed, most disappointing—that
this sort of thing should have happened, and
that he had more than once been tempted to
wish himself back at poor old Barrawong; though,
of course, they had gone through the same epidemic
there, when poor young Danvers, the curate at
the township, and Mr. Thornton, who was past
middle age, with ever so many other people, had
<a name="png.108" id="png.108" href="#png.108"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>104<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>died, and it seemed to be in the nature of a lottery
who should catch it and who should escape, who
should live and who should die. He was glad to
hear that Reggie was getting on so well at school,
and that the other children were thriving. He
had got little Winnie’s letter, and would answer
it to-morrow, etc. When the morrow came, as
before stated, he was not in a condition to write
or read letters, or indeed to perform any of the
literary duties which had previously occupied much
of his time. The doctor and the nurse were
engaged in anxious consultation—the one taking
his temperature, which the nurse registered very
carefully; both faces wearing a very serious,
indeed anxious expression.</p>

<p>‘You think it will go hard with him, doctor?’
queried she.</p>

<p>‘Can’t say at this stage,’ said the medico, with
a professional air of immobility; ‘must run its
course. A great deal will depend on his constitution
and the nursing. I am glad it was <em>your</em> turn,
Mrs. Lilburne.’</p>

<p>‘He shan’t fail for that, doctor, if I keep going,’
said the pale, refined-looking woman.</p>

<p>‘I know, I know,’ replied the man of life and
death. ‘But don’t <em>you</em> get laid up, or I don’t
know what we shall do. Good morning!’ And
the hard-worked physician walked out, and drove
off along the dusty track at a pace much above
the regulation rate.</p>

<p>‘That Mrs. Lilburne, as she called herself,’
thought he—‘I don’t know whether it’s her right
name, or, indeed, whether any of their names are
<a name="png.109" id="png.109" href="#png.109"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>105<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a><em>really</em> their own—a lot of mystery about nurses in
back block hospitals, I’ve always found—but this
one is different from the rank and file. I wonder
what her history is—must have some sort of <em>past</em>,
as the new slang is: husband cleared out from
her, or she from him; married before, and forgot
to mention it. Talk about lawyers having secrets!
we doctors could beat them hollow if we only
chose to let them out—which we don’t. We are
the real father confessors, if the world only knew.
Anyhow, this poor chap is lucky to have Madonna
Lilburne to look after him. I’m afraid it’s a poor
look-out for him; hard lines, too, when he’s the
richest man on the field. Fortune of war, I
suppose; can’t be helped.’</p>

<p>The patient had written a comforting letter, as
he thought, to his wife. It had, however, quite a
different effect. Mrs. Banneret knew her husband
of old, and could gauge his every thought and
action.</p>

<p>A man averse to speaking of minor ailments,
he was always worse than he appeared to be, in
consequence of this habit of reticence. He
despised the habit of complaint with which men
that he knew were in the habit of disturbing the
household and their wives. Consequently he fell
into the other extreme: delaying the notice which
would have procured aid or arrested illness. He
had repeated the imprudence, she could plainly
perceive. Fever probably had set in. He might
be even now in the dangerous stage. How
dangerous, how short the interval between it
and the last journalistic reference: ‘We regret to
<a name="png.110" id="png.110" href="#png.110"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>106<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>have to announce,’ etc., she knew well. Had she
not seen from the West Australian papers, which
she scanned so eagerly, the portentous death-roll,
in which she prayed to God—how earnestly who
can tell—that her husband’s name might never be
found? There was no time to be lost; join him
of course she would; was he to die, alone and
untended except by unknown, perhaps incapable
women, who had been lured to the goldfield by
exaggerated reports of easily found fortune—adventuresses,
or worse? It was agony to think of
his being left in such hands. She read and re-read
his letter—perhaps the last he would ever write.
Of course he had made the best of it; he always
did. But there was much to be done, much to
be thought out. The mail steamer sailed to-morrow.
She would—she <em>must</em> go to him. The
time was short—too short. The Adelaide express
would be in time? No! she would get on board—the
railway might meet with an accident—a
strike was threatened by the employees if wages
or privileges were reduced. Heartless wretches!
What did they care for sickness and death—the
grief of the widow, the orphans left fatherless?
It must be admitted that in this hour of misery,
almost of despair, her righteous indignation was
fervid, glowing, and would have burnt up the
Trades Hall delegates like so many priests of Baal
had she had the prophetic power.</p>

<p>With but a short interval granted to natural
sorrow, action was quickly taken. The children
were too young to be left unguarded. But in the
city where she, where her mother, indeed, had
<a name="png.111" id="png.111" href="#png.111"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>107<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>been born, she had many relatives—not a few
staunch family friends. They came forward in
her hour of need. A cousin, capable and sympathetic,
volunteered to supervise the household in
her absence. Needful preparation was quickly
made. Far into the night she sat and wrote,
leaving minute instructions—even farewells, in
case she took infection. And at noon on the
following day, amid the crowd of passengers on
board the <cite>Kashmir</cite>, bound for Europe <i>via</i> Western
Australia, stood Marcia, the wife of Arnold Banneret,
lately the Commissioner of Barrawong town
and district, but now the largest shareholder in the
well-known Reward Claim and—a patient in the
fever ward of Pilot Mount local hospital.</p>

<p>Shipwreck rarely occurs among first-class liners
like the <cite>Kashmir</cite>, P. &amp; O., but there <em>is</em> such a
thing as a broken shaft. As a rule it is calculable
within a few hours when such a marine miracle of
speed, comfort, and ordered energy arrives at her
destination. Such was the case when the <cite>Kashmir</cite>
arrived at Adelaide.</p>

<p>She was met at the landing by a friend of the
family, who handed her a <span class="nw">telegram:—</span></p>

<blockquote>
<p>On board P. &amp; O. steamer <cite>Kashmir</cite>.—Mr. Banneret
better. Dr. Horton considers crisis past. No need for haste.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>But the sick man’s wife was of a different way of
thinking. ‘I shall be for ever grateful to you for
your kindness,’ she said, ‘but I can only rest when I
am where my husband lies sick. Pray God it may
not be unto death, and that I am not too late.’</p>

<p>‘I can assure you,’ said the kindly matron,
<a name="png.112" id="png.112" href="#png.112"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>108<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>‘that you may trust Dr. Horton implicitly. He
objects to messages that disguise the truth. He
would not have permitted this to be sent if not
strictly reliable.’</p>

<p>‘Thank God! thank God! if it be so. And
now when does the train start?’</p>

<p>‘You won’t think of leaving to-night, surely?
We counted upon your staying with us till to-morrow.’</p>

<p>‘I am sorry to seem uncourteous, but I cannot
lose an hour that may be used in bringing me
nearer to him. I ordered my luggage to be sent
to the railway station. The Captain assured me
that it should be done.’</p>

<p>‘You are very determined,’ said Mrs. Hampton,
smiling, ‘but I will not press you further, if
you will stay with us on your return?’</p>

<p>‘Most willingly, and will do anything you like
to ask me. If my husband is well, and returning
with me, as I trust he will, you will find me quite
a different woman.’</p>

<p>‘Then we’ll have a cup of tea, and I’ll drive
you to the station. There is sure to be some one
we know going on, and I can assure you of a guide,
and perhaps a companion.’</p>

<p>Thus reassured, the wifely anxiety became somewhat
lessened, and she consented to a hasty meal
before being driven to the railway station. Here
she found that an engaged carriage had been
thoughtfully secured for her, and that her lighter
luggage had been placed therein, while the attentive
guard placed the checks in her hand for the
trunks.</p>

<p><a name="png.113" id="png.113" href="#png.113"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>109<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>With hearty thanks, and a cordial handclasp,
she said adieu to the friend in need. Just before
the train started, a well-dressed, ladylike woman
was introduced as Mrs. Wharton, and took her
seat beside her. ‘Nearly lost my passage,’ she
said, ‘but you know how one is rushed at the last
moment. However, here I am, and as I live near
Kalgoorlie, I shall be glad to give you any information
that may be useful. This is your first visit, I
hear.’</p>

<p>‘Yes, indeed! and but for my husband’s illness
I should not have thought of making it now.’</p>

<p>The strange lady’s face changed to an expression
of sympathy and regret, as she said, ‘Not too
serious, I hope?’</p>

<p>‘He is in the hospital, ill with typhoid fever.
I have had a telegram from the doctor attending
him. He thinks the crisis past, and that he is
mending.’</p>

<p>‘What was the doctor’s name?’</p>

<p>‘Horton. Mrs. Hampton said he was strictly
reliable.’</p>

<p>‘So he is. He always thinks it better that
people should be told the truth—you may depend
upon his report absolutely.’</p>

<p>‘Thank you so much! I feel encouraged to
think that the worst is over. You have been
living at Kalgoorlie, I think you said?’</p>

<p>‘Oh yes! for several years; but I have only
just returned from England, where my young
people are at school. They are all well, I am
thankful to say, and I am returning to live with
my husband for another two or three years, after
<a name="png.114" id="png.114" href="#png.114"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>110<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>which, as our mine, the “Golden Helmet,” is paying
well, I trust we may go to England for good.’</p>

<p>‘And do you like living here?’</p>

<p>‘Oh! I have to like it, or be separated from my
husband, which I could not endure. After all, the
life up here is not unendurable. The winter is
pleasant enough. And in the hottest part of the
summer we get away to the coast for a month or
two. It’s not so bad as one would think. We
visit about among ourselves. There are a few
nice families, and the young people have polo,
racing, and an occasional ball. We see many
English people of good family from time to time—more
perhaps than in the older communities—and
manage to exist very tolerably.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>So the day and the long night in the train
passed not uncomfortably. At the stopping stages
refreshments were procurable.</p>

<p>The wearied women slept soundly at intervals,
and as the morning broke, and found them still
speeding across the interminable waste, the cool
breeze, after they had dressed and breakfasted,
refreshed them considerably. Mrs. Banneret began
to lose the haggard air as of one expectant of evil—of
nameless dread, and responded to her companion’s
efforts to induce a more cheerful frame of mind.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Pilot Hill was descried at last—the township
reached; and then a journey had to be taken
by coach, for of course the mail service had been
contracted for by an American firm. Fast coaches,
with well-fed horses, had succeeded to the slow
<a name="png.115" id="png.115" href="#png.115"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>111<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>and toilsome waggonette-travelling. Short stages
were alone thought of, and with only a minimum
of discomfort Mrs. Banneret found herself at the
Royal Palace Hotel, where a note written with a
very shaky hand awaited <span class="nw">her:—</span></p>

<blockquote>
<p><span class="smc">My darling Wife</span>—I tried my best to prevent your
taking this unnecessary journey—you will own—but, as
usual, you would have your own way. A week ago it
looked as if you would arrive just in time to see my grave—in
the cemetery, which is filling all too quickly. Now,
thanks to Mrs. Lilburne and Dr. Horton, you will discover
what is left of me. I must leave off, and lie down
to gather strength to welcome you.—Always your fond
husband,

<span class="signature">Arnold Banneret.</span></p>
</blockquote>

<p>The woman knelt down in the queer little bedroom,
where she and her luggage—dust-covered
and travel-stained—had been deposited, and poured
forth her thanks to that Great Being who had once
again listened to her prayer, and restored him for
whose love and companionship she chiefly lived.
Only allowing the shortest interval for adjustment
of dress and removal of dust, Marcia Banneret
hardly waited for a guide to the hospital. That
reached, she walked quietly into the convalescent
ward, and kneeling by the bed which held a wasted,
pallid, altered man, whom she hardly at first recognised
as her husband, she flung herself on her
knees, and sobbed out her love for him and gratitude
to the Most High—almost in the same breath.</p>

<p>How changed from the strong man whom she
last saw at their old home!—a man whom travel,
toil, privation of any ordinary kind, in whatever
weather it might be—winter storm or summer
<a name="png.116" id="png.116" href="#png.116"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>112<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>heat—seemed but to refresh and invigorate. And
now, how shrunken, nerveless, emaciated!—every
trace of colour fled from his bronzed cheek, and
supplanted by the saffron hue which confinement
of any kind conjoined with disease brings even to
the most robust.</p>

<p>Was this indeed Arnold Banneret? When he
saw himself in the glass he hardly recognised his
own features.</p>

<p>‘I am afraid I must interrupt the interview,
Mrs. Banneret,’ said a low, carefully modulated
voice, as, after premonitory tapping, the slender,
graceful form of Nurse Lilburne entered the
room; ‘but, with apologies to you, Dr. Horton
cautioned me against the danger of over-fatigue
or excitement at meeting you. I feel certain you
will pardon me. We have to be so careful against
the chance of a relapse.’</p>

<p>‘I will pardon everything, and only wish to
thank you from the bottom of my heart for the
care you have taken, and the saving of my husband’s
life. I shall never forget it, believe me. We
shall both cherish you as a valued friend to the
end of our days. And now, I will say good-bye.
I suppose I may come again in the evening?’</p>

<p>‘Oh, certainly!—I can depute some of my
duties to you with safety, at this stage.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>From that day it may easily be understood
that the patient’s convalescence steadily advanced,
that his progress in health was comparatively rapid.
His strength, indeed, took longer to build up than
he imagined would be the case. After leaving his
<a name="png.117" id="png.117" href="#png.117"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>113<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>bed for the first time he could not walk without
support, and even dressing had to be effected by
easy stages. However, if the progress of gaining
strength was slow, it was sure, and before the
month was out he was, to use the common phrase,
‘a new man.’</p>

<p>Then he was able to be driven round the field
by his wife—to observe, and, in a sense, to enjoy
the unfamiliar points of this most extraordinary
region—surely one of the most amazing storehouses
of the Golden Lure ever unearthed by
civilised man. Though the soil was barren and
rock-strewn, the rainfall scanty and uncertain, the
heat of midsummer terrific, the miners had already
made pathetic, not wholly unsuccessful efforts to
establish gardens—a few vegetables, and the
commoner sort of flowers, carefully watered,
repaid their pains. Even the desert shrubs and
wild flowers were heedfully transplanted, and in
many instances embellished the humble homes,
temporary though they might be, which sprang
up in the wilderness. In some instances, where
the ground was apparently all rock, holes and
excavations had been blasted out and filled with
alluvial, wherein the bulbs and roots put forth their
shoots.</p>

<p>Nor was the goldfield, now so populous, and
with a reputation which had been bruited over the
Anglo-Saxon world, deficient in what was known
as ‘society people.’ Not to mention the Honourable
Mr. This and Lord John That, who had
taken up their abode there—there were dozens of
scions of well-known families from the eastern
<a name="png.118" id="png.118" href="#png.118"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>114<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>colonies, who had not only come to take a hand
in the game of Golden Hazard, here played for
such alarming stakes—but who had brought their
wives.</p>

<p>These ladies, who had heard of Mrs. Banneret,
and sympathised with her in her husband’s
dangerous illness, ‘called upon her,’ as the conventional
phrase runs, which visits had, of course,
to be returned. So that she found herself soon
provided with a large and congenial visiting-list.</p>

<p>‘Really, I quite begin to like this place,’ she
said to her husband one day, when they were
driving home in the cool of the evening from a
centre a few miles distant from Pilot Mount,
where they had heard of the presence of an old
friend; ‘and what a nice pony this is—quite a
pleasure to drive her. The roads are so good
too. Very different country from poor old
Barrawong, with its box forests, and our good,
clean, dear bungalow, with the old, old garden,
and the dear river. Fancy a river here! The
young people get to like it, I suppose—though
this cemetery has a list of young—ah! such
young inmates, I can’t bear to think of it. Sons
and brothers, wives and husbands who will never
go back! It is too dreadful.’</p>

<p>‘You must endeavour <em>not</em> to think of it, dear,’
he said softly. ‘You will be able to take <em>me</em>
back, that is one comfort. And as the mine is
doing so well—better than well—phenomenally, I
think—mind you—only think—we may be able to
go east, as they say here, by the mail steamer after
the next. And if the “Last Chance” keeps up its
<a name="png.119" id="png.119" href="#png.119"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>115<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>present, or probable output—we shall not return,
but leave the working of it, and all business that
hangs thereby, to our partners and the other shareholders.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, what a joy that will be!’ she exclaimed,
clasping her hands—which, as she held the whip in
one of them, caused the pony mare to make a
rush. For a hundred yards or so the pony refused
to be stopped, but there were neither trees nor
stumps on the road, so the hotel was safely
reached. The mail letters had just come in, and
from these it was learned that the children were
well and matters generally all that could be wished.
Things being in this blissful and satisfactory state,
Mr. Banneret and his wife quitted Pilot Mount,
the latter in a very different state of mind from
that in which she had reached it. As for her
stay at the field—she thought she should look back
to it (after, of course, her husband’s recovery was
assured) as really a most interesting and pleasant
experience. Everything was so fresh and new,
even to her who had been so many years a resident
on goldfields. The people were, many of them,
lately from Britain, America, or the Continent of
Europe: all sorts of young men unattached, who
had never seen Australia before, many of them
of good, even aristocratic families, not occupied
in any profession, eager and anxious to have their
share of the treasure which Dame Nature was
distributing with lavish hand; men from old
colonial families, who brought their wives with
them, or sent for them after they had secured an
investment likely to be permanent. These were
<a name="png.120" id="png.120" href="#png.120"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>116<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the most solid and influential components of the
hastily gathered and yet firmly welded framework
of society.</p>

<p>They decided who among the women were to
be ‘called on’—or to be left out of the visiting
circle. They acquired all necessary information
on that head, inspected credentials, advised young
men for their good—and generally constituted the
higher public opinion which governed, with more
or less authority, the manners and morals of their
little state. They gave ‘teas’ at the Polo Club
and race meetings, inviting desirable persons and
excluding such as had given social offence. No
hard and fast rule was openly promulgated, but in
an unobtrusive way the combined influence made
itself felt, and those who were hardy enough to
withstand it found in the long run that they had
taken up a wrong position.</p>

<p>Of course, among the heterogeneous community
there were individuals and groups whose antecedents
were shrouded in mystery.</p>

<p>All that was known of them or could be
divined about their former professions or occupations,
adventures, characters, or relations was that
they had arrived by the mail boat of a certain
date, and had been working in this alluvial claim
or that reef—for the last year. They were
certainly ‘human warriors,’ as Dickens’s taxidermist
was wont to express it. Mr. and Mrs. Winstanley, admittedly good-looking, well-mannered,
presentable—were suspected of not being
legally married.</p>

<p>There was no proof, either one way or the
<a name="png.121" id="png.121" href="#png.121"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>117<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>other—if the rumour was not well founded,
injustice was done to an innocent woman. If
otherwise, those families who had permitted intercourse
with wives and daughters repented in
sackcloth and ashes when the truth came out.
For it must not for one moment be assumed that
the colonial social canons are one whit less rigid
on such subjects than in the mother-land. If
anything, Mrs. Grundy is a potentate whose
power is greater and whose punishments are more
terrible than in the ancestral home.</p>

<p>Mrs. Banneret had necessarily been drawn into
closer association with Nurse Lilburne than with
any other assistant in the hospital. She it was
who had tended her husband through the most
serious stages—the most dangerous crisis in the
course of his deadly seizure. With his life actually
trembling in the balance, she it was who had
bathed the burning brow, had measured so carefully
and administered so punctually the healing
draught; had been in very truth the ministering
angel of the poet’s fancy. No other woman, save
and excepting his own wife, could have been so
capable, so delicately deft, so conscientious—so
devoted, even to the danger of her own health.
She had brought him through the valley of the
shadow, Dr. Horton said, and he did not believe
another woman in Australia—let alone in Pilot
Mount—would have done it. It may be imagined
what gratitude was felt by Mrs. Banneret when she
saw her husband by her side, fully recovered and
looking, except for a certain pallor, which some
people thought became him, better than ever. Now
<a name="png.122" id="png.122" href="#png.122"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>118<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>that they were able to drive about together—which
the doctor had strongly recommended, as a daily
recreation, favourable to perfect recovery—various
novelties and unexpected discoveries in their new
world of Arabian Nights treasure-land displayed
themselves before her. Restricted to the routine
of domesticity hitherto—an exacting though not
unwelcome round of duties—her imagination,
always daring and impatient of control, luxuriated
in excursions around and amidst ‘the burghers
of this desert city.’ What mysteries lay hidden
in the past lives of the women, the men, who
daily worked or strolled <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en flâneur</i> on the highways
and byways!</p>

<p>That quietly dressed, not quite elderly, not
quite young visitor from the old country, who
was he? He had a military air, and the stamp
which ‘formerly in the army’ invariably impresses
on the individual so privileged. The
‘horsey man,’ the abscondu, the aristocratic
tourist, on for a hasty inspection, with a view to
chance a thousand or two on the Big Bonanza,
or the Golden Horn,—they were there. It
<em>might</em> turn up trumps—like Great Wolder, which
had paid a million and a half in dividends and was
going strong still. Others again, who played
deeply, and were chiefly undesirable.</p>

<p>As the field increased in population and
prestige, the stream of holiday or home-going
capitalists made Perth their headquarters. Once
there, the ‘Weld,’ an exclusive and fashionable
club, naturally attracted notice, and afforded a
more or less luxurious home for those who desired
<a name="png.123" id="png.123" href="#png.123"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>119<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>to enjoy their sojourn by the waters of the Swan
River, and to feel the ocean breezes on a sun-tanned
cheek. As an honorary or permanent
member, the candidate required to be proposed
and seconded by leading members of the club,
who were held responsible for his conduct and
character, so that it may be imagined that both
were subjected to close supervision. It was not,
therefore, probable that the black sheep of other
lands, much less of colonial families, would find
pasture, even in that Terra Incognita, a West
Australian goldfield.</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter V"><a name="png.124" id="png.124" href="#png.124"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>120<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER V</h2>


<p><span class="smc">There</span> was still, however, one haunting mystery,
one problem unsolved, in the solution of which
Mrs. Banneret felt more interest than in all the
other uncertainties and sensational historiettes put
together. Who and what was Mrs. Lilburne?
Handsome, strikingly so, indeed—refined—cultured—aristocratic
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">au bout des ongles</i>; what
strange movement of the hour hand of fate had
brought her to the often distasteful work, the
dire climatic hardships of a hospital nurse on a
West Australian goldfield? Who could doubt
her stainless purity who gazed on the banded
hair—the calm, brave countenance, equally free
from doubt or fear—the sweet, sad eyes which so
rarely gave token of the spirit-light which illumined
them, at rarest moments, ‘like melancholy stars,’
of which Mrs. Banneret said they always reminded
her. Had she lost, by death, by desertion, by
treachery, her soul’s idol, to whom she had been
vowed in happy, radiant girlhood’s day? What
a ‘phantom of delight’ must she then have
appeared to her social world—at that entrancing
age, when ‘standing with reluctant feet, where
<a name="png.125" id="png.125" href="#png.125"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>121<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the brook and river meet,’ she had so fully
realised the poet’s dream!—the dream of all
poets that ever strove to paint the delicious
embodiment of soul and sense, the flower season
of happy, innocent, loveliest girlhood.</p>

<p>However, it was distinctly patent to all the
inquiring or admiring minds of Pilot Mount that
the oracle, in the case of Nurse Lilburne’s antecedents,
was at present dumb, nor could cries
or lamentations extract an answer. To Mrs. Banneret once, indeed, she relented so far as to
say, ‘Some day you will know, if to any one
I may show gratitude for true friendship and
womanly sympathy. In the meantime think of
me only as Nurse Lilburne. For your husband I
have only done what I would have done for the
humblest miner. And may God grant that some
day I may be counted worthy to receive payment
in kind!’</p>

<p>So they parted on the last day of the Bannerets’
sojourn on the great ‘Last Chance’ goldfield, as it
was now called,—famed throughout all Australia
as the wonderland of that Far South land which
had given so many wonders and surprises to the
old world, and to the country which had founded
it; which a hundred years from its birth, in peril
from starvation, from conquest, from criminal
surroundings and ignorant misrepresentation, had
established an export trade of many millions,
and borne sons who fought shoulder to shoulder
with Britain’s best troops in defence of the Empire.</p>

<p>Mrs. Banneret was not the only person on the
goldfields who was interested in the story of
<a name="png.126" id="png.126" href="#png.126"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>122<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Nurse Lilburne’s life. So attractive, so exceptional
a personage could not long remain in such a
community, where the men outnumbered the
women in the ratio of at least a hundred to
one, without being admired, flattered, besieged,
indeed, by importunate suitors who were only too
willing to condone her past—whatever it might
have been. But to all such approaches she was
adamant. She quietly put them by, not coldly
or haughtily, but with a nun-like aloofness, as if
all matters unconnected with her duties were not
only impossible of acceptance, but even of consideration.
Even the most ordinary civilities,
such as a seat in a buggy or pony cart to the
Polo Club matches, or the races connected with
the club formed for the encouragement of that
fashionable game, were quietly declined, even
though proffered by the president, a married man,
whose wife had always been most friendly and
sympathetic. Jim Allerton, whose tandem was
the admiration of all beholders, implored her to
honour him by accepting a seat to the ground—the
day being brilliant, with a cool breeze—the
occasion certain to be historical in years to come;
such an opportunity would perhaps never occur
again: the Governor of West Australia, with his
wife and daughter, were to be present. She smiled
graciously, and confessed that she could not have
refused such an offer—once upon a time—but now—he
must excuse her. Jim retired heartbroken,
so he said.</p>

<p>He was not the only admirer—the Adonis of
the field, Eachin Durward, a tall, handsome,
<a name="png.127" id="png.127" href="#png.127"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>123<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>grand-looking Highlander, was known to be devoted to
her,—was well-off too,—would have left for
Europe <i>via</i> Cairo, and the East generally, if only
she would deign to express a wish—a preference
for any particular route. But she was dumb as
the Sphinx.</p>

<p>As deaf also, to all entreaties of men, as she
who sits by the Pyramids—sad, silent, awful in
lonely sorrow—in wisdom unspeakable, in experience
vast—in knowledge coeval with the æons,
whose memorial—save of her, and the eternal
pyramidal monuments—hath perished.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Eastward ho! Home again,—blessed word,
thrice blessed reality. The hot desert blast—the
dust—the heat—the swarming flies—the glaring sun
at noon—the scarce less tyrannous heat at even,—all
things that bore so hard on frail humanity—all
left behind for a season! What a paradise of
hope and joy seemed opening before the ‘happy
pair,’ in truest re-adjusted sense of the word.
And the calm, peaceful savour of all the best joys
of life was heightened by the recurring thought
that under all things there was the solid foundation
of success—success undoubted—ungrudged—won
by enterprise and work, a wide-spread treasure-house
in which so many of the most honest toilers
of earth were permitted, nay, invited to share.</p>

<p>With health assured—indeed benefited by
recovery from the dread fever-grip—so rarely
relaxed—it seemed apparent that he, Arnold
Banneret, ‘never looked better,’ as his friends
assured him, than on his return from the Golden
<a name="png.128" id="png.128" href="#png.128"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>124<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>West—that fateful Eldorado which numbered so
many of the best and noblest of Australia’s—Britain’s—sons
among the ‘unreturning brave.’</p>

<p>The voyage completed—the harbour—the
haven par excellence of all fair havens, regained,
the meeting on the wharf—of the entire family—wild
with joy, and shouting all kinds of differing
information, in one breath—all rosy with health
and frantic with delight, may be left to be imagined
by those home-returning parents of similar experiences.
Nothing had gone wrong. The household
had been discreetly, lovingly, capably managed
in the absence of the high-contracting parties of
the little state,—that state, when multiplied by
thousands and ten thousands, which makes so
much in valour, virtue, and stability, in the
onward march of Empire.</p>

<p>Again established in their most comfortable
house, on one of the heights which overlooked
the harbour on the winding highway to the South
Head—a dream of beauty by day or starlit night,
by sweet moonrise or palest dawn—unequalled,
unapproachable beneath the Southern Cross—how
pure, how peaceful, how unspeakable was their
happiness! What avenues of enjoyment opening
out daily, stretching in the future to illimitable
distance, filled the perspective!</p>

<p>The New Holland Club, of which Mr. Banneret
had for many years been a member, again opened
its arms to receive the absent member, whom
they thought never again to behold. Reports had
reached them that he was dead—not expected to
survive, what not? It is not a wholly unpleasant
<a name="png.129" id="png.129" href="#png.129"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>125<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>sensation to personally contradict the report of
one’s decease,—that report, ‘upon the best
authority,’ quoted from the morning papers, that
one has been cut off in the flower of one’s youth,
or the zenith of one’s fame, as the case may be.
Even there the candid friend is not wholly at a
disadvantage. ‘No idea that I was such a fine
fellow,’ says Horatio, returning, let us say, from
Philippi, where he was reported slain. ‘Really,’
drawls the inevitable ‘friend,’ ‘but, you know,
dear boy, people exaggerate so fearfully on such
occasions!’</p>

<p>It is good to be rich, for some, for many
reasons. It is good even to be thought rich, if
one is not thereby tempted to spend extravagantly.
As mankind are constituted, whether the money
is inherited, gained by accident, by the hardly
reputable means of gambling, so long as it is known
to be there, a certain kind of respect and deference
goes along with its possession. Perhaps in Arnold
Banneret’s case, whose exploration of an inhospitable
desert where men’s lives were but as counters in
the game, and had been expended as recklessly, it
disposed the critics of the clubs and swagger hotels
to regard him as having achieved true distinction.
Younger sons and others, who had gone out with
hazy ideas of digging a fortune out of the dreary
wastes, of which they had heard, and had returned
to the city without one, comprehended the preliminary
hardships which he must have undergone.
They enlarged upon these, in all good faith,
until the readers of newspapers and the public
generally were disposed to look upon him as
<a name="png.130" id="png.130" href="#png.130"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>126<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>a general of Division and a scientific millionaire
combined.</p>

<p>‘Heard of him before,’ men would say in the
smoking room. ‘Been at the front all his life.
Squatter in old days—took up outside country—rows
with blacks—bushrangers, that sort of man.
Dropped his money when stock went down.
Took to the Civil Service later on. Wife and
children—so on. Makes up his mind to be Goldfields
Warden—tired of that—believed in another
cast of the dice—goes to W.A.—and before he’s
been there a month, hits on the discovery of the
age—the biggest of the century—regular Mount
Morgan, y’know.’</p>

<p>‘Mayn’t be quite as big a quarry as that,’
interposes another man—a pastoralist, whose
grizzled beard and bronzed countenance has
‘Waste Lands of the Crown’ writ large thereon—‘but
told by men, been there and seen, half a
dozen fortunes in it,’ and so on, and so on. Thus
the hero-worship progressed.</p>

<p>Rich—beyond any of <em>his</em> dreams of avarice—so
far, he saw himself so high on the ladder of prosperity
that he began to consider how he might
benefit those friends and relations (perhaps) whom
he had so often pitied, lamenting at the same time
his inability to aid them. It was one of the
anomalies of life, he had reflected, that people in
possession of superfluous means seldom showed
much disposition to use them in this way; while
those who, like himself, would have taken pleasure
in dispensing timely aid seldom had the wherewithal
to gratify benevolent intentions. However,
<a name="png.131" id="png.131" href="#png.131"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>127<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>if the future yields of the ‘Last Chance’ kept up
its present rate, there would be enough, and to
spare, for years to come. He could enact the
Uncle from India—they are always rich (or used to
be)—for the benefit of deserving relations who
would be touchingly grateful to the end of their
lives. How he could assist all benevolent institutions—repay
those who had been kind to him in
the early struggles of his life! He had a good
memory for such positions and people. Then,
after a few years, which he could spend comfortably,
not to say luxuriously, in Sydney—he would
take the family to England. The boys would be
of an age to benefit by public-school training,
preparatory to being entered at Oxford or Cambridge.
He would buy an estate—not too large,
but sufficiently so, to give them the pleasures of
English country life, without the drawbacks of
having to attend to the responsibilities and details
of a large estate. He might even go into parliament—that
was to be managed more easily in the
old country than in the new one, where the low
suffrage, combined with the intense jealousy which
wealth and a cultured intellect aroused in the
lower-class voters, made it difficult, if not impossible,
for their possessor to enter parliament.
However, these hopes and enterprises were for the
future to justify and develop in action. For the
present here was he, Arnold Banneret, back again
in Sydney—safe and sound, fully recovered from
the fever scourge of outside habitations—wife and
children well—heartily enjoying his recovered freedom
from anxiety, the society of his friends, and
<a name="png.132" id="png.132" href="#png.132"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>128<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>in a moderate way the prestige which had accrued
to him as a favourite of fortune, and a successful,
energetic, worthy recipient of her gifts.</p>

<p>Of the good things now so lavishly bestowed
upon them his wife had her full share. Always
ready to indulge her with such pleasures as he could
afford, and knowing well that in the matter of
expenditure she was far more prudent, as well as
practical, than himself—he had relinquished to her
willingly in his official days the power to draw
on a separate bank account, into which his pay as
it came in was deposited. From this she was expected
to provide for household expenses—dress—schooling—all
things needful for their station in life.
He contracted to discharge his private personal
expenses,—having subsidiary grants, such as
coroners’ and other fees, travelling allowances for
the long rides and drives he was obliged to take
in connection with mining matters, the settlement
of disputes about claims, or reports on the sale of
auriferous lands: in fact, upon the thousand and one
matters only to be settled satisfactorily by the
presence and judicial action of the resident magistrate.</p>

<p>Now, of course, Mrs. Banneret’s bank account
was increased—enlarged upon a scale commensurate
with the imposing amounts which regularly
arrived from the goldfield of Balgowrie in the
district of Sturt, in the colony of West Australia.
Like most married women, the spending of money
gratified her, more especially when she had no
doubt of the solvency of the bank account, and
the propriety of the manner in which it was
<a name="png.133" id="png.133" href="#png.133"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>129<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>disbursed. That the children should be well and
handsomely dressed, as became their station in life,
was to her a matter not only of right and justice,
but of keen enjoyment. That they were enabled
to join in such entertainments as were suited to
their age, and station in life, was also a part of
her satisfaction. They had often, in former days,
been denied these innocent pleasures—to her secret
mortification. Now and henceforth this disability
was abrogated for all future time.</p>

<p>How very delightful it all was! What a
glorious thing was life! (Of course there were
drawbacks—but they must be expected.) Here
Arnold Banneret’s mind reverted to that little
hospital at Pilot Mount, to the delirious patient in
one bed—suspected in lucid intervals to be himself—to
Nurse Lilburne’s grave, compassionate
face—to the dead miner but two beds away—to
the empty couch, which had been occupied last
night!</p>

<p>Thinking of such things, a wave of deep and
earnest gratitude to the Lord and Giver of Life
for a while took possession of all his faculties, to
the exclusion of all merely pleasurable sensations.
While sitting in the broad, flower-wreathed
verandah, as the evening shadows deepened into
those of night, and looking over the waveless
water-plain of the harbour, lit up from time to
time by the lights of passing steamers—the silence
broken but by their warning bells—the deep blue
heavens, star fretted, and but faintly luminous in
the southern midnight—the hands of the husband
and wife stole together; for they were lovers still,
<a name="png.134" id="png.134" href="#png.134"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>130<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>though so long wedded. ‘Oh, Arnold!’ said the
wife, ‘is not this a fragment of Paradise, after
what we have gone through, and do you think it
will—it <em>can</em> last? I feel almost too happy. God
has indeed answered our prayers—in many an
eventide it has been light, but this is the crown—the
glory of all our life!’</p>

<p>‘That we have fought our fight fairly—through
good and evil hap—I think we are entitled to say,
though humbly; and thankfully do I acknowledge
God’s mercy and goodness in the troubled times of
our married life. But it really looks now as if
peace was declared, and the war was over. Let
us trust so, and hope that in time to come, as in
the past, a hand may be stretched out to save in
time of need. May our children who have their
lives before them, with all their trials and dangers,
be not less happy, less fortunate than we have been!’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Years passed on. The family of Banneret had
become accustomed to living at the rate of four or
five thousand a year—not by any means so difficult
a task as declining from that desirable income to
as many hundreds. They were accredited members
of the ‘Upper Ten,’ as translated into Australian
Society terms.</p>

<p>Their parents having belonged to well-known
colonial families, the young people found themselves
invited to all the gaieties going. They
had many old friends and relatives—some in influential
positions—who stood loyally by them, so
that in all the more desirable festivities, from a
Government House ball or garden party, to the
<a name="png.135" id="png.135" href="#png.135"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>131<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>annual regatta in the harbour, the available
members of the family were always in the front
rank. Races, hunt clubs, tennis matches—golf—water
parties—theatricals—church and hospital
bazaars,—they enjoyed them all: in moderation,
be it spoken, always. There was no reckless
abandonment to pleasure, no love of excitement
for that reason only. But their temperaments
held a strong infusion of <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">la joie de vivre</i>, which,
along with energy and intelligence above the
average, rendered it possible for them to combine
much healthy recreation with a reasonable outlook
on the great issues of life. The mild but firm
parental rule was always available to restrain
enthusiasm, to check impulsive imprudence.
Thus all things progressed satisfactorily, in an
apparently well-balanced mean between comfort
and extravagance.</p>

<p>All reasonable indulgence in the pleasures of
youth for the young people, with the calm satisfactions
of middle age for the seniors, seemed assured.
Not only for the present, but for years in advance,
their position was unassailable by fate. Mrs. Banneret, to be sure, could not help suggesting
from time to time, in a mild, tentative way, that
they were <em>too</em> happy, the sky was too bright, the
outlook too fair to last—something adverse <em>must</em>
happen—it was unnatural that this fairyland, lotos-eating
state of matters should remain unchanged!</p>

<p>‘My dear,’ he would make answer, ‘surely you
are not going to take the part of the—a—what’s-his-name—at
the feast. Must I hire a slave to repeat
at intervals, “Arnold Banneret, thou art mortal”?
<a name="png.136" id="png.136" href="#png.136"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>132<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>I have never been unthankful for the blessings
which in God’s great mercy have been showered
upon us. My whole being is permeated with
thankfulness. In our small way we have done
good according to our lights, in the way of charity
and benevolence, to our fellow-creatures. But I
decline to be apprehensive, in advance of disaster—for
which I may state that I shall not be wholly
unprepared. If it comes, we can stand up to it, as
we have done before—more than once—without
repining or presumption. In the meantime let us
enjoy ourselves while we may.’</p>

<p>It was strange—passing strange—as the members
of this family had occasion to reflect full many a
time and oft, in the aftertime—that immediately
after this conversation the great banking disaster
which smote cities, towns, villages, throughout
Australia, broke like a tidal wave over the land.
Ancient mercantile institutions—time-honoured
banks—mortgage and agency companies—loan and
building companies felt the blow.<!-- TN: period invisible --> Banks on
deposit, offering high rates of interest, while chiefly
unsound, swept thousands of the lesser investors
into a whirlpool of ruin. Fine old crusted banks,
whose solvency had never been questioned, were
whelmed in one common cataclysm.</p>

<p>A panic set in. After the first few banks and
loan agencies fell, other banks and institutions
hitherto unquestioned thought it good policy to
go down before the blast in good company, and so
profit by the general overthrow to reconstruct.
This latter process consisted in writing off as great
a volume of inconvenient liabilities as the
<a name="png.137" id="png.137" href="#png.137"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>133<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>shareholding public would permit, without too great
an outcry, and starting on a new, unencumbered
career—free from vexatious hindrance or liability.
They were much in the position of the deeply
laden bark that in stormy weather, amid mountainous
seas, jettisons the cargo, the weight of which
may disturb buoyancy at a critical moment. It is
not asserted that all interest due on deposits or
debentures was sacrificed. It went into a reserve
fund of deferred payments, which, after a decent
interval, were eventually paid up. But many of
the humbler depositors lost the savings of years,
and this was the hardest part of all—being no longer
able to pay the calls which were necessary for the
financial existence of the institution in question.
Perhaps this unsparing treatment, though apparently
harsh to individuals, was the safer policy.
And at this eventful period, when long-trusted
financial houses in Britain tottered to their fall,
the Premier of the oldest Australian colony, himself
a native-born Australian, took the strong,
perhaps unprecedented step of declaring bank-notes
to be a legal tender. To the ordinary citizen,
much more to the rural depositor, a bank-note had
always represented ready cash.</p>

<p>The movement was well timed. It inspired
confidence and calmed the apprehension of general
as well as individual wreck and ruin. In a sister
colony the Government of the day, with paternally
indulgent policy, directed all banks to close for
three days—presumably to permit time for declaration
of a policy. All the banks availed themselves
of this, with the exception of <em>four</em>, who refused to
<a name="png.138" id="png.138" href="#png.138"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>134<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>comply with the quasi-royal edict. Three of them
were old and long-established—coeval almost with
the birth of the colony and the infancy of the commercial
system. The fourth was comparatively
new and unknown. Yet it rode out the gale
as gallantly as its more dignified compeers.
The news was communicated to Mr. Banneret
with startling suddenness by one of his school-boy
sons, who, returning from town at lunch
time, it being the holiday season, greeted him
with the question, ‘Father, have you heard the
news?’</p>

<p>‘No; what is it?’</p>

<p>‘The Bank of New Holland has stopped payment.’</p>

<p>‘What? The Bank—<em>that</em> Bank! Impossible!
Are you sure?’</p>

<p>‘Well, Jack Burton’s brother is accountant.
He told me; some of the other fellows knew
about it. And the door’s shut. I went to
look. Burton says lots of other ones will
stop. They are refusing bank-notes at the
railway.’</p>

<p>Mr. Banneret groaned. ‘And is this the end
of my life’s work?’ he thought—‘a bolt from the
blue, and so on. Well, it’s lucky I put that thirty
thousand into the British “Reduced Counsels,” as
Mr. Weller, senr., called them. Rum time to
fall back on Dickens, isn’t it? Might find a worse
author, though. We shall have to adopt “Reduced
Counsels” literally, it appears. Tell your
mother I want her.’</p>

<p>His countenance informed that good wife and
<a name="png.139" id="png.139" href="#png.139"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>135<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>trusty mother that <em>something</em> had happened out of
the common track of surprises.</p>

<p>‘What is it? Anything the matter with Reggie
and Rosamond?’ They were on their way to
England by the P. &amp; O. boat <cite>Ispahan</cite>.</p>

<p>‘Well, nothing very serious; but there’s a
difficulty about money.’</p>

<p>‘Is that all? How did it come about? No
imprudence, I hope?’</p>

<p>‘Not on Reggie’s part. Read his cable—short
and strong: “<em>Credit stopped. Please arrange.</em>”’</p>

<p>‘How did it happen? I feel so relieved.
Money’s nothing, compared with health, or accident.
I thought Reggie might be ill, or hurt.
But tell me.’</p>

<p>‘The main facts are, that all the banks in Sydney,
beginning with the Eastern, have stopped payment,
provisionally at present, pending reconstruction,
liquidation, or some other delayed arrangement,
the immediate effect of which is, that nobody can
get any money just at present.’</p>

<p>‘What—none at all? Whatever shall we
do?’</p>

<p>‘I daresay I can manage a small advance. I
put thirty thousand pounds into British Consols, as
a stand-by in case of accidents. So we can pay
the butcher and baker, at any rate.’</p>

<p>‘But the mine hasn’t stopped?’</p>

<p>‘No, thank God! It’s a pity I banked the last
month’s dividend, though. It’s going better than
ever. So, when next month’s comes in, I can put
it into a trust account. Meanwhile I have wired
a draft for £500 to Reggie.’</p>

<p><a name="png.140" id="png.140" href="#png.140"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>136<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘Poor things! It must have given them a
cruel shock.’</p>

<p>‘Yes, indeed; but some of their fellow-passengers
must have had a worse one. Hard
lines to have to come back when they were half-way
home, like the Thompsons and Franklins.
Poor Mrs. Franklin! She was only telling me
last week what a round of the Continent she and
the girls proposed.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>This cyclonic disturbance abated in time;
matters moved on again in their accustomed order.
But there were wrecks left behind—mercantile,
moral, and political—which no future prosperity
could re-establish. Long was it indeed before the
fatal year of 18— was even partially restored,
much less forgotten. But, as Mrs. Banneret truly
said, ‘Money counts as nothing in family history
compared with health.’ And this was only a
temporary inconvenience, as the Bank of New
Holland paid up all liabilities eventually, with
interest up to date. Paterfamilias betook himself
to one of the banks which had weathered the
storm, and found that with the promise of removing
the account of the ‘Last Chance’ Gold Mining
Company to their long-established corporation, he
could have practically all the money he needed.
Which was certainly satisfactory. So the Banneret
family went on their way rejoicing, and denied
themselves, as ‘before the war,’ nothing in reason.
The younger boys and girls went to high-class
schools, as before; learned all the extras and
accomplishments; played football, tennis, hockey,
<a name="png.141" id="png.141" href="#png.141"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>137<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>and cricket; rowed and yachted in the harbour;
took the whole round of exercises in mind and
body for which no people in the British Empire
are more eager than the youthful Australian.</p>

<p>It was now nearly five years since Arnold Banneret
had seen the mine—the centre and source of the
family fortunes. He had been kept fully posted
up in its progress and development, in the size
and splendour of the city which had arisen around
Pilot Mount, the grand scheme of water supply
which had been successfully completed, the electric
lighting of public and private buildings, streets,
etc., but he thought it advisable to have personal
evidence as to all these wonders and miracles.
Besides, he was getting rather tired of the almost
too easy and prosperous routine of his daily life.
Travel had always been the very breath of his
nostrils, the very salt and savour of his life. He
would try the tonic again.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>How different were all things from the rude
discomfort of his first visit!—the earlier stages
and stopping-places grown from camps to villages,
from villages to towns, from towns to cities having
mayors and aldermen; telegraph and post offices,
court-houses and churches, in almost, as the newly
arrived traveller considered, unnecessary profusion.
However, the gold returns had kept up—that was
the main, the chief consideration. This month’s
return from the field had been the largest yet.
Other centres of gold production had been discovered,
and were advancing along the road to
riches and recognition. There had been cases of
<a name="png.142" id="png.142" href="#png.142"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>138<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>excessive capitalisation, of course; but nothing
that had in any way trenched upon the reputation
or resources of the parent mine.</p>

<p>Arnold Banneret arrived late, and preferred to
dine and sleep at the Palace Hotel—as, of course,
the leading caravanserai at the city was named.</p>

<p>Here, though partly prepared for a series of
surprises, he was genuinely amazed at the luxurious
details of the apartments and the comparative
excellence of the cuisine: fresh fish brought daily
by train from the coast, packed in ice; fruit forwarded
in the same way; the duly-kept saddle
of mutton—the sirloin,—all good of their kind.
Though the tariff savoured rather of a recent
war, the retiring traveller was not disposed to find
fault. The service generally was good, the attendance
most creditable. Having slept the sleep of
the just (and the tired-out), and arranged for an
early breakfast, he left for Pilot Mount in a
hired buggy, behind a pair of fresh, well-groomed
horses.</p>

<p>A hot climate has its days of tyranny and
oppression, but there are compensating advantages—even
in summer. By leaving shortly after sunrise,
you secure a sample of climate which is little
short of perfection,—especially, as in this particular
experience, where there is no wind. The
sun appeared to be slowly, almost imperceptibly,
disengaging his golden sphere from the mists and
vapours of the lower world, and as he rose regally
from his couch, all nature appeared to welcome
the life-giving presence of the fire-worshipping
god. Far as eye could see, over the mighty sweep
<a name="png.143" id="png.143" href="#png.143"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>139<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>of plain that stretched to the horizon, were the
evidences of recent occupation, more or less connected
with the great industry which had lured
the army of toilers, that Mr. Banneret saw before
him, into the gold-seekers’ ranks—some destined to
fortune, some to poverty, sickness, and death. In
his own case, how nearly had his career come to an
untimely end! His heart swelled with thankfulness
as he remembered the hospital experiences—the
lonely boding days, the faithful watchers by
his couch, the unspeakable relief of convalescence.</p>

<p>As he neared the monolith which had been the
pillar of hope and guidance in his journey through
the wilderness, he was conscious of a certain feeling
of disappointment in noting the comparatively
small size of the encampment round the mine.
He had expected a township of larger proportions,
and had not reckoned on the attraction of the
Great Aqueduct, recently completed, which will
always stand as a monument to the courage and
foresight of the Minister who planned and carried
it through to successful fulfilment. May he live
to crown his life-work with the completion of
that other great undertaking with which his name
will be always indissolubly connected! Worthily
and suitably should the name be venerated, as
of one who, himself a son of the soil, had, as an
explorer, dared the perils of that waterless desert
region.</p>

<p>Not being tied to time on this occasion, and
having the satisfaction of seeing all things going
well with the mine, Mr. Banneret permitted himself
a season of leisure and recreation, so to speak,
<a name="png.144" id="png.144" href="#png.144"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>140<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>which suited his personal tastes. He carefully
inspected the machinery and general working of the
‘Reward Claim,’ as among the mining community
it was generally known; the hundred head of
stamps, the Diehl process of extraction, which
inexorably dragged the last grain of the precious
metal from the crushed rock. The wages men,
the shift, and underground ‘boss,’ respectively
and individually, were carefully noted and interviewed
by him. Practised in the art of eliciting
information and making acquaintance with the
various and heterogeneous population of a goldfield,
he from time to time noted, quietly and
unobtrusively, many of the leaders and men of
mark in the community. The results of this
inquiry, he deemed, might be of value to him in
time to come.</p>

<p>In his peregrinations he met with many individuals
whom he had known or heard of under
different circumstances. The majority of these
were unaffectedly pleased to see him—even, rather
to his surprise, some of those to whom he had
been compelled officially to award pains and
penalties. This seemed to make no difference in
the cordiality of their recognition. Offenders
under such circumstances rarely bear malice, as
long as they believe in the justice and impartiality
of the decision. The criminal classes, as a body,
do not harbour revengeful feelings against administrators
of justice. Their common expression is:
‘It’s the law, and it’s his business to carry it out.
It’s all in the day’s work.’ True, they do not
approve of the official ‘going out of his way’ to
<a name="png.145" id="png.145" href="#png.145"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>141<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>arrest a convict. To any ordinary advantage,
taken in pursuit or capture, they do not object.
‘It’s his business to run us in, and ours to get
away,’ they admit. ‘But he ought to play the
game.’ If he fails in this particular, they conspire
to be revenged. And as colonial history
tells us, they are prone to inflict terrible vengeance
in such cases.</p>

<p>It was strangely interesting in its way for the
retired magistrate—so unobtrusive of dress and
manner, as he rambled from camp to camp in the
early mornings or late afternoons, when the wind
had ceased and the sun had lost his fiercer rays—to
come across the men or women whom he had
known under such different conditions of life and
occupation in the long-dead days of his earlier
life. Some had risen curiously high, while others
had fallen unspeakably low.</p>

<p>It was pathetic to mark the sudden gleam of
recognition, impossible to suppress, that lit up the
eyes, and for an instant transformed the features
of the ‘old hand,’ well known—<em>too</em> well known, in
fact—to the police of more than one colony; the
half-humble, half-defiant change of manner, as
if to say, ‘I am free now, and unless I get into
fresh “trouble” neither you nor any living man
can touch me.’</p>

<p>To such he made a point of speaking a few
words, such as, ‘Doing well, Connor? Fine field
this? Anything fresh turned up?’ Whatever
the answer, it would merely mean that he, the
Commissioner, the man of dread and awful powers
in days gone by, had simply recognised him: that
<a name="png.146" id="png.146" href="#png.146"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>142<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>it depended wholly upon his future conduct
whether that fact would tend to his injury. More
than one of such former acquaintances sought him
out at his hotel, and trusted that he would not
‘put the police’ on him. He was earning an honest
living, and sending money to his wife and family in
Melbourne, Sydney, or Hobart, as the case might
be. ‘My good fellow,’ Mr. Banneret would reply,
‘as long as you behave yourself, I would much
rather that you did well than not. You are
getting another chance here, far away from people
that know you and what you have been. It is no
business of mine to inform the police, or any one
else. Don’t drink; work hard—I know you can
do <em>that</em>—and see that your people in Melbourne are
not starving while you’re living comfortably here.’</p>

<p>‘No fear, sir! I sent ’em twenty pound last
mail.’ So the man of a chequered career went
back to his tent with his heart lightened, and a
renewed resolve to go straight and reform—if
indeed such a changing of spots of the proverbial
member of the carnivora were possible. Sometimes
he did, sometimes he didn’t. In any case
his heart was softened, and the impulse to a better
life, faint though it might have been, was distinct.</p>

<p>One day he came upon a claim of four men’s
ground at which the shareholders had evidently
been working hard, judging by the size of their
‘tip.’ The men on top were, apparently, new
arrivals, judging by their fresh complexions and
ruddy faces.</p>

<p>‘Now, Sailor Bill!’ said the taller man, ‘what
are you a-thinkin’ of?—the clapper’s gone twice—to
<a name="png.147" id="png.147" href="#png.147"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>143<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>haul up. Dick Andrews ’ll know you’re
wool-gathering agin, same as you was when you
lowered the bucket yesterday, without puttin’ the
“sprag” in, and nearly finished him.’</p>

<p>‘Hang Dick, and you too! I was a-thinkin’ if
it was true as I seen in the paper—as the p’leece
was agoin’ to make a raid, as they call it, upon
the runaway sailors on the field here. There’s
a goodish lot, you know. They won’t get me.
Afore I’d go home in that old tub as I come out
in, with that devil of a skipper and his mate as is
worse, I’d chuck myself down the deepest hole in
the field, and make an end of it.’</p>

<p>‘Better show them cornstalk fellers, as they
call theirselves, that an Englishman can do any
work as they can, and handle any tools. It don’t
do to let ’em have the laugh at us, Bill.’</p>

<p>‘Well, I’ll give my mind a bit closer to it after
this, but the chaps work like navvies—and it’s not
the only trade they’ve larnt, I can see. Wonder
what they’ve been at afore they come here?—there’s
summat queer about ’em, I’ll swear.’</p>

<p>‘Don’t know and don’t care. They’re hard-workin’
smart hands at mining work—and that’s
all we care about. There goes the double clapper—it’s
dinner time.’</p>

<p>Up came the bucket to the brace, with the
man referred to as ‘Dick’ therein—a tall man,
fully six feet in height, or perhaps an inch over.
He was well made, though he carried but little
flesh, and had the air of being fully acquainted
with mining and pastoral matters. He wore a
beard, with a full moustache hiding his mouth
<a name="png.148" id="png.148" href="#png.148"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>144<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>and withholding the expression of his face from
the casual observer.</p>

<p>He spoke with the drawling intonation peculiar
to the natives of New South Wales, more especially
those reared in the country towns of the interior.
His features were regular, his eyes grey and
apparently unobservant, though, like those of other
races remote from cities and the haunts of men,
there were few objects, or incidents, which were
not quickly and comprehensively revealed to their
vision. The countenance was impassive, as of a
man who was not desirous of imparting his
thoughts to chance comrades, and at the same
time too little interested in the minor matters of
life to furnish conversation about them. His hair
and beard, of a fair or light brown hue, were
streaked with grey. Verging upon middle age,
he was probably a few years older, though the
activity which he showed when roused to exertion
forbade the idea. Indifferent and careless as to
surroundings as he appeared to the ordinary
observer, there was a hint of calm watchfulness
about his air and lounging pose which, as of a
hunter in ‘Injun country,’ conveyed the idea
that it would be difficult to take him by surprise.</p>

<p>The Commissioner looked fixedly at him. The
man returned his gaze with a quiet steadiness, at
once remote from fear or defiance, yet as one
ready for the next movement, whether hostile or
pacific.</p>

<p>‘I see you know me, sir,’ said the man; ‘it’s a
good few years since we met last. You won’t
give me away?’—and here the expression changed
<a name="png.149" id="png.149" href="#png.149"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>145<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>to that of a hunted creature, which, driven into
the last stronghold, has yet the defiant courage of
the wolf quarry amid the baying hounds.</p>

<p>‘My good fellow, you don’t suppose I bother
myself about likenesses for all the people I’ve met
during the last twenty years. I may have seen you,
or some one like you, before; but I’m a mine-owner
now, and I don’t know that I could swear
to you positively. But <em>if</em> you’ve done anything
in another colony, under another name, that has
brought you into trouble with the police, don’t
get into any scrapes here; and if ever you’re
arrested again, it won’t be through me, mind that.’</p>

<p>‘God bless you, sir!’ said the man. ‘You’ve
not changed. If I’m “copped” again, it won’t
matter, for I’ll be a dead man.’</p>

<p>Mr. Banneret walked away—rather hastily, as
though he could not trust himself to say more. ‘Poor
devil!’ he said to himself—almost audibly—‘I
wonder how he will end? The odds are a hundred
to one against him; that’s a good paying claim, I
hear, and he may—only <em>may</em>—save up his share.
He’s afraid to drink for fear of letting out secrets—there’s
a price on his head too—a big reward—which
some of his own “friends” wouldn’t mind
handling. Well, there’s the last of the lawless
lot. “’Tis pity of him too,” as the Douglas said.’
It was rather past the hour of the mid-day meal
when he regained Pilot Mount, and his face still
wore an expression of doubt, almost of anxiety, as
he entered the tent, where Mr. Newstead’s lively
chatter, and Southwater’s more serious observations
about business matters, and the probable
<a name="png.150" id="png.150" href="#png.150"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>146<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>month’s ‘clean up,’ chased the cloud from his
brow.</p>

<p>Not only smoothly, but on the crest of the
wave of prosperity, with fair wind, and every sail
set, sped on the ‘Last Chance’—that argosy in
special favour with gods and men.</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter VI"><a name="png.151" id="png.151" href="#png.151"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>147<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER VI</h2>


<p><span class="smc">An</span> unusually large ‘clean up’ was expected for
the Christmas month; bets had been made that no
yield in Australia would rival it. It was to go
down by private escort, that is, by the waggonette
belonging to the lease, which would be driven by
one of the men employed in the mine, who was a
relation of the chief shareholder, and had turned
up a few months since. He had been out of luck
lately, but being a remarkably good all-round
man, a noted bushman, and ‘as hard as nails,’ preferred
work as an ordinary hand on the mine to
doing nothing, and was earning his £3 or £4 a
week by manual labour. Among his accomplishments—and
he had many—were the arts of riding
and driving. Everything belonging to the use
and education of ‘the noble animal’ had been
familiar to him since childhood. It was therefore
arranged that he should take charge of a
four-in-hand team with the precious cargo from
Pilot Mount to the nearest railway station; and,
with Newstead, who would embrace that opportunity
of ‘going home,’ be responsible for the
gold until delivered to the Master of the Mint.
<a name="png.152" id="png.152" href="#png.152"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>148<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>All necessary arrangements were made—the solid,
iron-clamped boxes, heavy to lift, mysterious and
secret of appearance, were duly weighed, counted,
and placed ready to go into the body of the strong
though light-running vehicle.</p>

<p>In the early days of the vast goldfields, where
now a city stands, with ten thousand inhabitants,
having shops and buildings, water supply, electric
power and light, the value of each consignment of
gold to the ‘port’ was accurately known. There
were people who considered this to be imprudent,
inasmuch as the fact of there being from thirty to
fifty thousand pounds’ worth of gold on any given
vehicle, with only four or six men as a defence
force, would operate as a powerful temptation to
a class of criminals well represented on any rich
goldfield. But nothing in the way of violent
spoliation had taken place so far. The waterless
character of the country had been against highway
robbery, rendering such enterprises less difficult
to interrupt or follow up. Still, experienced police
officers held the opinion that it might not always
be so. Miners and companies had grown careless,
by reason of the offences at present being confined
to trifling sums and localities in the city. It was
well known that criminals of the class of ‘Long
Jack,’ ‘The Nugget,’ and ‘The Gipsy’ were on
the field—daring, not to say desperate men—with
a long list of convictions behind them; ready to
stick at nothing when a robbery of the first class,
such as they would term ‘a big touch,’ might be
brought off. A clever disguise, with a ticket for
the mail steamer, would land the actors far away
<a name="png.153" id="png.153" href="#png.153"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>149<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>from all chance of arrest. There were good
police and sharp detectives around Pilot Mount,
but up to this stage of the field their energies had
been comparatively wasted.</p>

<p>Compared with the more important tragedies
from time to time enacted in New South Wales
and Queensland, the ‘Golden Belt,’ as the auriferous
district had been named, was wonderfully free
from the higher developments of criminal activity.
This, however, in the opinion of the Chief Commissioner
of the police department, could not be
expected to continue. As the output of gold, increasing
in value and volume, swelled the monthly
reports, while as yet no adequate scheme of
defence had been organised, the more satisfied was
he that a novel and original raid on the treasure
claim might at any moment be looked for. Perhaps
even now one might be maturing.</p>

<p>In the meantime, the start for the coast could
not come off for several days, which were devoted
to preparing for the important journey. The
waggonette was carefully examined: wheels, axles,
and springs tested—in some cases strengthened,
as a breakdown on the road would be a serious
affair, and repairs difficult, if not impossible, to
effect. Nearly a week was devoted to this needful
precautionary work. In the meanwhile, the
English mail steamer had arrived at Fremantle, and
among the letters forwarded to Arnold Banneret,
Pilot Mount, ‘Last Chance Mine,’ was an offer from
an influential Syndicate, with more than one noble,
world-renowned name upon the Committee, to purchase
the right, title, and interest of the adjoining
<a name="png.154" id="png.154" href="#png.154"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>150<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>leases, including the Reward Claim of that name.
The Prospectus was elaborate, setting forth that
the large yields of the past foreshadowed an even
more stupendous income in the future. It pointed
out that the management might be simplified, and
working expenses reduced, by association with a
group of well-known dividend-paying mines,
already owned, or controlled, by the Syndicate,
while the profits would be proportionately increased,
and the dividends accruing to shareholders
might be confidently stated to be such as no
modern mine, with the exception of Mount
Morgan, in Queensland, had ever touched. Of
course it would be necessary to issue a largely
increased number of shares, the capital value of
which would run into millions, but the guarantee
of ‘The Southern World Associated Gold Mines
Companies’ would, while assuring shareholders
of unusual dividends, make the shares negotiable
at their face value all over the English-speaking
world. The present shareholders would receive
500,000 shares—present value £500,000—with
£100,000 in cash,—estimated to represent one-half
of the value of the mine. If the present
monthly output remained stationary, the dividends
would be exceptional. But if, as was almost
certain, they were increased proportionately to
the improved machinery and up-to-date management
proposed to be inaugurated without delay,
there would not be an investment in Australia
or South Africa which would bear comparison
with it.</p>

<p>This proposal, when all mining property was
<a name="png.155" id="png.155" href="#png.155"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>151<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>going up by leaps and bounds, met with the
fullest support from all the local, and indeed the
colonial press generally. It seemed from the
eulogistic notices which poured in from all sides,
British, foreign, and provincial, as if any man or
woman, with a capital exceeding a ten-pound note,
must be wanting in ordinary intelligence, criminally
indifferent to the interests of his family, of the
colony in which he dwelt, or the Empire to which
he owed fealty, if he or she did not immediately
take advantage of this wonderful opportunity to
enrich himself and his family, his friends and his
countrymen.</p>

<p>This proposal, however, did not find favour in
the eyes of the principal shareholder. He had
seen the decline and fall of so many magnificent
projects—over-capitalised, and ‘boomed’ up to
highly speculative if not fictitious values, with
flattering reports and favourable surveys, dwelling
more upon the visions of the future than the facts
of the present. They had soared to an aerial
height, only to waver, and finally, after irregular
gyrations, fell to rise no more, involving all connected
with the enterprise in ruinous loss, besides
damaging the reputation of solid, legitimate mining
properties. He preferred to accept the honestly
earned profits of the mine, carefully worked and
safely managed; issuing monthly reports, regularly
supplied to the press, and open to all men for
general information. He placed his views so
strongly before the shareholders and partners in
the ‘Last Chance Proprietary Mine, Limited,’ at
a special meeting summoned to decide upon the
<a name="png.156" id="png.156" href="#png.156"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>152<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>offer of the Syndicate referred to, that it was
respectfully declined.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Meanwhile the city, which had grown and
flourished around the once bare, solitary Pilot
Mount, had reached a stature—a transformation,
indeed, resembling one of the dream-cities of
the Eastern story-teller,—broad streets, bright
with electric lamps, and gardens watered by
an aqueduct fed from a reservoir miles distant.
Thronged, too, with every kind of vehicle,
every kind of beast of burden; every kind of
horse, from the Clydesdale to the thoroughbred,
from the dog-cart trotter to the polo pony;
bullock teams and camel trains jostled one another;
while well-horsed coaches daily, hourly indeed,
brought mails and passengers from distant goldfields
and lately discovered ‘rushes.’ These last
were often founded upon ‘Great Expectations,’
which too often proved unsubstantial, if not illusory.
Nevertheless, progress <em>was</em> made notwithstanding;
and the monthly output remains to
testify to the stability of the Great Industry, energy
of the population, and the increasing richness of
the auriferous area. Wonderful hotels, livery
stables containing saddle-horses sufficient to remount
a squadron, arose on every side, with race-courses
and polo grounds where the young bloods
of the ‘field’ disported themselves—where, indeed,
such prizes as the Golden Belt Handicap, value
one thousand pounds—second horse, two hundred,
were competed for. All these, and other wonders
and marvels, had been produced—had arisen
<a name="png.157" id="png.157" href="#png.157"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>153<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>literally <em>out of the earth</em>—the auriferous earth—so
miraculously productive, by methods compared
with which the ancient processes of the sower and
the reaper were contemptibly ineffective. Think
of a month’s output such as this!</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>It was the evening before the great event.
Every one in the camp had been working at high
pressure since daylight. All things had been
arranged—all hindrances foreseen and provided
for. The horses, well fed and well groomed, were
tried, staunch, and equal to long stages at a high
rate of speed. In addition to Arnold Banneret,
Newstead, and the acting coachman, another personage
had been granted a seat after consultation
with old Jack. This was the miner Dick Andrews,
who had urgent private reasons for getting to
Perth, and made petition to Mr. Banneret to that
end. Having, as he told that gentleman in a conversation
a few days previously, fallen upon a
stroke of luck, he was anxious to leave West
Australia, and, taking his wife and children with
him, to settle in the Argentine, where, among
people who had neither seen nor heard of him
before, he might lead a new life, and cut himself
clear of old ties and associations.</p>

<p>‘I’ve nigh on five hundred ounces in this bag,
sir,’ he said, ‘and if you’ll have it put up with
your lot you can hold it as security, like, till you’re
banking your own. It’s been weighed all right,
and there’s Mr. Stewart’s handwriting along with
it in the wash-leather bag. I don’t read, nor
write either, as you know—more’s the pity—but
<a name="png.158" id="png.158" href="#png.158"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>154<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>I seen him take it from the scales, and write on it,
and seal it up all reg’lar. Life’s uncertain (as the
parson says), and our lot’s not the sort to make
old bones. I’d trust you, Commissioner, with my
life. It’s no great odds off that now, I reckon.
And you’ll stand by me now, won’t you? I’ve
been a bad chap, but I’ve not had much of a
chance. A little thing would have turned me on
the right track—and that little I didn’t get. You
never knowed me do anything crooked, sir? and
the shootin’ racket was straightforrard between
man and man.’</p>

<p>‘I don’t know that I’m doing right, Dick, in
helping you off the field this way, but I saw your
wife and the boy and girl at Southern Cross. I’ll
chance it for their sakes—I’ve heard you were
always good to them.’</p>

<p>The man called ‘Dick’ did not speak—perhaps
the words would not come—but as he turned his
head away with an indistinct murmur, a keen
observer might have seen in those eyes, which had
looked so often upon danger, and fronted Death
unfalteringly, an unfamiliar moisture—scarcely to
be distinguished from a tear.</p>

<p>The day closed murkily, and with a faint
pretence of storm and shower, such as, on a
hundred former occasions, had resulted in the
usual disappointment to the dwellers in that sun-scorched
land. Wind probably, thought the
Camp generally, or perhaps a ‘Darling River
shower’—four drops upon five acres! Meanwhile
the sky grew black, the air became heavy,
the sultry heat oppressive—appearances such as in
<a name="png.159" id="png.159" href="#png.159"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>155<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>any other land would have immediately preceded a
thunderstorm, with a fall of rain: an unspoken
call to the elements to clear the air and relieve the
o’erburdened senses; but none answered. Gradually
the clouds dispersed, the sun receded below
the dim, distant horizon, and, save the occasional
flicker of sheet-lightning, nothing remained as
result of the portentous threatening which so
lately seemed to disturb the illimitable waste,
hardly less solitary, save for this ephemeral gathering,
than the unbounded sea.</p>

<p>The evening meal had been long concluded.
The different groups sat smoking, or conversing
in low tones. The skies were again clear, and
the heavenly host lit up the dark-blue firmament,
throwing a kindly mantle over the homelier
features of the desolate levels upon which the
Pilot Mount looked down.</p>

<p>Mr. Newstead was calmly smoking, and playing
with his pet fox-terrier, a well-bred animal,
boasting a pedigree from distinguished English
prize-winners. ‘Yes, Minniekins,’ said he, ‘I’m
going home, and you’re going too, first cabin.
Isn’t it a lark? don’t think I ever saw a dog of
your age show so much class. You’ll scoop all
the prizes in our County Show next year—if you
don’t get sea-sick and ruin your constitution,
as some passengers do. Won’t we have a jolly
time when we see Old England, eh, Minniekins?
You’ve never seen grass yet, y’know, nor rain
either. That sounds droll, doesn’t it? You’re
only two years old, and it rains once in five years
here, don’t y’know? Droll country—no rain, no
<a name="png.160" id="png.160" href="#png.160"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>156<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>grass, no grain; grows nothing but gold. That’s
good enough, though. Won’t we talk to them
when we get to the little village, eh? Now what
are <em>you</em> thinking of, Minniekins—smelling a
nigger, or a dingo? No camels in sight. What is
it? I can see you’re nervous—what an excitable
little woman it is! You mustn’t bite the butcher
again, or we’ll be brought before the beak for
keeping a ferocious dog, don’t y’know?’</p>

<p>The terrier raised herself quietly, and stood
looking out into the starlit night. She was a
remarkably intelligent animal, much attached to
her master, who had given a fancy price for her,
and often stated that a plainer dog in England,
of her class, had cost him £50. She stretched
her neck, as if looking for something, and gave
vent to a low, querulous whine. Still uneasy,
she continued to exhibit the same anxious air of
disapproval, though, as yet, not committing herself
to the arrival of an enemy, possibly only a
suspicious stranger. Once before, when camped
out near a lonely ‘soak’ with Denzil Southwater,
he had been warned by her long before the
approach of a thievish aboriginal, and had therefore
time for preparation, which enabled them to
rout the ‘Injun’ with loss. Since then the
character of Minniekins had stood deservedly
high in the camp, where she took rank as a
general favourite, to be petted, and bragged
about by every man on the pay-sheet of the
‘Last Chance Proprietary, Limited.’</p>

<p>Minniekins growled in a low, menacing
manner. Then suddenly dashing forward, she
<a name="png.161" id="png.161" href="#png.161"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>157<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>barked furiously, and rushed at a man who was
advancing rapidly on the camp. A smothered
oath, and a savage kick which sent the poor
little thing yards away, with a broken leg, told
of a frontal attack by the enemy. At the same
moment, as it appeared, the man, and a dozen
others, mysteriously emerging from the shadows
at different points, made a rush for the room in
which the gold-boxes had been stacked, firing
their revolvers as they came on. The unarmed
inmates of the camp—two shift bosses and Mr. Newstead, with three or four wages men—were
taken completely by surprise.</p>

<p>Denzil Southwater was in his tent writing a
home letter. For a moment it seemed, as the
compact body of strangers moved up perilously
near to the treasure-room, that the fort would be
carried by assault.</p>

<p>But two of the garrison were neither unarmed
nor unprepared: these were the man called
‘Dick,’ and old Jack. The latter was dressed
for a walk to the township, a ceremonious visit
which included a revolver in his hip-pocket
loaded in every chamber. ‘Nothin’ like bein’
“heeled,” as we used ter say in the States,’ he
would answer to any remark made on this as a
superfluous precaution. ‘It’s come in handy
mor’n once or twice either, since then; yer
never know what’ll turn up on a goldfield.’
His habit was justified on this occasion. The
tall robber had fired point blank at Mr. Newstead,
who, struck on the point of the shoulder, fell as
if badly wounded, when Dick Andrews sprang
<a name="png.162" id="png.162" href="#png.162"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>158<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>forward, firing two shots with lightning quickness.</p>

<p>The tall man dropped on his face, and lay
still, while a shorter ruffian, apparently bent on
reaching the camp, staggered wildly, then fell
backwards, discharging his revolver in the act.
A younger man had been badly hit by old Jack,
while another had been captured by Denzil Southwater,
who, dashing at him, unarmed, knocked up
his revolver, and catching him a half-arm blow
on the ‘point,’ held him, dazed, with a broken
jaw, till the mine hands came up, and tied his
hands behind him. The other men, seeing that
the game was up, took to their heels, and lost
themselves in the crowd which was pouring with
increasing volume up the slopes of the Pilot
Mount. The tableau was imposing—Minniekins
on three legs, still barking furiously; the tall
man, easily identified as ‘Long Jack,’ a criminal
of many aliases, lying on his face, stone dead!
while Mr. Southwater’s prisoner, bound and
blasphemous, stood in the centre of an excited
crowd apparently anxious to lynch him then and
there. However, Inspector Furnival, arriving
with a strong body of police soon after, carried
him off in the name of the Law, much to the
disappointment of the public, who openly expressed
their regret that Judge Lynch was not
afforded an opportunity of proving the superiority
of prompt trial and decisive action to the tardy
verdict of an Assize Court. In the camp the
casualties were: Arnold Banneret, bullet graze
on temple; Newstead, wound in left shoulder;
<a name="png.163" id="png.163" href="#png.163"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>159<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Minniekins, broken fore-leg; while the man
called ‘Dick,’ shot through the lungs, was in a
serious, if not dangerous condition.</p>

<p>What a change from the gay hopes of the
morning, when all had risen with the prospect of
welcome travel—a respite from the monotonous
toil of goldfield life; and, in the case of the escort
party, returning to the luxuries of city life—to
the society of friends and relatives, with the
prestige of successful adventurers!</p>

<p>How narrowly, thought Arnold Banneret,
had he himself escaped the fate of the robber,
slain in his last fight against society; a shade
nearer to the vital centre, and he would have lain
ready for his coffin, even as the outcast criminal
who, indeed, had paid the last penalty of a life of
crime, in which even murder had been familiar.
What a termination to the joyous imaginations
with which he and his wife had regarded the
speculation which promised so fairly! Fancy the
headlines of the local <span class="nw">papers:—</span></p>

<blockquote>
<p class="ctr">‘The Last Chance Mine.’<br
 />Attempt to carry off the Escort Gold!<br
 />Five-and-twenty thousand ounces!<br
 />Desperate encounter. Two men killed:<br
 />Mr. Banneret and ‘Long Jack.’<br
 />Several of the Escort wounded.<br
 />Immense excitement on the Field.</p>

<hr class="fiftypct" />

<p class="ctr">Special Evening Edition of<br
 />The <cite>Clarion</cite>.</p>

<p class="ctr">Our Contemporary misinformed:<br
 />Mr. Banneret not killed.<br
 /><a name="png.164" id="png.164" href="#png.164"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>160<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>He and Dick Andrews, the well-known Miner,<br
 />dangerously wounded—the latter, while<br
 />defending the Escort heroically, shot through<br
 />the body. ‘The Gipsy’ captured by the Honourable<br
 />Denzil Southwater, a Shareholder, who was unarmed.<br
 />Lord Newstead suffering from a broken arm.<br
 />Full particulars in our morning issue.</p>
</blockquote>

<p>The effect of this and similar announcements
may be imagined. Public feeling was stirred to
its inmost depths. The police force, as usual,
was denounced for incapacity and indolence, and
the Government of the day arraigned for want of
foresight, unreadiness, and general ignorance of its
duties. As to the administration of law and order
on this, the richest, the most extensive goldfield in
Australia—the only parallel case commensurate
with its abnormal inefficiency was that of the
British War Office. But the West Australian
Cabinet might yet earn the notoriety of having
sacrificed a colony if this sort of thing was allowed
to go on unchecked—and so on, and so on. The
opposition journal of course discounted ‘the
habitual exaggeration of a contemporary, the
editor of which could not allude to an attempt
at the looting of a rich treasure-cargo—an
attempt which had signally failed, moreover—without
dragging in absurd parallels equally out
of date and out of reason. Omniscient as he
claimed to be, he had not become acquainted with
the fact, now for the first time divulged to their
reporter, a gentleman of wide experience in
Australian and American mines, that “Dick
Andrews,” a working miner, and shareholder in
<a name="png.165" id="png.165" href="#png.165"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>161<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the Reward Claim, who shot dead the well-known
desperado “Long Jack” and wounded
“The Nugget”—formerly of Port Arthur—was
no other than the notorious Richard Lawless, the
brother of Ned and Kate, concerned in the killing
of Inspector Francis Dayrell, in pursuance of a
vendetta cherished for years by the Lawless family.
They eventually accomplished his death. Lured
into an ambush, thus fell one of the most daring
and energetic officers of the Police Force of Victoria.
They had evaded the warrants issued for their
apprehension, disappearing in the “Never-Never”
regions of Queensland, chiefly populated, if all
tales be true, by refugees of their class and
character. From this “land of lost souls” Kate
Lawless returned to die by her own hand on the
grave of her child at Running Creek on Monaro;
while her brother Richard, a marvellous bushman
and all-round worker, as are many of his compatriots,
has been employed under the very noses of the
police as “Dick Andrews,” remarkable only for his
steady, hardworking habits and inoffensive general
demeanour. Tall, spare, and sinewy, wearing the
ordinary beard of the dweller in the Waste, he was
in no way distinguishable from the thousands of
Australians whom the magnet of the “Golden
Belt” has drawn with resistless force to our
colony. There is no intention, we hear, of
putting the law in force against him; for he will
be arraigned before a Higher Court, a more august
Judge, than Australia can furnish. His wounds
are mortal. His hours are numbered. And
before to-morrow’s sun leaves Pilot Mount in
<a name="png.166" id="png.166" href="#png.166"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>162<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>darkness, the soul of the erring, but not wholly
lost homicide, whom men knew as Dick Lawless,
will have quitted its earthly tenement for the final
audit.’</p>

<p>The editorial dictum was prophetic. Mr. Banneret and Denzil Southwater, watching by the
dying man’s couch, listened to his last words
while the labouring breath grew faint—then failed
for ever. One bullet had pierced his left lung;
another had lodged in the spine. Both injuries
were mortal. It was a question of hours—of few
of them indeed.</p>

<p>‘I stopped “Long Jack,” Commissioner!’ he
said, while a slow smile of satisfaction lit up the
calm features, ‘afore he got in another pot at you.
He’d not have missed twice. I’m goin’ out, and
except for the wife and kids I don’t know as it’s
much odds; there’s enough to keep them when
she gets back to Tumut, where her people live.
Land’s easy got there; a bit of corn-flat with a few
cows ’ll keep her easy and comfortable. The boy
and girl ’ll get schoolin’ till they’re out in the
world, and their mother won’t tell ’em too much
about me—their poor father, as died in his right
place—a-standin’ off them as tried to collar the gold
he’d worked hard for. You write it out, Mr. Southwater—all as I’ve said, and just put Richard
Lawless his mark at the foot. The Commissioner
might witness it—if he’ll be so good—and
you too, sir.’</p>

<p>They complied with the sufferer’s request.
Great drops of blood welled up from the shattered
lung, as between gasps he laboriously formed the
<a name="png.167" id="png.167" href="#png.167"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>163<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>cross which validated his will, made for the benefit
of the woman who had followed him from the
green, fertile valley, where the sparkling river
comes leaping down from the snow-crowned alp.
With her he had been ever mild and patient—a
tireless worker when work was to be had—often
away for months at a time, but reserved as to his
occupation. Brokenly, and with hesitation, he
said: ‘Commissioner! I’ll die easier like if you’ll
shake hands afore I go. It’s a suspension o’
labour in a manner of speakin’.’ And with a
quiet smile on his lips at an old goldfields jest,
the soul of ‘Dick Andrews,’ otherwise Richard
Lawless, fled away from its earthly tenement, leaving
the hand of Arnold Banneret, ex-Commissioner
of Barrawong, New South Wales, still enclosed in
a dead man’s rigid grasp.</p>

<p>‘Poor Dick! poor chap!’ said Banneret; ‘there
goes a man’s life made for better things. I suppose
he <em>did</em> save mine—barring accident. That long
ruffian wouldn’t have missed twice. With the
exception of the vendetta business with Dayrell—and
there are two versions of that story—I
never heard of his doing anything mean or dishonest—that
is “crooked”’—he added reflectively—having
regard to the prevailing tone of Monaro
morality.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The fervour of the editors of all the journals,
printed within a thousand miles or so, having
exhausted itself and the public interest, matters
returned to their normal state and condition.
The escort waggonette, artistically tooled by Gore
<a name="png.168" id="png.168" href="#png.168"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>164<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Chesterfield, cleared out for Perth at sunrise one
fine morning, ‘laden’ (as the local mining organ
put it) ‘with gold, ammunition, firearms, and decayed
gentlefolk.’ On the box-seat, between Mr. Banneret and the charioteer, sat an aristocratic
society dame of ducal connections, who, originally
voyaging to Fremantle with maternal solicitude,
had remained to take a hand in the mining adventure
of the period. Having been down the
deepest mine of the ‘field,’ and across the desert
on a camel as far as the famous ‘Leonora’ and
‘Mount Idalia,’ in both of which ‘shows’ she had
invested sensationally, she was not to be daunted
by the off-chance of a bullet wound on the present
journey. The perils of this passage through the
wilderness were, however, minimised by the
attendance of a doubled police escort and half a
hundred volunteer guards, who (shares in the
popular investment of the day, the ‘Rotherwood’
mine, being at a premium and rising fast) resolved
to combine the performance of a patriotic
duty with the excitement of a ‘jamberoo’ in
Perth, and ‘a whiff of the briny’ long looked
forward to, and, before this happy conjunction of
profit and pleasure, almost despaired of. When it
is considered that most of the men who composed
this advanced guard were young, or youthful-seeming—that
the prospects of the majority were
like the climate, sunny in the extreme—that
fortune had lately showered favours upon nearly
all,—it may be imagined what a joyous cavalcade,
dashing at reckless speed through plain and thicket—waking
the long-silent, solitary champaign with
<a name="png.169" id="png.169" href="#png.169"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>165<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>song and shout—the ‘Last Chance’ escort must have
appeared to the ordinary wayfarer.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>O Death in Life, the days that are no more.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The treasure was duly deposited in the banks of
the period; certain favourites of fortune, among
them the lady of the box-seat, took passage by the
outgoing mail-steamer. Lord Newstead was
bound for ‘England, home, and beauty,’ whence
his return was problematical; Arnold Banneret
for Sydney; while Messrs. Chesterfield and Southwater
would return to the vicinity of Pilot Mount,
not having as yet acquired the ‘pile’ which was to
crown the pyramid of a life’s endeavour. Arnold
Banneret made a final adieu to the ‘Reward Claim,’
having by wire received a declaration from his wife
that, ‘no matter how many ounces to the ton the
“Last Chance” produced, never again would she
consent to his putting foot on that goldfield; even
if his presence was indispensable to prevent Pilot
Mount from being turned into a volcano in full
working order, her resolve remained unalterable.
What she had suffered when she heard the news
(false as it turned out to be) of his death, could
never be endured twice. So now, he knew.’ When
Mrs. Banneret concluded an argument with these
words the ‘incident was closed.’ Her sympathetic
partner ‘for better for worse’ resigned himself
to a future existence hampered only by the
necessity of finding use for a capital of a hundred
thousand pounds or two, ‘with all the woes it
brings.’</p>

<p>He promised himself the satisfaction, however,
<a name="png.170" id="png.170" href="#png.170"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>166<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>of revisiting Tumut, and personally assuring the
future of Mrs. Richard Lawless and her children,
which, as he had always loved and admired the
place and people, he regarded as a sacred duty, and
a delightful holiday not to be neglected. Thus,
filled with anticipations of home-returning joys, as
he trod once more the deck of the P. &amp; O.
liner <cite>Baghdad</cite>, marked once more the Oriental
garb, and heard the familiar-sounding voices of the
Lascar crew, his heart swelled within him, as in
‘the dear, dead days beyond recall.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The return voyage in the <cite>Baghdad</cite> was pure
unmixed delight. Very rarely is it otherwise in
the ‘floating clubs’ of the P. &amp; O. ‘The liner
she’s a lady,’ in every sense of the word. In the
eyes of the outward-bound passengers for England
Arnold Banneret and Lord Newstead were heroes
and ‘conquistadores,’ rivalling the comrades of
Pizarro returning from Peru laden with the treasure
of the Incas. Lord Newstead secured the larger
share of admiration—young and handsome, heir to
an historic name, wounded in the fight, what
modern gallant could hope to rival him in the
good graces of the lady passengers? His right
arm still supported by a sling, and his disabled
condition, called forth many proffers of active
sympathy.</p>

<p>Mr. Banneret, on account of his age and
patriarchal rank, was not so much an object of
interest and admiration; nevertheless, the ‘scar on
his brown cheek revealed’ if not ‘a token true of
Bosworth Field,’ a genuine record of a ‘close call,’
<a name="png.171" id="png.171" href="#png.171"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>167<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>as an American ‘shift boss,’ travelling east from
‘Great Holder,’ entitled the incident.</p>

<p>Their gold, now safe under hatches, was variously
estimated at from fifty to a hundred thousand ounces,
according to the experience or imagination of the
narrator. The winds and waves were kind; the
Great Bight was so smooth that ‘you’d hardly
know it,’ as a fair voyager of experience in the
South Pacific characterised it. And shortly after
the dawnlight—clearer grown, and faintly roseate-hued—opened
to view the sandstone portals of the
harbour lake of the South, the <cite>Baghdad’s</cite> passengers,
in cabs, carriages, trams, and omnibuses, distributed
themselves throughout the Sydney clubs and hotels,
with an economy of time and trouble unattainable
in any but the mother State.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Home again! Everything had gone well in
his absence. For the twentieth time Arnold
Banneret vowed that never again would he leave
the domestic Eden for the outer world, how fair
soever might be the lure held out by inconstant
fortune. The girls were growing up; his boys,
like every other man’s boys, needed the occasional
parental warning—the guiding hand. His wife’s
cheek paled as she traced the still visible track of
the robber’s bullet. ‘What was sufficient repayment,
what compensation adequate, for such
risks? And if——’ but she would not suffer
him to proceed with the conjectures of what <em>might</em>
have happened. The ‘if’ had remained undeveloped,
so there was no use speculating on
grisly possibilities.</p>

<p><a name="png.172" id="png.172" href="#png.172"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>168<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>Sydney was more beauteous than ever, with
glorious gardens, and the daily ocean breeze. Say
that the noonday heat was at times oppressive,
what was it in comparison with the terrible sun-rays
of the West—a tent only between the dweller
therein and the cloudless, relentless sky? The
glorious semi-tropical foliage of the sea-girt city,
the lawns so freshly verdurous, the stately pines,
the flowering shrubs, the rose thickets, the carefully
tended, if somewhat narrow roads, which, winding
around the harbour cliffs, open out such enchanting
views of sea and shore, earth and sky—specially
arranged for the delectation of strangers and
pilgrims! The swift-winged yachts and pleasure-boats
still floated like sea-gulls above the translucent
wave. All these delights and refreshments smote
the senses of the home-returning wayfarer almost
as freshly as if tasted for the first time.</p>

<p>Then the delicious awakening in the fair, sweet
dawn of the early summer, with the certainty that
there was now no need for doubt or anxiety touching
the family fortunes. A competence, nay, more
than a sufficiency for all their needs, was assured.
Their luck had turned. No more was it necessary
to go stolidly on with the daily work which gained
the daily bread. There was not, could not be
again, the necessity for calculation as to what
liability required to be arranged for—what pressing
account to be paid in full, or if not, compromised
by payment on account. Such things had been in
the past—in that shadowy region now so dim and
distant-seeming. No, thank God! and a wave of
gratitude passed through his every sense and faculty
<a name="png.173" id="png.173" href="#png.173"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>169<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>as he realised that those days and their accompanying
sacrifices had passed away for ever. Were
they happier now? In his musings by the seashore,
at eve or moonrise, he sometimes asked
himself the question. The reply was not always
in the affirmative. They had been happy—truly,
consciously happy, then. If there were difficulties,
they had overcome them. If there had been debts
and doubts, anxiety never far distant, succour unexpected
had come in time of need. The responsibilities
of official position had been great—at times
almost overpowering, but their very magnitude
had stimulated his energies—he had never faltered;
strong in the resolve to deal justly, impartially, with
the high questions committed to his judgment, he
had fought through opposition, misrepresentation,
and discouragement, to emerge at last, with the
approval of his conscience and the confidence of
the heterogeneous workers whom he had ruled
for a quarter of a century.</p>

<p>And now, having passed through the <i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Sturm
und Drang</i> of early manhood, he had reached a
period of life when youth had flown—when strength
and activity could no longer be looked for—when
whatever changes took place must necessarily be,
in some respects, for the worse. What would the
future be? In what direction would the rising
generation of the family, nay, of Australia, be
impelled?</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter VII"><a name="png.174" id="png.174" href="#png.174"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>170<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER VII</h2>


<p><span class="smc">What</span> would be the character, the fate of this
infant British nation, so strangely inaugurated, so
wondrously, providentially, even, cast forth upon
the shore of an almost unknown continent?</p>

<p>The exiles came to strive with hostile natives
and an unfamiliar climate. They found, day by
day, birds and beasts, plants and seasons, alike
foreign to all previous experience. Yet, so far,
how amazingly has prospered the daring experiment
in colonisation!</p>

<p>This founding of empires was undertaken with
the splendid British contempt for obstacles and
dangers, which, if often giving encouragement to
apparently imprudent enterprises, has always ennobled
the race. Not only was it such, but
initiated almost in the throes of a conflict which
imperilled Britain’s national existence,—a war,
under the ablest generals, directed by the subtlest
organising intellect in the then known world, aiming
not so much at European conquest as the
subjugation of the Mistress of the Seas!</p>

<p>But the haughty Spaniard—in the sixteenth
century—who had planned to humble, to discrown,
<a name="png.175" id="png.175" href="#png.175"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>171<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>was doomed, like the world-absorbing Corsican, to
ruin and defeat—his ‘invincible Armada,’ tempest-driven
on the rocks of a hostile coast, his grandest
towering ‘tall Amiral,’ shot-shattered, burned, sunk,
and destroyed by the unconquered naval heroes of
‘the spacious times of Great Elizabeth.’ What
men the times bred!—captains by land and sea:
soldiers, whether privates or officers, who, trained
to obey to the death, stood unflinching or advanced
resistless; sailors who walked above the blood-stained
decks, cool as on a carpet, or swarmed
over the enemy’s battleship to the maddening
sound of ‘Boarders away,’ where every third man
fell dead or wounded.</p>

<p>Have we such sailors, such soldiers still?</p>

<p>Yes! a thousand times, yes! and from this
very land of the distant South. Was it not
abundantly proved in the South African War,
when the half-disciplined or wholly untrained
colonial troops, whether Canadians, Australians,
New Zealanders, or Tasmanians, excited the
wonder and admiration of all competent critics?—their
initiative, their endurance, their intelligence
proved on many a hard-fought field; not less also
the stubborn valour which gloried in scorning to
surrender, while the last man and the last horse
lay dying, side by side!</p>

<p>From the weird, carelessly culled British crowd,
flung as exiles on the shores of the far unknown
South land, labourers and lawgivers, criminals and
clerks—what a people has been evolved! The
Briton has justified his constant boast, that, given
the nucleus of a British community, with free soil,
<a name="png.176" id="png.176" href="#png.176"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>172<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>free law, and his inherent right to appeal to it for
relief against wrong and injustice, the community
will develop the race-characteristics of the ancestral
isle. From the oppressed band of Puritans,
content to face the rock-bound coast, the storm-tossed
ocean, the crafty, ruthless savage, if only
they might enjoy religious freedom—from the
men and women of their own creed and colour,
crowded in unwholesome vessels—sold, yes, sold
into slavery on arrival—from every kind of
absconder and Adullamite, a newer, greater
Britain confronts the world: in arms, a fearless
rival; in peace or war, the strongest, the best
educated, the most successful nation, this day,
beneath the sun. Leavened by the virtue, the
intellect, the heroism of the Pilgrim Band, the
colossal American republic stands to-day, ready
to face the universe in honourable contest: in
contest for commercial success—for the triumphs
of Art—for intellectual pre-eminence—for scientific
progress.</p>

<p>What other human hive throws off such swarms
as Britain the Unconquered—collectors from
generation to generation of all things rich and
precious in the eyes of men? Strong to defend
also the treasure-cells; to punish, with fierce and
deadly sting, the spoiler and the freebooter,—in
material success rivalling, if not surpassing, the
ancestral Briton.</p>

<p>The vast, impressive Dominion of Canada,
about to take rank as the world’s granary, has
shown her devoted loyalty to the British Empire
in the recent war, and but for the mistaken policy
<a name="png.177" id="png.177" href="#png.177"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>173<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>of the British Government—in the days of Lord
North—the Great Republic of the United States
might have been as firmly joined to the Mother
Isle as the daughter States of Australia and New
Zealand—forming a colossal bulwark against
anarchy, socialism, and unnecessary interference
with the world’s peace. That the rupture between
Britain and her greatest oversea possession was
suffered to take place, owing to the obstinacy of a
mistaken King and a feeble Cabinet, was deplored
by contemporary intellects of distinction. It has
been even more deeply regretted by all thoughtful
Britons, whether colonists or home-born, even
unto this present day.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>On a certain Saturday morning the mail
steamer arrived from the east, bearing such
passengers for Fremantle and Perth as desired to
behold the world-famed goldfields of which they
had heard so much.</p>

<p>Newspapers from Europe and America were
then attainable. What long, luxurious Sunday
morning lounges for the happy possessors of the
latest news did these precious ‘home papers’ and
letters represent! The younger son, roughly
garbed, toil-worn, it may well be ragged even,
smiled in his abundant beard as the post-mark of
the village near the ancestral hall met his eager
eyes. What tidings would the closely guarded
sheets furnish? The death of the ailing sister—of
the fond mother, the aged father, to whom he
had vowed, with the careless confidence of youth,
to return laden with gold, or bearing in other
<a name="png.178" id="png.178" href="#png.178"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>174<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>form the imprint of success and distinction. How
he rejoiced audibly to find that all was well!
The Squire, hearty and hale, as of old—looking
forward to the hunting season, or the annual
‘shoot’ over his preserves, with unabated confidence;
the younger brother had taken his
degree at Oxford, or Cambridge, and was safe for
a curacy—there was a living in the family.</p>

<p>‘Thank God! Nothing wrong this time.
Perhaps this time next year I may see my way.’
Then comes the sigh of hope deferred. Besides
newspapers came people. Not so many as in the
earlier days of the rich yields and the big ‘rushes.’
Mining, of course, not so sensational. Up-to-date
appliances, improved machinery, with a steadier
monthly output, and so on.</p>

<p>A close watch was, however, kept on the
passenger list, as there was no knowing who might
not turn up, or from whence. The men working
now in the big mines as metallurgists, ‘shift
bosses,’ or mine managers, chiefly well-born, often
highly cultured and gently nurtured, had travelled
far amid the older lands and cities,—historically
famous,—as well as amid these newly found desert
wastes: this arid, solitary, trackless wilderness so
recently exploited by civilised man, with his absorbing
needs. When, therefore, Gore Chesterfield
threw down the paper containing the passenger list
of the P. &amp; O. liner <cite>Aden</cite>, with an exclamation
denoting surprise and satisfaction, the deduction
was easy that a comrade of earlier years had
arrived, with whom it would be a relief and a
luxury to exchange confidences. ‘By Jove!’
<a name="png.179" id="png.179" href="#png.179"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>175<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>he exclaimed, ‘this is a rum start!—who would
ever have thought of Lytton Carteret of Guy’s, of
all people in the world, turning up here? Why,
he was with me in that expedition of Herman
Paul’s on the pre-Phœnician “placers,”<!-- TN: original has single quotes --> worrying
through the ruins left by these rum chaps. Did
they find gold? Yes, and plenty of it, judging
by what we saw. But they went about it in a
scientific manner—not like our burrowings and
scratchings, living under canvas, and roasting our
souls and bodies under canvas—like lunatics, as
Eastern people consider all Englishmen to be.’</p>

<p>‘Well, what did they do that gave them such a
“break” over us?’ inquired his Australian-born
mate, belonging to a pioneer family founded by a
retired military officer who had fought under
Wellington through the long blood-stained Peninsular
War from Ciudad Rodrigo to Waterloo, and
who had turned his sword into a ploughshare after
marrying one of the daughters of the land.</p>

<p>‘Do? What we don’t seem to manage so well
in these latter days of civilisation about which
we brag so unnecessarily. Built walled cities, or
something near akin; put pressure on the Kaffirs
and Zulus, tribesmen of the day (of course not
these very fellows); but they made them work,
whoever they were. First of all, built stone forts,
inside which they could defy the heathen artillery
of the period, cross-bows and arrows, with lances,
maces, javelins, and so forth, for close fighting.
They had pots and crucibles, smelted ore, and the
rest of it. Oh! they were pretty well up to date,
I can tell you.’</p>

<p><a name="png.180" id="png.180" href="#png.180"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>176<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘Sounds well,’ said his comrade, who was
scientific as well as practical—had taken two firsts,
and two second scholarships at an Australian
University for Civil Engineering. ‘Why did you
and he come away from such a jolly interesting
place?’</p>

<p>‘H—m! the death-rate was high, water bad,
climate awful, steamy and airless; besides, to tell
the truth, I suspected the working director of looking
upon us much as Bismarck did the rank and
file of the Prussian army—not perhaps exactly
as “Kanonenfutter,” but to be expended (“gastados,”
as the Spanish idiom is) primarily in the
cause of science, chiefly for the glorification and
renown of Sigismund Paulsen, botanist, member
of the Society of Explorers, etc. etc.; you can’t
beat a German leader for that. He is everything
and everybody; the rest are nothing and nobody.
So Carteret and I cleared.’</p>

<p>‘Where did he go?’</p>

<p>‘Restless and dissatisfied as usual—capital
operations not sufficiently numerous to compensate
for loss of time—thought he’d try the South Sea
Islands.’</p>

<p>‘Any gold there?’</p>

<p>‘None so far; but human life little regarded—obscure
diseases, and a possible discovery, his absorbing
life-long quest for a cure of <em>the</em> most terrible,
insidious, so-called incurable disease, Leprosy!’</p>

<p>‘Horrible to think of! Why did he pick the
most hopeless evil in the whole world—the most
loathsome?’</p>

<p>‘Just because it <em>was</em> so. He had lost a friend
<a name="png.181" id="png.181" href="#png.181"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>177<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>by it, or rather, he had seen him deported to
Molokai, the leper island, where Father Damien
lived and died—himself a martyr-victim. The
South Sea law is, that when the incipient symptom
shows itself—the white circular mark never known
to indicate falsely—the patient is carried off, and
landed on the Island of the Lost, whence he or
she can never return to civilisation.’</p>

<p>‘And do you mean to tell me that a man’s
wife, or his child, can be legally torn from him
and cast into hell—as such an accursed spot must
be—compelled to live out the remainder of life
there? What a fate—what a mockery of civilisation!’</p>

<p>‘This law, like others, was made for the preservation
of society in the mass; better that the
few should suffer than that the many be infected.
So Carteret was compelled to see his friend torn
from his wife, to witness his despair. They had
only been married a few months. None knew, of
course, how the infection was taken, nor did it
matter. He was landed on that awful strand—is
there now—where at a certain time in the evening
the cries and groans of the patients in the more
advanced stages can be plainly heard. Carteret is
hardly sane on the subject, and from that hour
resolved to devote his life to the discovery of a
cure. To this end he made an exhaustive study
of the disease in all its manifestations and stages
of development. Worn with study, lowered in
health and spirits, he turned to the as yet practically
untrodden fields of research in the east of
Asia, resolved to test the boundless, half-mythical
<a name="png.182" id="png.182" href="#png.182"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>178<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>solitudes on the northern frontier of India. These
he traversed, cheerfully risking health, freedom,
life itself, if but the end could be obtained—the
salvation of his friend, the happiness of Lilburne’s
peerless wife. She was his cousin, and they had
been boy and girl lovers.’</p>

<p>‘And has no cure ever been found for the
disease?’ asked Leslie Bournefield. ‘So many
physical evils have been attacked successfully of
late years—X-rays, and what’s that other boon to
mankind—Radium?’</p>

<p>‘Reports of cures, of course, but rarely authenticated,’
replied Chesterfield. ‘One feels doubtful,
but nothing will discourage Carteret. He will go
on searching till he dies, or Mrs. Lilburne does.
Then, unless he elects to serve humanity in general
for her sake—“in memoriam”—I fear his interest
in the question will cease. His last remaining
hope was in a nostrum said to be the property of
the monks of Vatopede.’</p>

<p>‘Where in the world is that?’</p>

<p>‘It is the largest of the monasteries of Mount
Athos, in the Levant. The richest, too, they say—built
by the Emperor Constantine the Great.
That worthy monarch, like Naaman the Syrian,
was afflicted with leprosy. He thereupon ordered
a number of children to be killed, a bath of
innocent blood being the favourite remedy of the
day! While they were selecting them, it was
revealed to him in a vision that if he became a
baptized Christian the leprosy would depart from
him. He did so; he was immediately restored to
health, and the children were set free. The legend is
<a name="png.183" id="png.183" href="#png.183"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>179<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>related by Moses Chorensis, whose veracity is
undoubted. One miraculous cure having occurred
in their monastery, the good monks were not
minded to let the fame thereof die out.’</p>

<p>‘What did they do to that end?’</p>

<p>‘It must be remembered that all monasteries of
importance numbered among the brethren some who
specially devoted themselves to the study and practice
of medicine. To heal the sick was a part, an important
part of the charity to which all members of monastic
orders were vowed. As in the case of the nuns
of certain convents, these institutions held specifics
warranted to alleviate the more virulent diseases.
Pilgrims from all parts of the civilised world resorted
to the more famous monasteries. Many
reached their homes professing to be cured. If
not wholly restored to health, the undoubting
religious faith of the mediæval period completed
the process. Even in this age of analysis and
positivism, do not the professors of the Christian
Science cult work nearly on similar lines? And
what quasi-miracles do they not allege? It must
be remembered also that the monastic student,
undisturbed by the distractions of a later age, safe
within the massive convent walls, had enviable
opportunities for perfecting his empirical remedies.
Small wonder, then, that in course of time the
priceless potion distilled from herbs grown only in
the garden of Vatopede, mysteriously connected
with the cure of Constantine the Great, came to be
accepted as the sovereign remedy for the disease,
alike terrible and insidious, which, since the dawn
of history, had smitten with fatal power the
<a name="png.184" id="png.184" href="#png.184"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>180<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>peasant in his cabin, the noble in his castle, the
king upon his throne.’</p>

<p>‘All this is very instructive, of course,’ said
Bournefield, ‘but I can’t say I’ve taken much
interest in the medical aspect of this curse of
mankind; without meaning to be frivolous, I
always thought it principally concerned the people
of old Biblical times, and that it was practically
unknown in these modern days.’</p>

<p>‘But you’ve heard of the Little Bay Leper
Hospital in Sydney?’</p>

<p>‘I’ve seen reference from time to time in the
papers. Half-a-dozen Chinamen there, are there
not?’</p>

<p>‘Double the number, at least. But would you
be surprised to hear that within the last few years
two European ladies—rich, cultured, travelled,
possessed of everything necessary for comfort and
happiness—had been confined there?’</p>

<p>‘Surely not! Impossible! Is your information
trustworthy?’</p>

<p>‘I was told of it by a Government official—an
old family friend, a man of the highest reputation
for truth and probity, with access to all such
institutions by right of position.’</p>

<p>‘I suppose he told you more. How, in
Heaven’s name, did it come to pass?’</p>

<p>‘It seems that these ladies were, in a literary
sense, exploiting the South Sea Islands world, with
which earthly paradise, as it appeared to them,
they were charmed—one may even say intoxicated,
as were many before them. The younger
one (they were aunt and niece) took photographs
<a name="png.185" id="png.185" href="#png.185"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>181<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>and kept a diary—she purposed to write a book
when they reached “home.” Poor girl! how
little she thought where that home was to be!’</p>

<p>‘And so?’</p>

<p>‘Yes, indeed!—gruesome, mysterious, hardly
credible; but true, or it would not be life.
They left Honolulu for Sydney in the San
Francisco boat after touching at Ponapé. For a
week all went well. Then they kept their cabins.
The stewardess, the doctor, when appealed to,
would say nothing beyond that the lady passengers
were ill—very ill; fever perhaps; people often
got it in these latitudes. But by and by dark
rumours began to emanate from the forecastle—the
crew knew what sort of <em>fever</em> was occasionally
spoken of with bated breath by island passengers.
Captain and mate knew <em>nothing</em>—bluffed off all
inquiry. But the Health Officer came on board
directly the Heads were passed. It was early
morning. The doctor was interviewed, and a
very strict examination made of passengers and
crew. After which the two lady passengers, muffled
up to the eyes, were carried off in the doctor’s own
boat. They were transferred without loss of time
to the Little Bay Hospital. <em>Leprosy</em>, of course!
Poor things! it was never known how they contracted
it, but the fact was indisputable.’</p>

<p>‘Was it known before they came on board?’</p>

<p>‘Not suspected for an instant. But within a
week after leaving they began (the stewardess
said) to suffer from great depression and strange,
unaccountable sensations. Dull pains, accompanied
by semi-delirious conditions, supervened, gradually
<a name="png.186" id="png.186" href="#png.186"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>182<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>becoming more acute and distressing. The doctor
prescribed medicines which gave temporary relief,
but did not explain his suspicions, and advised
confinement to their cabins; occasionally, as the
boat neared Sydney, sobs and wailing cries were
heard by the attendants. As little as possible was
said, and the facts of the case did not find their
way into the papers.’</p>

<p>‘I never heard of anything so dreadful in my
life,’ said the listener; ‘I feel like a man in a
dream. But what became of them?’</p>

<p>‘The elder lady died, mercifully, within the
year, after which the younger became insane, and
was taken to an asylum, where she may be lingering
yet for all I know. Better dead, perhaps.’</p>

<p>‘Of course the seizures are one in a thousand
compared with the ratio of people killed by typhoid
fever or smallpox—but what an awful possibility!
One shudders at the thought not only of pain unceasing—almost
unendurable, but of becoming
loathsome to one’s fellow-creatures, even to one’s
nearest and dearest. Why such a sacrifice of all
things held dear to humanity should be permitted,
shakes one’s belief in the Divine interposition in
mundane affairs.’</p>

<p>‘Which leads into the domain of the unknowable,
where the paths are dubious. Thank
Heaven at least for the power of action! <em>That</em>
at least is left to us. “So to bed,” as the late
Mr. Pepys hath it.’</p>

<p>Carteret left for the coast on the following day.
His next letter was from Honolulu, whence he had
formulated a plan, and taken the first steps towards
<a name="png.187" id="png.187" href="#png.187"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>183<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the fulfilment of a long-devised scheme of relief.
The ‘hour had come,’ he wrote, and, what was of
more importance, ‘the man.’</p>

<p>Plentiful, and easy to be secured for adequate
pay, as were the sailors of fortune on or around the
beaches of Ponapé and Ocean Island, there were
difficulties in the way.</p>

<p>They were bold sea-rovers, brave to recklessness,
seasoned to all manner of tragedies—mutinies,
wrecks, ‘cuttings out’ by savage islanders, what
not. But they were short of the wherewithal
with which to begin a campaign. They had
neither cash nor credit,—proverbially without the
first requisite, while the second indispensable was
absolutely nil.</p>

<p>Throughout the wide ocean world of the South
Pacific there was, however, one master mariner,
owning the far-famed brig <cite>Leonora</cite>, and a name
to conjure with from New Zealand to the Line
Islands. This was the celebrated, perhaps more
correctly termed notorious, William Henry Hayston,
the dreaded captain of the <cite>Leonora</cite>—the
smartest vessel of that strange fleet which
the South Sea traffic bred and maintained.
Half-traders, half-slavers, or wholly privateers,
on occasion equally ready to play either part
at a pinch, and wholly indifferent to flag, or
maritime law, if the pay or prize-money were but
adequate to the risk. It was freely asserted that
there was <em>no adventure</em> which this ‘pirate king’—so
to speak—would not undertake on adequate
remuneration. Lawless, dangerous, even desperate
he might be, but he had rarely been known to fail
<a name="png.188" id="png.188" href="#png.188"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>184<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>when perfect seamanship, dauntless courage, and
contempt of all ordinary, even extraordinary, risks
were indispensable. And whatever contract he
elected to accept, he always commanded a crew
fully prepared to stand by him to the death.</p>

<p>Captain William Henry Hayston, formerly of
the United States Navy, but now unattached,
owner and commander of the brig <cite>Leonora</cite>, may
have had misunderstandings, more or less serious,
with Her Britannic Majesty’s and other Governments
in an earlier day, but if so, no one apparently
cared to remind him of such trifles. As
he walked up the principal thoroughfare with his
supercargo, and first mate, a half-caste, well known
(and feared also) throughout the island world, he
did not give people the idea of a man to be lightly
interfered with. Not that there was anything
suggestive of unlawful callings or piratical ferocity
about his manner or appearance. Perfectly dressed
and appointed after the naval fashion of the day,
his air was serene, his accent affable and courteous.
Friends and acquaintances, official and otherwise,
were greeted with the free speech and ready smile
which had served him so well in many a close
encounter with the myrmidons of the law.</p>

<p>Marching up to the Consulate of France, he
presented himself to that dread official, and transacted
a short interview with easy assurance and
consummate policy; sympathised with the official
view of some later native troubles; and after
mentioning Callao as the port he thought would
be probably his destination, gracefully made
adieu, leaving his interlocutor utterly in the
<a name="png.189" id="png.189" href="#png.189"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>185<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>dark as to his movements, his business, or his
intentions.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>With a well-found steamer, hope in his heart,
and joy irradiating his every sense, Carteret on
board the <cite>Morana</cite> is now nearing Honolulu—which,
if the breeze holds fair, will be reached
to-morrow night. Here he is to meet Captain
Hayston, of the <cite>Leonora</cite>, with whom he has
already arranged terms and conditions, and who
has signified his willingness to land a crew at
Molokai, prepared to carry off the arch-fiend himself,
or the Governor of the Straits Settlements,
always provided that the sum mentioned between
them should be ‘planked down,’ and that the
cost of any prosecution on behalf of the Crown
be repaid within a specified time.</p>

<p>An unobtrusive entrance by the <cite>Leonora</cite> had
been made late at night, and in the morning it was
announced that Captain Hayston had once more
honoured their waters with his presence. The
famous schooner had slipped in and taken up her
anchorage without aid from pilot or other functionary,
but she was no sooner discovered at
dawnlight, placidly reposing like a strange waterfowl
in a pond among the ducks and geese of a
farmyard, amid the ships of all nations, than a
distinct feeling of unrest, not unaccompanied by
apprehension, began to manifest itself.</p>

<p>‘Some darned villainy afloat, I guess,’ said a
grizzled American whaleman, ‘when William H. Hayston, master mariner, drops his anchor.
Sometimes it’s contraband o’ war—blackbirdin’—or
<a name="png.190" id="png.190" href="#png.190"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>186<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>smuggled opium—but thar was always some
game on hand afore he quit—which he did sudden-like.’</p>

<p>‘Why, I thought they couldn’t bring anything
agen him now?’ said one of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">habitués</i> of the
bar and beach—‘anyhow he spends his money free
and pleasant—nothin’ mean ’bout <em>that</em>!’</p>

<p>‘Maybe yes! maybe no!’ quoth the man
from ‘Martha’s Vineyard.’ ‘Anyhow, folks had
better keep their eyes skinned, I reckon, as hev’
anythin’ to lose, if it’s only an extry wife. He’s
tarnation deep, and so all-fired lucky, that old
Nick himself’ll hev’ to mind his eye when he
passes in his checks.’</p>

<p>‘Pleased to meet you again, Captain Hayston,’
said Carteret. ‘I thought you were likely to
be punctual when a business appointment like
mine was on the cards. My name is Lytton
Carteret.’</p>

<p>‘Sir, I duly received your letter with accompanying
directions—trust we shall do business in
terms of your offer’; and here the light glowed in
his blue eyes like the sparkle in a fire opal.</p>

<p>‘Much obliged, Captain! We have met
before. I saw you in the Bay of Islands in 18—.
You were there when the crew of the <cite>Jonathan
Stubbs</cite> mutinied, and threw the captain overboard.’</p>

<p>‘That is so, and we helped to arrest the darned
villains, and send them to Sydney for trial, where
they were hanged in due form.’</p>

<p>‘Captain Hayston,’ said Carteret, ‘suppose we
get to business. I’ve heard many things about
<a name="png.191" id="png.191" href="#png.191"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>187<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>you, but I’m aware that you’re a man of your word.’
Hayston nodded. ‘I place the fullest confidence in
your discretion. The affair, which I depend on
your help to carry out, is, I am aware, of delicate,
not to say dangerous nature. I wish to get away
a friend of mine who is detained at Molokai.’</p>

<p>‘It’s against island law—means fine and imprisonment
on conviction. The damned place is
closely watched. But it means yanking a soul
out of hell, and I’ll risk it, if we agree.’</p>

<p>‘And now, as to the terms?’</p>

<p>‘I must have a thousand pounds. Five hundred
down, and the balance when I land your friend at
Norfolk Island. He can get a ship to any port
in Australia after that.’</p>

<p>‘Agreed! You shall have a draft on my
Sydney agents, Towns and Co., to-night; I can
find an endorser here, before we leave, for the
second payment, which I shall have great pleasure
in making.’</p>

<p>‘That’s the way I like to do business,’ said
Hayston, ‘but if you’ll give me the pleasure of
your company to dinner this evening, on board
the <cite>Leonora</cite>, we can talk everything fully over,
and fix up the best way to carry this matter
out.’</p>

<p>‘The arrangement will suit me very well. We
shall be quite private, I know; and there is much
to be said and settled before the start.’</p>

<p>After making the round of the chief places of
business in the town, and posting letters of more or
less importance, Carteret walked down to the
beach with Hayston, and was pulled out to the
<a name="png.192" id="png.192" href="#png.192"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>188<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a><cite>Leonora</cite>, graceful craft that she was! They were
received at the gangway in true man-o’-war
fashion, and as the Captain glanced round, with
the quick, trained eye of the seaman born to
command, Carteret noted that every man was at
his place, and the vessel, generally, in exquisite
order. The crew, with few exceptions, were
islanders, some were half-castes, a few negroes,
but all a muscular, daring, resolute lot—the
discipline had evidently been strict and unrelaxing.</p>

<p>Going below, the stewards—one a light mulatto,
the other a Japanese dressed in his native costume—were
apparently just preparing to bring in the
dinner. Carteret and the Captain entered a smaller
cabin, under a heavy gold-embroidered curtain.
This cabin was used as a smoke-room and private
audience-chamber. The ornaments and curios
suggested many climes and not less desperate adventures.
Pistols with silver hilts—Malay krises—swords
and daggers—evil-looking spears—South
Sea dresses were in evidence, in number almost
sufficient to cover the sides of the cabin.</p>

<p>‘I suppose,’ said Carteret, ‘there are stories
about some of these weapons, Captain Hayston?’</p>

<p>‘Well! Yes! indeed—about nearly all of
them,’ replied Hayston. ‘That krise was nearly
making an end of me. I was looking at another
man, when the devil of a Malay got close up in
the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mêlée</i>—it was a pirate junk affair—I was in the
Navy of the United States then—(here he sighed).
The Malay had just killed a midshipman, poor boy!
and was fighting like ten devils, as all Malays do
<a name="png.193" id="png.193" href="#png.193"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>189<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>when they’re “amok,” when a quartermaster cut
him down, and the krise grazed my side.</p>

<p>‘That old silver casket with two handles was full
of Spanish doubloons when I first came across it.
It belonged to the captain of a slaver—a fellow
that had eluded us and the smartest frigates of
the British Navy. I was a youngster at the time,
and thought the affair great fun. The slaver
captain was a Spaniard, accused of enormous
cruelties—throwing sick men overboard and all
kinds of devilry. We found prisoners chained in
the hold, officers and passengers from a merchant
ship.’</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter VIII"><a name="png.194" id="png.194" href="#png.194"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>190<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2>


<p>‘<span class="smc">Their</span> last prize,’ continued Hayston, ‘was a
dreadful sight! Pah! I can hardly bear to
think of it now.’ As he spoke, his face darkened,
and a look of rage, concentrated, lurid,
pitiless, passed over his features, transforming
their whole expression into that of a demon—an
avenging Azrael; his whole countenance suddenly
passed from a state of smiling, even fascinating
courtesy, to that of murderous wrath—deadly,
implacable, consuming.</p>

<p>‘They paid the penalty?’ said Carteret.</p>

<p>‘Yes! They were triced up to the yard-arm—two
and two—a trial was dispensed with—Uncle
Sam having passed a special ordinance with regard
to such cases. The sharks had gathered around
after the first corpses were dropped. It was a
calm: they were torn in pieces almost as soon
as the breath was out of their bodies. That
the sea which had been crimsoned many a time
with the blood of their innocent victims, should
now be stained with their own, was only just
retribution. Too merciful, of course; but we
can’t go back to the methods of the Middle Ages—more’s
<a name="png.195" id="png.195" href="#png.195"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>191<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the pity! And now let us change the
subject. “Land ho!” as an old captain of mine
in the West Indies used to say when he heard the
dinner bell.’</p>

<p>The melodious sound of a silver temple-gong
announced the service of a meal as perfect in its
way as anything arranged on salt water can be.</p>

<p>The wines, of the choicest French and Spanish
vintages, were such as few ‘Amphitryons où l’on
dîne’ have the privilege of presenting to a guest.
The turtle soup would have tempted an alderman
to change his religion. But once previously had
Carteret tasted such Madeira as followed it. The
fish, the prawn curry, the beautiful crested
pigeons of the islands, guinea-fowls in size,
pheasants in delicacy of flavour—without pursuing
the detail, it may be assumed from Carteret’s
testimony, then and afterwards, that a jury of
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">gourmets</i> would have been hard set to decide in
favour of any naval competing function of the day.
The dry champagne which followed the hock was
of a known, accredited <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">crû</i>, but did not tempt
Carteret to do more than reasonable justice to it.
He had no intention of measuring strength of
brain against his entertainer; more particularly
with a vitally important stake on the cards. At a
comparatively early hour he discussed with Hayston
the more binding terms of the agreement, and argued
them out, clause by clause, before they parted for
the night. Not wholly satisfied with the propriety
of concluding the affair after dinner, moderate
as had been his potations, Carteret deferred the
signing and sealing of the final instrument till
<a name="png.196" id="png.196" href="#png.196"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>192<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>noon on the following day. Which was at once
agreed to.</p>

<p>Captain Hayston, indeed, expressed his intention
of sailing for foreign parts on the morrow.
Thus, if all preliminaries were completed at mid-day,
he would be free to lift anchor, and taking
advantage of the breeze off the land would
initiate action. Doubtless he had intelligence
agents on whom he could rely—agents ‘steady
of heart, and stout of hand’ as ever served king
or minister, and who dared not play him false.
When, therefore, the <cite>Leonora</cite> shook out her
topsails and stood off the land, a point or two to
the south of west, shaping a course for the crimson
afterglow of the fading sunset, there were ten
thousand of Carteret’s dollars in the double-handled
casket of the slaver Leon Gonzales, late master of
the <cite>Pedro Torero</cite>—also in the private escritoire
an order for five hundred pounds, payable on demand
by the firm of Robert Towns and Co., Fort
Street, Sydney, endorsed by Oppenheimer Brothers,
of Suva, Fiji.</p>

<p>If the course was altered at midnight, and
shaped to one which would bring them close to
Molokai, where the eventful dash and relief
expedition would be carried out, who was to be the
wiser?</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The night, for which they had watched for
nearly a week, was almost a calm—but overclouded,
and dark as a wolf’s throat. The proverbial
hand, when held before the face, was
invisible.</p>

<p><a name="png.197" id="png.197" href="#png.197"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>193<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>The <cite>Leonora</cite>, miles away at nightfall, had
glided closer to the land and lay off and on. The
dropping of an anchor near the forbidden shore
would, of course, have aroused suspicion. The
crew, with Bill Hicks at the steer oar, had been
carefully chosen. The whale-boat, which, for
reasons of his own, the Captain of the <cite>Leonora</cite>
always had on board, was reliable on any sea, and
against any of the winds of heaven. The crew
was composed of Rotumah islanders, perhaps the
best men—except those of Norfolk Island—in
rough water or wild gale that the South Pacific
breeds. They may have had a general idea of the
nature of the service in which they were engaged,
but were merely told that they were to pull
quietly to the beach near a rocky point, where a
post stood in the sand, with a small lantern
attached to it. There they would see a man,
wrapped in a cloak. As soon as the boat
grounded, he would walk towards them. They
were to run to meet him, lifting him carefully
into the boat, as he had been ill. Then to pull
their d—dest. Bill Hicks would see to that;
and the quicker they got back to the brig the
surer they would be of a tot of rum all round,
and a pound of tobacco. But, if they valued
their skins, they were not to come back without
their passenger. It is not improbable that they
were aware of the object and circumstances of the
secret service. <span class="nw">But—</span></p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>Their’s not to make reply,</div>
<div>Their’s but to do and die.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>The crew of the <cite>Leonora</cite> had, before now, been
<a name="png.198" id="png.198" href="#png.198"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>194<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>in affairs where certain shipmates had lost the
‘number of their mess.’ Such experience was
nothing new to them. ‘It was all in the day’s
work’—one man came back safe and sound, the
other ‘went to Davy Jones.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Nothing could have been more propitious:
the silent, moonless night; the sleeping ocean,
dark, waveless—unillumined save by the phosphorescence
caused by a leaping fish—the sombre
surface in Stygian repose. The <cite>Leonora</cite> had
approached the dread island long after dark,
gradually getting closer by long ‘boards.’ For a
while the low rhythmic murmur of the unresting
surge was the only sound which broke the strange
silence, almost oppressive in its completeness.
Then, as the boat left the ship’s side noiselessly,
and, rowed with muffled oars, approached the
shallows of the beach, a weird confused lament, as
of wails, moans, and cries of pain, rose through
the murky air. Such was the outcome of periodical
seizures, with torturing, lancinating pains, which,
towards the later hours of the night, occur with
dreadful regularity in advanced or hopeless cases.
As they increased in distinctness one might have
observed a movement as of shuddering fear among
the crew, who peered eagerly through the gloom,
beyond which lay the dim white beach, with a
fringe of plumy palms beyond. Straining his
eyes, the quartermaster in the bow observed dark
forms wandering, as it appeared to him, along the
seashore. Their gait was slow and faltering;
with weak, tremulous steps they seemed as though
<a name="png.199" id="png.199" href="#png.199"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>195<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>doubtful of their ability to reach the point from
which to survey the ocean—to look, if better was
not to be had, upon the highway to freedom, and
that outer world, from which they had been severed
once and for ever. They might well have passed
for a company of gibbering ghosts on the bank of
that dark Lethean stream where earthly joys and
sorrows cease.</p>

<p>As the strange band neared the shore, the
cries, the moaning, unintelligible chorus seemed
to deepen in intensity, and once a scream as of
agony unendurable rent the air.</p>

<p>‘Hell’s gate open now, I guess,’ said Hicks;
‘and these are Old Nick’s beach-combers sent to
say, “How’d yer like to come to this afore yer
time’s up?”’ Here his voice altered at once. ‘Look
out, you Maori Jack! here’s our passenger.’</p>

<p>As he spoke, a tall man in a cloak dashed into
the sea, and rushed towards the boat, wading
above the waist, and holding up his arms beseechingly,
while at the same time several of the others
made as though to prevent him leaving their
party. With a hoarse cry the Maori seized him,
and almost lifting him up, dragged him into the
boat, while the bow oar descended on the skull of
the leading pursuer, who fell back, recovering himself
with difficulty. There was no further attempt
at capture. ‘Give way, men!’ shouted Hicks;
‘pull for the brig as if she was an eighty-barrel
whale.’</p>

<p>The strange passenger sank down as if exhausted,
and made no remark or gesture. As
the boat foamed up to the <cite>Leonora’s</cite> side, a
<a name="png.200" id="png.200" href="#png.200"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>196<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>rope-ladder was let down, up which he—helped by the
Maori’s strong grasp—climbed in safety. Once
on the deck, he seemed to revive, and commenced
to thank the Captain effusively. But he declined
converse. ‘You will find refreshment in your
cabin, señor! The steward will direct you. It
will be better to defer explanations until the morning.
Manuel’ (this to the mulatto), ‘see that this
gentleman has all that he requires for the night.
Adios!’</p>

<p>‘Adios, indeed!’ thought the passenger, who
had seen strange things in strange countries, and
had picked up Spanish in his wanderings. ‘I feel
bewildered for the present; I must clear my
brain with sleep, if possible; I have had little
enough for the last fortnight.’</p>

<p>The breeze off the land by this time had
slightly freshened. Sail was made ‘alow and
aloft,’ and as the wavelets commenced to strike
and fall off from her bows with increasing volume,
the graceful <cite>Leonora</cite> swept smoothly yet rapidly
on her course, at a rate of speed which, if there
had been pursuit, gave little chance of her being
overhauled.</p>

<p>What an awakening it was for Alister Lilburne
when, after a night of soundest sleep, he realised
that he was many a league from that Isle of the
Lost!—was again free, safe, unhampered by rules
and hateful regulations such as are found necessary
for semi-penal communities.</p>

<p>The morning breeze, the roseate dawnlight,
the lapping wave which kissed his cabin-side, the
sea-birds’ cry,—all these were separate and distinct
<a name="png.201" id="png.201" href="#png.201"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>197<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>joys and sensations which he recognised with a
thankfulness too deep for words. When the
Japanese steward shortly afterwards, bowing with
Oriental humility, proposed to conduct him to a
bath-room, and, at the same time, displayed a complete
Spanish military uniform, he began to feel
once more a resemblance to the man that he used
to be, as also a newborn desire to learn how and
by whom this change in his affairs had been
brought about. Change? Yes! the change
from a living grave—a hopeless, despairing existence—doomed
to vegetate on the accursed isle till
death released him from a state of mental torture
all but unendurable. Weekly to witness the long-hoped-for,
prayed-for opening of the prison gate
for a fellow-victim. But only by the warder Death,
or through a merciful alternative—the utter dethronement
of reason.</p>

<p>The purifying process complete, and the costume
of the hidalgo donned, from which not even
the sombrero, with sweeping feather, was absent,
his island garments were made into a bundle,
loaded with a ringbolt, and cast into the deep.
His attendant then informed him that the Captain
hoped to have the pleasure of meeting Don
Carlos Alvarez at breakfast, at his convenience.
Feeling partly like an actor in private theatricals,
partly like a man in a dream, he followed Manuel
to the smaller cuddy, where fruit and coffee, with
a most appetising breakfast, were already set
forth.</p>

<p>‘I have the honour to salute Don Carlos
Alvarez, who has joined my vessel at Santa Cruz
<a name="png.202" id="png.202" href="#png.202"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>198<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>and desires a passage to Norfolk Island. Is it
not so?’ said the Captain, speaking in Spanish,
with formal and impressive courtesy.</p>

<p>‘A vuestro disposición<!-- TN: accent missing in original -->, Señor Capitan!’
answered the passenger in the same language.
And, indeed, as he surveyed himself in one of the
mirrors which, in massive silver frames, ornamented
the apartment, he found it difficult to
believe that he was not the haughty hidalgo with
whom the tales of the Spanish main had made all
students familiar.</p>

<p>‘I have to thank you,’ he continued, still
speaking in more or less pure Castilian, ‘for my
life—for the recovery of my liberty, and all things
that men hold most dear. Believe me, I await
only the time when I may translate my feelings
into deeds, to prove them true. But I would
further beg you to add to my obligation, heavy as
it is, the reasons for your thus interesting yourself
in the affairs of a stranger.’</p>

<p>‘That we have not met before, I am aware,’
answered Hayston. ‘My action is not wholly disinterested,
you may probably guess; still, a man’s
friends may intervene in his affairs—and to some
purpose.’</p>

<p>‘Friends!’ said the stranger. ‘How many is
an outcast likely to have—outcast of God and
man—may He pardon me for the thought!—in
that Gehenna from which your skill and courage
have rescued me? And if there be, by a miracle,
so much as one left to him, who once had many,
what power can he have had?’</p>

<p>‘The power of the golden key,’ said the
<a name="png.203" id="png.203" href="#png.203"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>199<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>sea-rover, looking around, as he spoke, upon wave
and sky, as the freshening breeze sent the gay
bark on her course with increased speed. ‘With
a magic force in the background, weather like
this, and such a water-witch as the <cite>Leonora</cite>
under his foot, why should you, should any man,
despair? Exile, sickness, wounds—losses, shipwreck,
imprisonment,—everything but the rope or
the axe, which ends all things, have fallen to my
lot. But I never lowered my flag, and see where
it flaunts in the breeze now! Bah! the Spaniard’s
solace is the guitar; I must send for mine, and sing
you one of my favourites,’ and here he trolled out
the opening verse of ‘Yo soy contrabandista!’
‘Gad! how the muleteers and smugglers of the
Pyrenees used to dance and yell to the music!
The very thought makes me young again.’ Here
he sprang forward, raising his lofty head with a
gesture of defiance, as if claiming to be the master
of his own destiny, and daring a world in arms to
subdue his will or shape his course in life. His
eyes glowed with the light of battle—his upper lip
curved in scorn—his vast frame seemed to grow
in form and stature, as he stood there, towering
above his companion, and presenting the contrast
of a mediæval mail-clad knight alike to squire
and pages as to the leathern-jerkined yeomen of
the ranks.</p>

<p>The passenger looked on him with eyes of
admiration, as he stood, grand in the possession of
unmatched strength—flushed with the triumph of
successful enterprise, and glorying in his daring—the
daring which had, so many a time and oft,
<a name="png.204" id="png.204" href="#png.204"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>200<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>carried him through perils and desperate encounters,
to which this last one was but child’s
play.</p>

<p>‘And now,’ said Hayston, taking the passenger’s
arm, ‘let us walk the deck, while I tell
you how I became possessed of your history, and
was persuaded to mix myself up in your affairs.
Can you call to memory the name of a friend who
would be likely to be reckless of money and time
spent in effecting your release?’</p>

<p>‘Of course—there is Lytton Carteret—my wife’s
cousin—sincerely attached to her, and an early
friend of mine—but I have not heard of him for
years. He was said to have been travelling in the
East.’</p>

<p>‘That is so. He informed me that he had
nearly reached Lhassa, but had been turned back
by a guard of Thibetan soldiers.’</p>

<p>‘Then he has returned? And where is he
now?’</p>

<p>‘He is awaiting the return of the brig <cite>Leonora</cite>
at Apia harbour, where he hopes to meet Don
Alvarez—now on his travels in the South Pacific.’</p>

<p>‘Then he knows of my having left——?’</p>

<p>‘Nukuheva, let us say—rather a fashionable
resort just now—Lord Pembroke and a friend
were staying there for some months lately.’</p>

<p>‘A light breaks in on me. Of course I could
hear nothing in that inferno, out of the world and
the world’s life. Do I guess aright that it was he
that——?’</p>

<p>‘Yes! Señor Alvarez; it was he that engineered
this little <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">coup</i> of ours. He had made
<a name="png.205" id="png.205" href="#png.205"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>201<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>a <i lang="es" xml:lang="es">pasear</i> to Easter Island, where he happened
on William H. Hayston, master mariner—whom
he met once at the Hokianga, New Zealand—and
it came into his head that he might take a
hand in this deal. Dollars, of course, were necessary,
and he planked down handsomely. Made
money in some place in West Australia, I think.’</p>

<p>‘But, Captain Hayston, it is my <em>right</em> to pay
everything which this affair has cost. I shall
have funds when I arrive in England. My credit,
indeed, is good at this moment in Lombard Street—I
insist——’</p>

<p>‘In this charter party, I only know Lytton
Carteret, and must decline to mix up business with
Señor Carlos Alvarez, or any friend or relative.
It can be settled with him only after I fulfil my
contract; but, until then, I must decline—much
as it grieves me—to consider you in any other
capacity than as my <em>passenger</em>. From that time
forward we shall be friends, I trust?’</p>

<p>‘Have it your own way, Captain Hayston,’
said Lilburne, inwardly smiling at the idea of the
buccaneer, as he was often held to be, being scrupulous
about extra payment for service rendered.
‘In all other respects I shall always regard you as
a friend in need, to be trusted in fair weather or
foul, to my life’s end.’ Here he grasped the
Captain’s sinewy hand, and shook it with a fervour
commensurate with the importance of the occasion.</p>

<p>‘Buon amigo—malo adversario,’ replied Hayston.
‘We shall be unlikely to meet again;
though, but for hard luck, and the mystery of
fate, you and I, and your friend—a man whom I
<a name="png.206" id="png.206" href="#png.206"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>202<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>honour and respect from the bottom of my heart—might
have been comrades to our lives’ end.’</p>

<p>‘And why not now? Surely it is not too late—why
not change your career? Why not uproot
the ties and habits of early youth—atone for
the mistakes—crimes, if you will—of a reckless
manhood?—retrace the downward path—repent
in sackcloth and ashes—a white sheet, if you like.’</p>

<p>‘Fancy “Bully” Hayston in a white sheet!’
The absurdity of the situation seemed to strike
him, and he laughed till the tears came into his
eyes. ‘No,’ and a sad, stern look came over his
changeful brow—‘what says Byron, whom I used
to read in my youth?</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>‘In fierce extremes—in good and ill.</div>
<div>But still we love even in our rage,</div>
<div>And haunted to our very age</div>
<div>With the vain shadow of the past,</div>
<div>As is Mazeppa to the last!’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Once more the course was changed—another
forty-eight hours would bring the <cite>Leonora</cite> to Apia
harbour. Here the erstwhile Spanish Don would
be landed. The identification of Alister Lilburne
with the Spanish-speaking, Spanish-garmented
Alvarez would be difficult, if not impossible.</p>

<p>All that the crew—discreet of their kind—knew,
or could testify to, was, that a Spanish-speaking
individual had been on board their vessel for a few
weeks, and had left them at Norfolk Island. They
had heard that he had come from Sydney, and was
going back as soon as he could get a ship. Had
he come from Molokai? They did not know.
<a name="png.207" id="png.207" href="#png.207"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>203<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>In fact, the four Rotumah men had been carefully
prevented from showing themselves on shore, and
the rest of the crew had been <em>advised</em> by Bill Hicks
to recognise no one, and to notice nothing outside
of the ordinary cruise of their voyage. They had
shipped a cargo of copra at Ponapé, and declined
to answer any questions save such as related to
island produce.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Carteret was always reticent as to the route by
which he and Lilburne made their way to West
Australia—landing at Albany from a German
cargo-boat, and parting at Perth. It was discovered
after Lilburne had been on board the
<cite>Leonora</cite>, that the white mark, more or less circular,
on account of which he might so easily have lost
his life, as well as his liberty, had no more to do
with leprosy than with scarlet fever. It was simply
the remains of a cicatrice, resulting from an Arab
spear-wound received in one of his desert wanderings
in early life. The skin had contracted, after
the healing process was complete, and, as often
happens, had lost its original colour and shape.
Hayston himself—who had taken a medical
course in his University days, and was no mean
practitioner in the department of wounds, and
surgical matters generally—after a minute examination
pronounced it to be free from the remotest
likeness to the earlier stages of the disease. Not
satisfied with this, he called a quartermaster, who
had lived on every island in the South Pacific, and
had acquired a reputation as a successful medicine-man
among the sailors and beach-combers.</p>

<p><a name="png.208" id="png.208" href="#png.208"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>204<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘Take a look at Don Carlos Alvarez here,
Ben!’ said Hayston. ‘What d’ye make of it?
Any Molokai business about it?’</p>

<p>‘No more than there is about this, Captain!’—pointing
to a scar upon his brawny chest, right
in the centre of a tattooed mermaid’s bosom, that
marine enchantress being represented as smiling
seductively upon a shipwrecked mariner. ‘That
was a touch I got at the Navigators, when the
natives nearly cut us off—a close thing it was,
Captain. But it healed up wonderful—and there
it is—white enough too. I suppose those cranks
at Tahiti would have boxed me up with the other
poor devils if I hadn’t taken French leave—in a
native canoe. But I gave ’em leg-bail for it, and
here I am to-day, as sound as a roach, and as good
an A.B. as there is in the fleet.’</p>

<p>‘That will do, Ben, I am satisfied; you have
been two years in the <cite>Leonora</cite>, so your case is
proved, at any rate. The fact is, señor, that there
was such a scare about the disease when first the
native Councils at Honolulu began to legislate,
that they went to the other extreme in suspected
cases; thinking it better that a few should be
wrongfully imprisoned than that infection should
run riot over the whole island. To this day,
however, medical men are not agreed on the
subject of contagion.’</p>

<p>Of course Mrs. Lilburne had been advised by
letter from time to time of the possibility of her
husband’s release. What such hope and expectation
meant to these hardly entreated lovers may
be imagined. In her case, she was supported by
<a name="png.209" id="png.209" href="#png.209"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>205<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>an unshaken faith in the goodness of God. The
belief in which she had been reared had for years
furnished her with support and consolation, even in
a state of exile, loneliness, and comparative poverty.
Was it for her to doubt that He would make a
way for her to escape from that lamentable position,
when it pleased Him to put a period to her misery?
If she was wretched, lonely, forsaken, placed by
fate among the sick and the dying, was it for her
to repine—to despair? Day by day she saw the
strong perish before her eyes—the young and fair—the
hopeful and the indifferent. The terrible
fever of camps and crowds spared neither age nor
sex. Who was she, that she should be specially
protected? Rather ought she to be thankful that
she was in a position to help the helpless, to
succour the dying, to cheer the terrified soul, on
the verge of ‘the undiscovered country,’ with the
vision of a serene and glorified hereafter.</p>

<p>So she possessed her soul in patience, finding in
unrelaxing, even more zealous devotion to her duties
that relief from painful thought which ever accompanies
conscientious adherence to duty. In vain
her friends adjured her not to neglect her own
health. She persisted in ‘working herself to
death,’ as they averred, to the last day—when she
went off, carrying the blessings and prayers of the
whole community with her. The German boat
would be at Perth on an appointed day, when she
trusted to coach and train service to enable her to
meet her long-lost, despaired-of husband. Over
his transports, her tears and sobs of joy when she
rushed into the arms of the lover of her youth, the
<a name="png.210" id="png.210" href="#png.210"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>206<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>husband of her choice—raised, as she felt, from the
dead—saved, too, from a death of lingering agony,
of gradual, yes! loathsome, offensive decay, we
may not dwell.</p>

<p>Of their feelings, on an occasion so rare,
so unique, in fact, as their reunion under uncommon,
even improbable circumstances, only
those who have experienced partings—absences—even
remotely resembling them, may faintly conceive:
the almost incredible change from the dark
despair, which invaded every waking moment,
which robbed sleep of its healing power—all
existence of its zest and flavour, while only the
faintest glimmer of hope appeared in life’s dungeon
to warn off the man from suicide, the woman
from that negative existence which would have
invited the fell disease among the victims of which
she ministered daily, nightly. How many instances
had she witnessed among the early workers of the
goldfields! Some were unsuccessful at the first
onset. Fortune eluded them. Hope deserted the
unstable worker—the impoverished wife: the next
stage was a pallet in the crowded hospital, all
too soon to be followed by the requiem dirge and
the funeral train. The environment was depressing,
but, encircled by sickness, oft-times alone with
death at the midnight hour, no terrors ever caused
Elinor Lilburne to swerve for one moment from
the undoubting faith of her youth, or to shake
her trust in God. ‘Though He slay me, yet will
I trust in Him,’ had been a light to her path.
And now the Supreme Ruler of events had
manifested His loving mercy, in redeeming both
<a name="png.211" id="png.211" href="#png.211"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>207<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>body and soul, and preserving husband and wife
for a newer Eden, and the enjoyment of their
immortal love.</p>

<p>At the first discussion of ways and means,
Lilburne was in favour of at once returning to
England, of taking up their old life among friends
and relatives. Somewhat to his surprise his wife
gently, but no less firmly, dissented from the plan.</p>

<p>‘No, Alister,’ she said; ‘it would be ungrateful,
ungenerous even, to quit hurriedly a spot where I
have been sheltered, welcomed, and provided for;
where I have found friends in the hour of need,
nobly sympathetic in their treatment of a stranger.
Nowhere could I have met with greater kindness,
or assistance more delicately offered.’</p>

<p>‘But surely a mining camp, as I understand
this Pilot Mount, or whatever it is called, must
necessarily be a rude, uncivilised place.’</p>

<p>‘You must not say that, Alister, unless you
wish to hurt my feelings. In the first place, it is
now a city, with a population of sixty thousand
people, employed in mines which have paid a
million and a half sterling in dividends within the
last few years—besides having as inhabitants a
larger proportion of high-minded, accomplished,
and, in a sense, distinguished people, than many
places in the old country, of greater size and
apparent importance.’</p>

<p>Her husband took her hand, and smiled
indulgently. ‘Indeed!’ he answered, ‘I was not
aware that I was on delicate ground. I ought to
have made allowance for colonial experience. Isn’t
that what they call it? And they must have been
<a name="png.212" id="png.212" href="#png.212"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>208<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>people of superior merit, to have appreciated my
darling during the years of exile. I feel impatient
to make their acquaintance.’</p>

<p>‘It will not be difficult to do that; only you
mustn’t run away with the idea that the inhabitants
are all alike, and have no degrees of social rank.
However, you will see when we arrive. I should
not be surprised if you found goldfields life less
disagreeable than you expected.’</p>

<p>‘But you don’t ask me to stay there?’</p>

<p>‘You shall do exactly as you wish. Have I not
always been an obedient wife? But I wish to
make you acquainted with a strange and unfamiliar
phase of colonisation, closely bearing on the well-being
of the Empire, about which I know you are
an enthusiast.’</p>

<p>‘It is an order—as they say in India. When
shall we start?’</p>

<p>‘Not before next week. I am not going to
hurry you off. I have a fortnight’s leave of
absence, which we must spend at Perth Water.
Then I return to my post, to leave everything in
order, and say good-bye to my patients. Dear
souls! what should I have done without them—or
some of them without <em>me</em>—I am proud to say.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>When it was bruited abroad throughout Pilot
Mount, and to the West Australian world at large,
that Nurse Lilburne had gone to Perth to meet
her husband—<em>had</em> indeed met him on the incoming
<cite>Carl Schiller</cite>, and was returning to resume her
position at the Pilot Mount hospital,—also, after
putting everything straight, to give up her
<a name="png.213" id="png.213" href="#png.213"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>209<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>appointment, and probably ‘go home,’ great was the
excitement, general the regrets, sincere indeed
the sorrow which was openly displayed by her
more intimate friends and fellow-workers. Never
would they get such another Matron—so wise, so
tender, yet so firm, and clever too as an organiser.
She had redeemed their hospital from comparative
confusion and chaos; now it was as well managed
as any of the metropolitan ones. The Health
Officer, the Inspector General, the great doctor
M‘Diarmid, <em>every one</em>, had said so. And now,
when it was the pride and joy of ‘the field,’ here
was her husband turning up from nobody knew
where, and, of course, to take her away with him.
It was most discouraging.</p>

<p>As for the local press—a journalistic flood of
wonder and admiration, congratulation and grief,
poured over the bars and lodging-houses, the
hotel parlours, the stores—the churches even, and
flowed and surged, and eddied, throughout the
wide regions of ‘the field’ and its dependencies.
The name and fame of Nurse Lilburne, the modern
revival of the ‘lady with the lamp,’ had spread far
and wide. The fever-stricken miner, the inexperienced
tourist, the youthful governess, the
toil-encumbered matron, all owned to deep debts
of gratitude, all joined in a chorus of congratulation
and heartfelt thanksgiving. ‘Heaven
had had mercy,’ said the devout. ‘It is the Lord’s
doing.’ ‘First man ever I knowed to come back
from where <em>he’s</em> been,’ said South Sea Jack.</p>

<p>It had not generally transpired, nor had it been
thought necessary to advertise the fact of his
<a name="png.214" id="png.214" href="#png.214"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>210<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>detention at so evil-reputed a locality. It was generally
supposed that pecuniary losses had resulted in his
trying to redeem his fortunes in South America,
whence he had now returned, having at length
fallen upon a ‘bonanza’ in silver. The environments
of the country not being favourable to the
habitudes of a refined Englishwoman, it had been
decided that she should make a home in Western
Australia.</p>

<p>She had formerly elected to take the work
temporarily, as the member of a nursing sisterhood;
and coming to Pilot Mount in the worst period
of an epidemic of typhoid and pneumonia, she had
accepted the position of Matron in the newly
organised hospital, partly from motives of Christian
charity, but chiefly as a means of allaying the
torturing anxiety which afflicted every waking hour,
and, at times, denied her even necessary sleep.</p>

<p>When it was known, indeed promulgated by
the press, that Nurse Lilburne, the devoted, the
beloved, the Angel of the Lord (as the Cornish
Wesleyans called her), had in the dark hours
of fever watched by the bedside of so many a
‘Cousin Jack,’ and (as was believed) had restored
the father or husband to the weeping wife and
babes, the enthusiasm thus aroused seemed boundless,
uncontrollable.</p>

<p>That she should permanently leave ‘the field’
was too sorrowful for words—a public calamity,
a disaster. Still, if man and wife had come
together after years of separation, who would be
mean enough to put their loss in the scale against
the crowning joy of her happiness?</p>

<p><a name="png.215" id="png.215" href="#png.215"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>211<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>The situation was not new to them. Many
a miner’s family, in humbler life, had gone through
the same experience. How often had they clubbed
together to help to build and furnish the modest
cottage, in which the long-separated man and wife
could again set up the altar of domestic life, and
reinstate the household gods! But in this case it
appeared to the leaders—the representative men of
the city and the mining community—that an effort
should be made to render the recognition of the
benefits derived from Mrs. Lilburne’s devoted,
unselfish labours, worthy of the great principle
which she represented: of the invaluable services
which she had rendered to all the classes of the
community, ‘without fear, favour, or affection,’
making no distinction between rich and poor—the
lowly and those of exalted station.</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter IX"><a name="png.216" id="png.216" href="#png.216"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>212<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER IX</h2>


<p><span class="smc">The</span> probable day of their arrival had been
telegraphed from Perth, duly noted and published
by the local press. Furthermore, later intelligence
from the last stopping-place had been supplied,
so that, when, at mid-day, the Perth express
steamed into the Pilot Mount platform, there was
the largest crowd collected there since the official
turning-on of the main of the Great Aqueduct by
the Premier of West Australia.</p>

<p>‘This seems a busy place,’ said Alister Lilburne,
as he marked the crowded platform,
the equipages great and small, mounted and foot
police, ordinary miners in hundreds, besides others
who walked in procession, and carried flags—not
to mention a camel train, with turbaned Afghan
drivers, standing patiently on the outer edge of
the assemblage. ‘Is this an everyday gathering,
or is there any person of distinction expected?
What a number of nurses, in uniform too! Ha!
a light breaks in on me. Is it—surely not to
greet you on your return?’</p>

<p>‘I am afraid that all this fuss is about your
wife, and no one else, my dear Alister,’ she
<a name="png.217" id="png.217" href="#png.217"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>213<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>answered, not without perturbation. ‘I expected
some kind of greeting, but nothing on so large a
scale. Yes! it must be so. Here comes my
good friend the Mayor—with the Councillors in
their robes too. I suppose we must face it.
Gore Chesterfield too, Mr. Southwater, old
Jack. I see my friends have “rolled up,”
as we say here. I am afraid I shall break
down.’</p>

<p>‘My future rank and position are now irrevocably
decided,’ said he; ‘I shall go down to
posterity as Mrs. Lilburne’s husband. Very
proud of the title, I assure you. Wish for
nothing better—only, if only <em>they</em>—well! it
can’t be helped.’</p>

<p>‘Do you miss any one, Alister?’ she asked,
looking anxiously in his face.</p>

<p>‘Only two faces, darling! If only Carteret
and Hayston were present, what a tone it would
have given to the whole thing!’</p>

<p>‘Poor Lytton, how he would have revelled in
it! As for the bold sea-rover, I shall always
pray for him. But perhaps he is safer (and others
too) on board that dear <cite>Leonora</cite>. Now for the
serious business of the day. Mind you recognise
it as such!’<!-- TN: original has closing double quote --></p>

<p>The band struck up the National Air as the
Mayor in his robes advanced with dignity, and,
bowing respectfully, shook hands with Mrs. Lilburne and congratulated her warmly, greeting
also her husband, who was introduced formally
to them. His Worship then stood up, and
begged to express briefly the pleasure which it
<a name="png.218" id="png.218" href="#png.218"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>214<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>afforded him, and the members of the Pilot
Mount Municipal Council, to welcome back a
lady to whom, speaking in their name, and as
representing the miners of the field, the citizens,
and the inhabitants generally, they felt they owed
so deep a debt of gratitude (here he paused for
a moment, to afford opportunity for a burst of
cheering—loud, hearty, and protracted), for her
services—valuable—he might say, invaluable,
such as they would never forget as long as there
was an ounce of gold left in the field, or in West
Australia! Here the cheering was long—so
protracted that the Mayor held up his hand, and,
motioning for silence, concluded his remarks by
inviting Mr. and Mrs. Lilburne to a banquet at
the Town Hall.</p>

<p>A carriage with four greys was in attendance,
into which, in company with the Mayor and
Mayoress, the distinguished visitors were handed,
and driven to the Town Hall. Arrived at this
imposing structure, they were ushered into the
Great Hall, where tables had been laid for
apparently about a thousand people. On the
right hand of the Mayor sat the guest of the
day, with the Warden of the Goldfield—a dread
and awful potentate, having power of life and
death (financially)—beside her; the Lady
Mayoress on the left hand of her lord and master
(ancient figure of speech now chiefly obsolete).
Next to her sat a lately elected Councillor, who
was a representative citizen in several departments
of industrial and social development, and might be
trusted to find her ladyship in light and airy
<a name="png.219" id="png.219" href="#png.219"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>215<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>converse. On either side, as well as at the end
of the long table, sat leading mine managers,
‘golden hole men,’ and mercantile representatives,
with, of course, their wives and daughters. In
prominent positions were distinguished visitors
and tourists, such as General Sir Walter and
Lady Cameron, the Honourable Denzil Southwater,
Sir John and Lady Woods, and other
notables of rank and fashion. With the exception
of the memorable gathering when the Great Aqueduct
discharged its first bounteous, providential
flow, no such gathering had ever been witnessed at
Pilot Mount. Full justice having been done to
the repast, and the healths of the King and Queen
heartily and loyally, if briefly, responded to, the
Mayor called upon all present to charge their
glasses, as he was about to propose the health
of the guest of the day—he might say, the heroine
of the hour—Mrs. Lilburne. If he gave her
the title of Nurse Lilburne, by which she had
been known so favourably to the population of
the city, and the goldfields generally, perhaps he
would be better understood. That burst of
cheering, straight from the heart, showed how
miners and workers of all classes recognised their
true friends, of whatever class or occupation. He
had taken the liberty of describing that lady
as a heroine. There had been heroines in the
history of our Motherland, who had stood upon
the battlefield, ministering to the wants of the
wounded and the dying, unmoved by feelings of
personal danger; heroines who had dared the
risks of plague, pestilence, and famine, with
<a name="png.220" id="png.220" href="#png.220"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>216<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>unshaken courage and faith in an all-seeing
Providence; heroines who had donned armour;
heroines who had dared hurricanes or shipwreck,
calmly pursuing their ministrations until the
‘whelming wave’ ended the tragedy; but none
of these exemplars of womanhood, whether
ancient or modern, exceeded in lustre the self-devoted
attendant upon the feeble, the stricken,
the sick, and the dying, who patiently—at all
hours, in all seasons—fought the dread epidemic
which had ravaged their city in its earlier days.
It had slain a large proportion of the pioneers.
Young and old, gentle and simple, tenderly or
rudely reared, there had been but little difference
in the death-roll. Thank God! the plague had
been stayed. Their city was now as free from
it and other diseases as the leading metropolitan
towns. But they owed it not alone to their excellent
medical staff, not to improved sanitation, but,
under Heaven, to the nursing staff—among whom
the earliest, the most capable, the most unwearied,
the most successful in wresting patients from the
very jaws of death, was their distinguished—he
might say, their illustrious guest, to honour whom
they were met that day. He gave them the
health of Mrs. Alister Lilburne, more widely
known, perhaps more loved and honoured, as
‘Nurse Lilburne.’</p>

<p>Long, loud, protracted indeed were the responses
of the guests. Heterogeneous as was the
assembly, but one feeling—that of deepest gratitude,
of heartfelt respect—seemed to actuate the
great gathering. When at length Mrs. Lilburne
<a name="png.221" id="png.221" href="#png.221"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>217<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>stood up in her place, and the Mayor requested
silence, it was wonderful how suddenly all sound
and motion ceased.</p>

<p>She wore her simple nurse’s uniform. ‘This,’
she told her husband, ‘is the dress in which I
worked, the dress in which I earned the gratitude
of these people—out of respect to them, and the
sisterhood who worked with me so loyally, I
prefer to wear it to the end of the ceremony.’</p>

<p>As she stood there, outwardly calm and collected—although
naturally roused to an unwonted
state of exaltation by the electrical atmosphere of
the assemblage—she spoke the first few words
in a comparatively low tone, vibrating though
they were with deep feeling and suppressed
emotion; but as she became more fully pervaded
by the unusual nature of the situation, and
the exceptional circumstances under which the
acquaintance—the friendship even, with so many
now present had arisen, the colour came to her
cheek, the dark eyes glowed with a fire none had
recollected to have seen before, and with head erect,
and fearless mien, she appeared to the excited crowd
not only a beautiful woman—as she had always
been considered—but as an inspired prophetess,
dealing with questions not only of the life here,
but of that beyond the grave. Adverting to the
formation of the Pilot Mount hospital, and its
humble inception by the committee of energetic,
liberal-minded men—nearly all of whom she was
glad to see here to-day—she congratulated the
ladies and gentlemen present on the generous
response made to the first appeal for subscriptions.
<a name="png.222" id="png.222" href="#png.222"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>218<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Money flowed in, not only from the city, but
from distant camps and ‘rushes.’ Rude though
the first building was, and humble the couches and
pallets, the essentials of careful nursing and skilled
medical aid were there. Crowds of patients taxed
all their energy, but they were helped and
encouraged by the medical staff, then and now
self-denying, and generous, she might say munificent,
in personal outlay—in giving freely of their
time and skill. Every one helped, from his
Worship, the Mayor, to the humblest tradesman.
Progress was made—a large proportion of cures
was effected. Gradually, medicines, scientific
appliances and inventions were provided. And
now what did they see? A noble building with
an efficient staff, a decreasing death-rate—an
institution comparing favourably with those of
the metropolis, of her connection with which
she would be proud to the last day of her life.
With a parting word she would say farewell to
Pilot Mount and the friends she had made there—friends
of all classes—some of whom she had
been privileged to help in the hour of need. Not
only for this magnificent recognition of her humble
work, but for the unaffected respect and sympathy
which had been accorded to her since her first arrival
as a stranger in the field, was she deeply, sincerely
grateful. It would be among her most cherished
memories, and would remain with her to the last
day of her life. She could not conclude without
a reference to not the least important feature of
hospital duties and experiences, in which she had
been enabled by reason of her opportunities to say
<a name="png.223" id="png.223" href="#png.223"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>219<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>a word in season of a wholly unsectarian nature
to those to whose bodily health it was her duty to
minister. In the hour of death, almost within view
of the Day of Judgment, surely it was appropriate
to suggest repentance, to enjoin prayer! She
respected the creeds under which all had been
reared. No minister of religion had disapproved
of her action, and she would now adjure those
who, like herself, had felt the dread presence of
the Shadow of Death, to recall the resolutions, the
vows they had then made, and to act up to them
for the rest of their lives. She would be here
for a few weeks more; after her departure
they would most probably not set eyes upon her
in this world again; but she would never forget
her friends of Pilot Mount, and would trust that
her memory would always be associated with
words and deeds worthy of their mutual esteem.</p>

<p>The Warden of Goldfields, ‘rising in his place,’
begged leave of his Worship the Mayor to speak
briefly to the toast they had lately honoured.
From his necessarily extensive official knowledge
of the miners on this field, he could assert that
many of them believed that their lives had been
saved by Mrs. Lilburne’s skill and devotion to
duty. The Chief Commissioner of Police was
convinced that her advice and personal influence
had prevented one serious riot, and had exercised
more weight on the side of law and order than
half the force under his command.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>‘Now, my dear Alister,’ said Elinor Lilburne,
when, the function being concluded, they had been
<a name="png.224" id="png.224" href="#png.224"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>220<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>deposited safely at their hotel, after a spirited
progress through an excited crowd, which might
well have confused a less experienced driver,
‘how about the “necessarily rough, uncivilised
inhabitants of a mining camp”?’</p>

<p>‘I apologise humbly for my presumption in
offering an opinion founded upon ignorance the
most dense, combined with prejudice the most
childish. I shall submit all future statements to
my “guide, philosopher, and friend.” For the
attainment of sound, practical common-sense—combined
with perfect manners—I shall always
recommend (as I once did hear an English squire
of my own county do seriously to a friend’s son
and daughter) a year’s travel in Australia.’</p>

<p>‘Now, you are <em>too</em> penitent; I don’t want that;
but you will acknowledge that you have learned a
lesson!’</p>

<p>‘Lesson! I have gained an experience which
I trust to profit by to my life’s end. And now,
when are we to have this drive to the real Pilot
Mount, which I heard you arranging with that
good-looking young fellow? May I venture to
risk the assertion that <em>he</em> is English?’</p>

<p>‘You are right there, or nearly so—he is a Scot—the
Honourable Denzil Southwater—youngest
son of the Earl of Southwater—and a very fine
fellow he is. He is thinking of leading an
exploring expedition across the desert—where
he may find gold, or the other thing.’</p>

<p>‘What other thing?’ asked Lilburne.</p>

<p>‘A death in the Waste,’ replied his wife sadly.
‘It is a gamble with the King of Terrors. <em>He</em>
<a name="png.225" id="png.225" href="#png.225"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>221<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>won in a late encounter. Two brothers—sons of
the soil—trained bushmen too, left their bones on
the same track last year.’</p>

<p>‘Killed by the blacks, I suppose?’</p>

<p>‘No! They went off the recognised trail,
believing that they would find water, but were
deceived. They left a letter written just before
delirium set in—with farewells to their kin.
Their bones were found by the next exploring
party.’</p>

<p>‘There are blanks, it appears, as well as prizes—though,
after your banquet, it is hard to believe
in anything but general prosperity. Fortune of
war, of course, and so on.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Five o’clock in the afternoon was the hour
named, and, faithful to his engagement, Mr. Southwater drove up to the door of the Palace
Hotel, with a pair of well-groomed, efficient-looking
horses and a double-seated American buggy.
This, it may be mentioned, is the accepted
vehicle for business, or pleasure, on all goldfields,
pastoral stations, and, indeed, throughout
Australia generally—when fashionable metropolitan
form is not imperative. If the load be
heavy, the American waggonette is employed—which
combines the lightness and toughness
of the buggy with a weight-carrying capacity
unknown to any ordinary vehicle of British
origin. The practical advantages of this carriage
were enhanced by the addition of a collapsible
hood of white canvas, a protection equally from
sun, wind, or rain; thus combining lightness,
<a name="png.226" id="png.226" href="#png.226"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>222<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>and a cool appearance, with efficiency. Mr. Southwater had been asked to bring a lady with
him, to make the party even, as well as to provide
agreeable society for Mr. Lilburne, while his
wife sat in the front seat, and conversed with him
as driver.</p>

<p>‘Whom would you like, Mrs. Lilburne?’</p>

<p>‘Oh, I leave that to your taste and discretion.
You know everybody in Pilot Mount, as well as
in Perth, I believe.’</p>

<p>‘If Mrs. Wharton has returned from Perth,
she would be the ideal fourth. If not, one of the
Harley girls, or Jean White.’</p>

<p>‘You accept the responsibility, mind; I won’t
interfere.’</p>

<p>As it turned out, Mrs. Wharton was still in
Perth, and the Harleys had gone to Adelaide.
So when they drove up to a house in the suburbs,
surrounded by an unusually well-kept garden, and
half-covered with a purple flowering tacsonia, a
tall and beautiful girl, very well dressed, walked
forth, and was introduced as Miss Jean White.
Mrs. Lilburne’s face became expressive.</p>

<p>‘Oh, I see! No one else but the “Fair Maid
of Perth” to be found—what a search you must
have made. However, I trust you will be as
successful in another quest one of these fine days.
You have my best wishes, at any rate.’</p>

<p>‘I feel sure of that, Mrs. Lilburne, or I
shouldn’t be here now, should I?’</p>

<p>‘I suppose you mean that trifling affair after
the skirmish of Pilot Mount.’</p>

<p>‘Not at all. Much more serious—the fever I
<a name="png.227" id="png.227" href="#png.227"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>223<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>brought with me from Salt Lake. I don’t easily
give up, yet I really thought I was gone then.
But I see your husband and Miss Jean are getting
on quite nicely, and old Hotspur is beginning
to paw the ground preparatory to rearing. We
had better start.’</p>

<p>One touch—a mere hint from the rein, and
away go the fast, impatient pair. The road is
smooth, sandy, and just sufficiently firm to make
the going perfect; no trees to speak of, a dead
level for many a mile, with a faint blue range of
hills on the farthest horizon. There had been a
shower or two—the dust was minimised.</p>

<p>The low sun brought with it the promise of a
graduated coolness, operating until midnight. The
conditions of travel were perfect. As the light
vehicle, behind the pick of the city harness pairs,
swept smoothly on, the sensation was, in its way,
pleasurably exciting; the feeling of vast, almost
illimitable space—the dry, warm air—the absence
of sound or movement other than the slight disturbance
caused by the quick hoof-beats and faint
whirring of their own wheels, which seemed like a
rash intrusion into a vast, hostile, formless region.
For a short time conversation had ceased—simultaneously.
Miss White was gazing dreamily into
the ultimate west, where the cloud scheme had
resolved itself into a vast sheet of crimson and
gold, deepening at the edges to orange, with
gradually intruding blends of lake, pale green and
violet.</p>

<p>‘A penny for your thoughts, Jean,’ said Mrs. Lilburne. ‘And suppose we make it binding on
<a name="png.228" id="png.228" href="#png.228"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>224<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>all four of us. We seem to have been suddenly
stricken dumb. I wonder what the occult influence
could have been? Miss White is to speak first.’</p>

<p>‘I was thinking,’ said the girl, ‘of the strangeness
of life here. Civilisation on one hand, with
books, music, London fashions, art novelties,
scarcely a month old—all the great world’s great
events published at breakfast time from day to
day. On the other hand, to quote dear Sir
Walter, “a sun-scorched desert, brown and bare”—and
here come the camels to fill in the picture!’
As she spoke, a long train wound round the edge
of a line of hillocks—their leader, with turbaned
attendants, adding the Eastern tone and flavour to
the apparition from the underworld.</p>

<p>‘Thanks very much,’ said Mrs. Lilburne.
‘You are evidently destined to make a name in
literature, when you elect to traverse that thorny
path. What is to be the title?—for a book it must
be within the year! Write while the “impulse”
is fresh and unquestioned. Now for a title—<cite>The
Yellow Slave</cite>, or <cite>Western Whispers</cite>, by
“Winifred.”’</p>

<p>‘You are making me blush,’ said the girl.
‘Who said I ever wrote? If it were any other
person I should call it unkind.’</p>

<p>‘My dearest Jean, you are convicting yourself
out of your own mouth. I did not say that you
<em>had</em> written, but that with your poetic tastes and
strong turn for idealising our everyday life, you
would be certain to write in the future. Not that
I should care for your becoming a “writing
woman.”’</p>

<p><a name="png.229" id="png.229" href="#png.229"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>225<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘Now you are disrespectful to authors. Why
should I not write? I might give the English
cousins a clearer insight into our lives, about which,
it seems to me, they are so strangely ignorant.’</p>

<p>‘All in good time, my dear! You were intended
by Nature for something much better than
to write books for idle people to read. What do
you think, Mr. Southwater?’</p>

<p>‘Quite agree with Mrs. Lilburne,’ said the
young man, looking upon the lovely <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ingénue</i>
with such manifest admiration that she turned to
Lilburne, and playfully besought his aid against her
opponents.</p>

<p>‘Miss White is perfectly within her rights in
extracting intellectual pleasure from the scant
materials which lie around her. She is making
the world at large her debtor by doing so. On
the other hand, is the game worth the candle?
Think of the careworn expression, the harassed
nerves, the premature departure of youth—that
divine if ephemeral gift. And all for what?
For the sake of a book which half the world don’t
understand, and the other half dislike.’</p>

<p>‘But think of the pleasure of being successful—really
successful! What a glorious privilege!
And such a joy while one is writing! I think I
should die with ecstasy over a real triumph.’</p>

<p>‘Trust me—believe me, my dear Miss White,
I have known writers, successful ones, too, of
both sexes, and they were mostly disillusioned, if
not disappointed. No, my dear young lady, the
kind gods have blessed you with the chief treasures
of this mortal life—health, youth, warm friends,
<a name="png.230" id="png.230" href="#png.230"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>226<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>and, I might say, the highest endowment of all.
Tempt not the jealous goddess.’</p>

<p>‘All this is very fine, and, no doubt, elevating,’
interposed Mrs. Lilburne; ‘but suppose we revert
to the practical. Here we are at Pilot Hill, a
place where romance has been acted—not merely
written about, as Mr. Southwater, quite among
friends, might tell us if he would.’</p>

<p>‘Nothing much to tell,’ said that young man,
who, like all men of true heroic mould, hated
talking about his deeds of valour. ‘Only a quick
thing, soon over. Casualties few. Enemy routed
with loss.’</p>

<p>‘What a shabby account of a real affair of
outposts. Here’s Jean dying to hear about it.
You <em>were</em> wounded, you know, or was it Lord
Newstead? We can’t let you off. Support me,
Jean, love! Look at her, Mr. Southwater.’</p>

<p>The girl, who had been gazing at Southwater
with a world of interest, admiration, and pained
sympathy in her beautiful eyes, dropped them at
this appeal, and could only murmur pleadingly,
‘Please do.’</p>

<p>The young fellow was but a man. Thus
adjured he would have been more than mortal if
he had resisted such an appeal.</p>

<p>‘Now, Mrs. Lilburne, this is hardly fair. But
I’m not a public character, and I know I can rely
on you not to give me away. So here goes, while
we walk the horses up the hill:—</p>

<p>‘The night was hot and steamy. I was sitting
in my tent writing home, and Newstead was talking
to Minniekins—really half the credit belongs
<a name="png.231" id="png.231" href="#png.231"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>227<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>to her, for she gave us warning, you know. We
were enjoying the quiet loaf, when suddenly she
began to growl—not a bark, but a low, suspicious,
disapproving note, hinting at undesirables. It
was too dark to see more than a few yards; but
Minniekins rarely made a false point.</p>

<p>‘We had finished a big clean up, and were
mostly tired—perhaps a trifle sleepy. I stopped
writing and watched. Minniekins kept on growling.
On a sudden she burst into a fierce bark.
Then I heard an oath, and a sharp yell of pain,
after which she went on barking worse than ever.
Then the scoundrels made their rush—it was a
“put-up thing,” I mean planned beforehand—and
the scrimmage began.</p>

<p>‘A fellow jammed a revolver into my face,
which I instinctively knocked up, knocking him
down with a left-hander at the same time.</p>

<p>‘His “gun,” as Americans call it, fell wide of
him, and I grabbed it before he got on his legs
again. I heard shots while this little bit of business
was going on, and Mr. Banneret got a scratch—a
close shave all the same. My man was soon
made safe, and I was just in time to see Newstead
laid out with a bullet through his left shoulder,
not so far from the heart. A police detachment
came in on the top of the shindy; but the battle
was over. A tall man lay dead not far from the
gold-room—poor Dick Andrews was down, and
played out; but he had saved Banneret’s life by
dropping “Long Jack” as the tall scoundrel—a
noted criminal from another colony—was taking a
second shot.</p>

<p><a name="png.232" id="png.232" href="#png.232"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>228<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘Old Jack, who was just going to the township,
and, being in full fig, had of course got his six-shooter,
had fired right and left with good effect,
so that when the Inspector lined up with the
flower of the police force, fully armed, there
was nothing to do but to carry off the wounded
and bury the casualties. That was our Waterloo—short,
sharp, and decisive; if it hadn’t been
for Minniekins, we should have been taken,
wholly unprepared—like the War Office in the
Boer War. I think she ought to be decorated
for it.’</p>

<p>‘And Lord Newstead—I suppose he recovered?’</p>

<p>‘I can answer for that,’ said Mrs. Lilburne, ‘as
I had him under my care for a month, and a very
refractory patient he was. He went home by the
next P. &amp; O.’</p>

<p>‘Of course he did,’ said Southwater, in an
aggrieved tone, ‘and swelled about with his arm
in a sling, giving himself the airs and graces of
the wounded warrior, and letting the girls wait
upon him all the way to Marseilles, under the
impression that “his heart was weak,” and all
sorts of humbug, while Chesterfield and I had to
come back here and—er—take up the weary round
of toil and what’s-its-name.’</p>

<p>‘Well, it seems to agree with you, Mr. Southwater,’
said the girl, smiling in so bewitching a
fashion that a man might have been nerved to
even greater exertion than such as was demanded
from the shareholders in a mine which had reached
the dividend-paying stage, and <em>such</em> dividends too,
<a name="png.233" id="png.233" href="#png.233"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>229<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>as the ‘Last Chance, Limited,’ was even now
disbursing.</p>

<p>‘“All’s well that ends well,” is a comfortable
proverb. I feel pretty well, thank you, Miss
White, and am gratified for the compliment.
But here is old Jack coming forward to welcome
this honourable party, and to do the honours in
proper goldfield style.’</p>

<p>That venerable ancient now arrived on the scene,
his bronzed and gnarled countenance wrinkled
into an expression of welcome, which seemed with
difficulty to adapt itself to his rugged face. The
intention, however, was unmistakable.</p>

<p>‘Proud to see you, Mrs. Lilburne—and Miss
Jean. Lord love her, hasn’t she growed into the
beauty of the world! How you’ve shot up, to
be sure! It’s many a long year since your father
and I met on the other side. Well, he was always
lucky—in more ways than one—that I’ll say and
stand to. Glad to see you, sir! Like to see the
mine? Saw the big silver mine at Los Angelos,
did you? I was there many a year ago. Didn’t
ought to have come away neither. But I was
a “forty-niner.” Couldn’t help following the
rush to ’Frisco—what a time it was! There’ll
never be anything like it again while the world
lasts.’</p>

<p>‘My husband would like to see the machinery,’
said Mrs. Lilburne. ‘What a grand view you’ve
got!’</p>

<p>‘That’s what I thought when I first seen it,
ma’am. I was pretty well told out when I got
here first—thought I’d turn round and get back
<a name="png.234" id="png.234" href="#png.234"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>230<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>while I’d a little strength left. But I couldn’t
help standin’ still to look at the view. The sun
was just a-settin’, and there was a kind of gold
and red look over that far plain country. So,
thinks I, it looks mean to cut away back without
proving one or two of these “gulches”—that’s
what we called them in San Francisco. So I stayed
and camped—and next day if I didn’t fall plum
centre on the—the——’</p>

<p>‘The Great Pilot Mount Reef, going twenty
ounces to the ton,’ said Mr. Southwater, ‘which
you’re going to show these ladies and Mr. Lilburne—not
forgetting a five-ounce nugget for
Miss White.’</p>

<p>‘We’ve been breaking down the south end of
the reef to-day, and got some pretty coarse gold,
so the ladies has come at a good time, sir. Please
to follow me, and we’ll see what we can do. It
ain’t every day we see a young lady like Miss Jean.
Lord bless and prosper her!’</p>

<p>So the party was introduced to the ‘shift boss,’
with other leading officials and men in authority;
afterwards to be lowered down in the ‘cage’ to
where men were working two hundred yards from
the surface, in narrow alleys with gleaming white
or pink walls of quartz, in which were golden
streaks. Narrow bands of dull red or yellow
metal, almost unrecognisable as the root of all
evil, and the lure for which men—ay, and women—bartered
soul and body, and were content to work
in hunger, dirt, rags, and wretchedness, if only
they could gain a sufficiency of the dross, so
called, which people profess to despise, but which
<a name="png.235" id="png.235" href="#png.235"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>231<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>all men covet and hanker for to their lives’
end.</p>

<p>The atmosphere was hot and humid; the men
at work in these lower levels might have passed
for Red Sea stokers, as they laboured with tense
muscle and sinew.</p>

<p>To what purpose this labour was expended—so
far from the light of the sun or the fresh air of
heaven—a visit to the treasure-chamber, in one side
of the great gallery, was recommended. There the
person in charge of the gold pointed out some of
the specimens which had recently been sent in.
Besides these there was the retorted gold.</p>

<p>After the gold was extracted from the innocent-looking
matrix, it was poured into shapes, one
of which, looking like the half of that anchor
of British loyalty and instinctive reverence to the
Empire, the British plum-pudding, the guardian
had more than once offered to an adventurous
damsel ‘on tour’—if she could <em>carry it away</em>:
a challenge sometimes accepted; but in all cases
the weight proved too great for the fair arms
which so lovingly enfolded the bullion. However,
fragments of the pure, precious metal were
extracted from the glittering heap and handed
to Mrs. Lilburne and the fair Jean, with apologies,
even entreaties that they would deign to accept
them, and so bring good luck to the mine, and all
who laboured in it.</p>

<p>‘I must say,’ said Lilburne, after marking with
experienced eye the various indications on this and
other ‘drives’ (galleries), and workings generally,
‘that this country of yours appears to me more
<a name="png.236" id="png.236" href="#png.236"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>232<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>wonderful every hour I spend in it. Think of a
solitary traveller, “remote, unfriended, melancholy,
slow,” dropping upon a property like this, and,
what is more noteworthy, being able to keep
possession of it.’</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter X"><a name="png.237" id="png.237" href="#png.237"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>233<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER X</h2>


<p>‘<span class="smc">All</span> this is very nice,’ said the fair damsel, who
had refused to accept another pennyweight of gold,
‘but the sun is going down, and I <em>must</em> see the
exact spot where the battle was fought, where Mr. Newstead lay, and where the tall robber fell dead;
also where old Jack stood when he “opened business
on his own account”—I should like to have been
there, I confess.’</p>

<p>‘Next time, Miss Jean, we will let you know,’
replied Southwater; ‘but come with me, and I
will show you all the points of the attack, and
where our camp stood.’</p>

<p>Scrambling up the narrow path, the young
people reached the conical flat-topped boulder near
the summit, where the ‘frontal attack’ of the gold-robbers
had been made. Exclaiming that ‘she was
out of breath,’ the girl seated herself upon the
historic stone—to be famous henceforth in the
legends which are so apt to grow and develop
with age.</p>

<p>‘What a curious sensation it must be to be shot
at!’ she said, gazing dreamily over the trackless
Waste, where the red sunset spread a wondrous
<a name="png.238" id="png.238" href="#png.238"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>234<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>blazonry, weirdly gorgeous in the pageant of the
fading eve. ‘How did you feel, Mr. Southwater?’</p>

<p>‘There’s no time to feel anything unless you’re
hit. Newstead said it was like a crack with a
stone—hardly realised till you drop; then, of
course, you are all the time wanting to get at the
other fellow. At least that’s my experience. It
was all so sudden: I had only just written home
to my friends, saying it was absurd to think of a
goldfield as rude and lawless—that, in fact, it was
<em>much</em> safer than London at midnight. A minute
or two afterwards, we were fighting for our lives
and hard-earned gold; more surprising still—but—perhaps——’</p>

<p>‘Oh! go on, pray,’ pleaded Miss Jean, whose
interest was now fully aroused, as was evidenced
by her sparkling eyes and changing colour—‘what
<em>could</em> be more surprising?’</p>

<p>‘I only meant that it was queer, though folks
at home wouldn’t realise it, that our best and
boldest defender, poor Dick Andrews, who really
won the fight for us, turns out to have been a
notorious criminal, known in connection with the
death of an Inspector of police in another colony.’</p>

<p>‘Poor fellow! perhaps he had suffered injustice—one
never knows. What became of him?’</p>

<p>‘He was mortally wounded in the engagement,
and made an edifying end next day, happy in the
thought that his wife and children were provided
for.’</p>

<p>The girl was silent for a little space, and then
said in a changed voice, ‘Can you tell me, Mr. Southwater, can any one explain, why what are
<a name="png.239" id="png.239" href="#png.239"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>235<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>called bad men are so much more interesting than
ordinary well-behaved people? They should not
be, but that they are there’s no denying.’</p>

<p>‘Hard to say—must be a natural sympathy
for what Marcus Clarke calls “the thoroughbred
upstanding criminal.” Sort of glamour—particularly
affecting women, strange to say. Men
understand the breed better. And yet any one
more unlike the received notion of the hardened
outlaw than poor Dick couldn’t be.’</p>

<p>‘Now, what was he like?’</p>

<p>‘The regular Sydney-side native. Tall, spare,
muscular, or, rather, sinewy of frame, with regular
features, chiefly unrelaxed, but wearing a pleasant
expression at times. Low-voiced, and unpretending
in demeanour, though wonderfully good at
all manner of bush work. Reserved, for reason
good, as may be imagined, yet respected “on the
field,” and held to be liberal in all that concerned
his fellow-workers. A perfect horseman, as a
matter of course.’</p>

<p>‘I shall begin to cry if we go on much longer,’
said the fair Jean, ‘and Mrs. Lilburne will be
mildly reproachful, dear soul! if we are late for
dinner.’</p>

<p>So these young people lost no time in joining
their friends, and the buggy pulled up at the
Palace Hotel in something like ‘record time’
between ‘the Mount’ and the city, which, indeed,
had been carefully noted, and was publicly known
to all who had pretensions to sporting accuracy.</p>

<p>The next morning saw the departure of Alister
Lilburne and his wife from the Gold City, which
<a name="png.240" id="png.240" href="#png.240"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>236<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>had been to her a refuge, nay, a home—a retreat
from the pressure of care, the uncertainty of
position, for all these days; departure from the
people whom she had learned to love, and who had
loved her with the deep, abiding conviction based
upon gratitude and respect, which outlives ephemeral
popularity—becoming welded into a cult or, as in
Eastern lands, into a Faith. Whatever might have
been the feelings with which the ordinary population
of Pilot Mount regarded their late Hospital
Superintendent, a handsome and indeed munificent
endowment, to be devoted to the building
and fitting up of a new wing, testified to Elinor
Lilburne’s enduring interest in the welfare of the
institution to which she had devoted some of the
best years of her life.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Arnold Banneret’s financial status had now
developed by such ‘leaps and bounds,’ to use the
handy parliamentary phrase, that he found himself
placed in an entirely novel position—one, indeed,
of which he had never had previous experience;
nor had he, in any mood of day-dreaming, been
confronted with such. Yet, now, a decision must
be made—a momentous question settled definitely.
His income, large even for a golden claimholder,
was annually increasing. Money was no object,
to speak familiarly, yet it was the question before
the House—the Legislative Council represented by
himself, personally; and indeed he had been an
M.L.C. for some years, in right of which, and a
talisman worn on his watch chain, he was entitled
to free railway passage throughout the length and
<a name="png.241" id="png.241" href="#png.241"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>237<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>breadth of New South Wales. It was a pity that
it did not apply to all British dominions, some of
his fellow-legislators thought; but that privilege
could not be arranged just yet. Still, in that day,
when the United States of Australasia, with a
population of a hundred millions, dominating the
South Pacific, from New Guinea to Victoria Land
within the Antarctic Circle, in alliance, too, with
the United States and the Dominion of Canada,
form a Pan-Anglican Power, prompt and efficient
to regulate the world’s war and peace, who shall
say them nay?</p>

<p>The voyage home! Of this momentous ‘trip,’
as it was called in light, almost sportive reference,
the now successful, honoured, and wealthy
Australian proprietor had often thought. But
neither the means nor the opportunity for such a
decisive movement had as yet been forthcoming.
The children had been too young, the financial outlook
too restricted, in his earlier married life. Not
that he or his wife had any ardent desire to make
the change. They were attached to their native
land; the climate agreed with them—they were not
sure that the rigorous seasons of the ancestral isle
would suit the immature brood, in which were
centred the hopes and fears, the joys and sorrows,
of their daily life. It had been relegated by consent
to the region of by and by, where so many
of the fairy legends of childhood were to come
true; and now, slowly, imperceptibly, yet not less
surely, the years had flown. Those years which
divide early manhood and womanhood from
middle age had departed never to return.</p>

<p><a name="png.242" id="png.242" href="#png.242"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>238<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>The future—the ‘by and by’—which had
loomed so far and mist-coloured in their early life,
had been overtaken. It had become the present,
to be felt and reckoned with. The children had
grown up. Of the boys, one was at Cambridge,
the other working hard to pass exams., and panting
for the happy day when he should see his
name gazetted for a commission in an Imperial
cavalry regiment. Of the girls, younger by
several years, Hermione, almost ready to ‘come
out,’ as the Society phrase is; the others, school-girls,
receiving daily tuition from governesses,
music masters, teachers of drawing, singing,
languages,—all the varied education which goes to
equip the modern maiden for her place in the
ranks of womanhood.</p>

<p>Now these young people had a natural ambition
to ‘see the world.’ They had read widely,
if not deeply, and were impatient to have tangible
evidence of the historic glories of older lands.
Of paintings and statuary their knowledge had
been necessarily limited, although far from ordinary
collections had been accessible in the galleries
and museums of the metropolis in which they
resided, and others which they had visited. Their
artistic tastes, though not wholly unformed, were
capable of higher development. They yearned
for closer acquaintance with the capitals of the
world—the ancient world. They ardently desired
to behold Rome, Venice, Greece, Paris, Cairo.
Reading was delightful. They could never be
sufficiently grateful to their parents who had indulged
their legitimate enthusiasm to the fullest
<a name="png.243" id="png.243" href="#png.243"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>239<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>amount possible to their opportunities. But, of
course, it was not, could never be the same. They
longed to stand upon the Bridge of Sighs, ‘a
palace and a prison on each hand’; to watch
‘Old Tiber through a marble wilderness rise with
her yellow waves’; to visit the Coliseum by moonlight;
to stand on Mars Hill, and ‘yon tower-capped
Acropolis, which seems the very clouds to
kiss,’—in short, to view all sorts of instructive,
entrancing places. After such experiences they
did not care what happened. They would have
seen everything worth seeing. They could no
longer be classed as ‘mere colonials’—they would
be citizens of the world—akin to the most enviable
sections of English society. Mrs. Banneret,
though with less enthusiasm, agreed in the main
with her daughters. Time and circumstance
were propitious. Who could tell whether so
favourable a combination would remain unaltered?</p>

<p>Besides, she was anxious to see her sons once
more. It was nearly three years since they had
left their native land. Her husband secretly
sympathised, though for a different class of
reasons. He had not, could not have, the instinctive,
passionate yearning with which the tender
maternal heart agonises, so to speak, for the
embrace of the sons whom she has brought into
the world; for the sight of their dear faces; to
feel once more the touch of cheek, of lips, of
handclasp; to hear the joyous exultation of
greeting after long absence; to mark anew the
likeness to either parent, which the advancing
<a name="png.244" id="png.244" href="#png.244"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>240<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>years may have imprinted yet more distinctly on
face or form.</p>

<p>In a measure, of course, Arnold Banneret
shared these sacred sensations. He was proud of
his boys, of their good looks and athletic development;
fond of them also, although with less
intensity than the mother that bore them—holiest
and most ancient tie. He had watched over their
education up to the University stage, and now,
having, as he told himself, done his duty by them,
awaited with some anxiety, though with reasonable
confidence, the choice of a profession which it
behoved them to make. For himself, he looked
forward, of course, with pleasurable anticipation
to revisiting the scenes, so fondly remembered, of
the halcyon time of early manhood, when, fresh
from college, he had roamed over the Continent with
a comrade of congenial culture. Together they
had followed the course of the majestic, solemn
Rhine—mused over the ruined towers of Sternfels
and Liebenstein—gazed at Rolandseck, at once
the pride and beauty of the noble river. Rome,
Athens, Florence, Paris—how the rapture of
travel, the joy of companionship, the careless
wanderings over hill and dale, city and plain,
came freshly back! Could but one’s youth
return!</p>

<p>Alas! how few of the comrades of that joyous
time are left, even in middle age. Hope is fled;
the anticipation of a perhaps romantic future no
longer cheers the sober monotony of life. We
know the best that <em>can</em> happen. We fear lest the
worst should come suddenly into our life, like some
<a name="png.245" id="png.245" href="#png.245"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>241<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>monster of the wood, unseen, unsuspected before.
Such are, such may be, the brooding imaginings of
the later life.</p>

<p>The Honourable Arnold Banneret, as for years
he had been styled, was able to combat them by
reflecting that, at any rate, he had played a man’s
part in life, at first with moderate, then with exceptional
success. He had sons wherewith to meet
his enemies in the gate. There was little doubt—he
thanked God—of their courage and intelligence.
Why then this dark hour, these depressing
doubts?</p>

<p>As a corrective, he proceeded at once to the
office of the P. &amp; O. Company, and took his
passage for London. After securing the requisite
number of comfortable cabins in the <cite>Lhassa</cite>—the
latest addition to the fleet of noble liners which,
since their introduction by the great Association of
ship-owners, has enabled Australian colonists to
travel with speed and economy, with comfort, even
luxury—he returned to lunch at Redgrove, with
spirits considerably improved, and in a frame of
mind more nearly akin to that in which he was
accustomed to prepare for a long overland journey
in the days of ‘long ago.’ ‘How strange it is,’
he told himself, ‘that on the eve of an important
voyage, or undertaking, a feeling of doubt and
depression should so often manifest itself. One
involuntarily recalls the presentiments which came
true—of shipwreck, of hurricane, fire, or mutiny,
following the gloom and almost despairing prevision
of disaster. Of the numberless successful
undertakings and fortunate voyages no record is
<a name="png.246" id="png.246" href="#png.246"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>242<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>kept. “Fears of the brave and follies of the
wise” are not far to seek in the connection.’</p>

<p>Sir Walter Scott, in success most modest, in
adversity truly undaunted, even he owns to an unreasonable
cloud of doubt and irresolution, including
a ghostly murmur, ‘Do not go, Walter,’ which
he solemnly affirms to, and that nearly led him to
give up an expedition which afterwards turned out
to be most beneficial, fortunate, and even marked
by distinguished adventures.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The eventful day, fortunately fine, came at last.
It was in the opening week of March—the first
month of the southern autumn, mild with clear
skies, cool bracing nights and mornings. The
winds in that halcyon time were still: the north
wind no longer swept across the plains of the inmost
desert, bringing burning heat, dust-storms,
and wrathful cyclones in its track to the cities of
the coast.</p>

<p>All nature, before the advent of winter, appeared
to be entering upon a dreamless slumber. The
winter, dread season of the austere North, was but
relatively severe—cool, rather than cold, with the
exception of the mountain heights, where snow
fell in early autumn and lay until spring was fairly
advanced.</p>

<p>Packing and preparing for the momentous
family event was therefore divested of its less
agreeable features, while the inevitable process of
leave-taking, with farewells to friends and relatives,
was transacted under the most favourable circumstances—a
bright sun and fair wind, not too
<a name="png.247" id="png.247" href="#png.247"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>243<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>pronounced. At the appointed hour the bell rang,
the shoreward division was politely requested to
hasten their departure, and the huge liner moved
gracefully from the wharf, and with calm, resistless
force was soon breasting the wavelets between those
frowning rock-portals, the Sydney Heads.</p>

<p>On that auspicious, long-remembered day,
everything went well. The young people, for the
first time in their lives on ‘blue water,’ walked
the decks until the time for preparing for dinner
arrived.</p>

<p>At this important function they were placed in
the seat of honour at the captain’s table, and near
that august, autocratic ruler—Mrs. Banneret, indeed,
on the commander’s right hand, and other
members of the family in close proximity. The
whole service was admirable in their eyes; the
menu varied, and excellently cooked. Military
and naval officers, with Indian passengers getting
off at Colombo, gave a pleasant, half-foreign tone
to the company. By the time coffee was introduced,
and the adjournment to the row of deck-chairs and
lounges made, Hermione and Vanda were convinced
that a ‘voyage home’ was a fairy-tale experience,
merely the overture to a dramatic performance of
dazzling variety and enjoyment.</p>

<p>‘What a new life this is, compared to our
existence in Sydney!’ exclaimed Hermione to her
mother, as together they paced the deck, leaving
their father to sit between Vanda and the younger
girls, answering their endless questions.</p>

<p>‘Oh, I am so delighted that you persuaded
father to make the plunge, and take us home!
<a name="png.248" id="png.248" href="#png.248"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>244<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>I was afraid that he might suddenly get bad news
from Pilot Mount, or a bank, or something, and
say it was impossible to go; you never can be
sure, until you are actually on board, and off—really
off. Even then the Bardsleys actually came
back from Colombo, for some trumpery reason—the
climate did not agree with their aunt, or some
one. I believe the elder girls went on by themselves.
I couldn’t have done that, could I,
mother? but you must own it was heartbreaking.’</p>

<p>‘It is like many things that have to be endured
in this life, my darling!’ said the fond mother,
tenderly parting the bright hair of the girl, now in
the first flush of youthful beauty; for they were a
handsome family, the Bannerets—vigorous in
mind and body; devotedly attached to each other
and to their parents; clever in their way, though
perhaps not of the highest order of intellectual
development, but highly intelligent, and sympathetic
to all the higher ideals. What was wanting in early
and thorough training was compensated by energy,
courage, and the fervent desire to approve themselves
fitted for the front ranks in all departments
of human effort.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The voyage came to an end, much like other
voyages to the home-land, the Mecca of Australian-born
colonists, the ancestral isle—the sacred soil,
hallowed by a thousand traditions with which all
are chiefly familiar from early childhood, but on
which not all are privileged to tread. To those
who, from narrow circumstances, increasing age,
<a name="png.249" id="png.249" href="#png.249"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>245<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>or other reasons, the priceless privilege has been
denied (and there have been cases of highly cultured,
indeed eminent personages, who, with a curiously
accurate knowledge of London town and suburb,
have yet never <em>seen</em> either), the omission has caused
a regret which only ended with life; while those
who can talk of British country houses, and the
green lanes of ‘merrie England,’ bear themselves
ever afterward with a sense of superiority over
their less fortunate friends and relatives. Unvexed
by storms, the good ship <cite>Lhassa</cite> pursued her course
to Colombo the paradisial, where first the glories of
a possible Eden—with flower and fruit, primæval
forest and mystic mountain summit, the whole set
like a many-coloured jewel within the girdling
wave and glowing tropic sky—were revealed to
their enraptured gaze. They left this charmed
region after a survey all too brief, registering a vow,
separately and collectively, to revisit the magic isle,
the splendour of which they would recall in their
dreams. However, the next best thing would be
the sights and sounds of the city of the Caliph
Haroun-al-Raschid, the dream-palaces of Zobeide
and Amina—the one-eyed Calendars<!-- TN: probably misspelling of "Qalandar" -->, transformed
princes, and Grand Viziers. Here they were
promised a fortnight’s stay, in which they could
revel in the ‘havoc and glory of the East’ to their
hearts’ content.</p>

<p>This, too, came in due course. Not alone
were the immortal memories of the <cite>Arabian
Nights</cite> recalled before their wondering eyes, with
water-carriers, black slaves, veiled women, pacha
and dragoman, camels and Arab horses, with gems
<a name="png.250" id="png.250" href="#png.250"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>246<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>of Easternrie like the sands of the sea for multitude;
but more modern delights, perhaps, on the
whole, not less alluring to the immature feminine
mind—the grandeur and magnificence of the Savoy
Hotel, with the dresses and jewels of the fair
visitors who made Cairo a winter resort. Whatever
sins of omission the Banneret family had
to charge themselves with in after years, the complete
and thorough exploration of Grand Cairo
and its environs was not among them. They
‘did’ the historic place conscientiously and
thoroughly. The Sphinx, the Pyramids, the
Museum at Boulak; the Nile, up to the first
cataract; the citadel, the Mosque, the Palace of
Sweet Waters,—all the regular, and some of the
irregular sights. Nothing was neglected. The
girls, indeed the whole party, rode well. Mrs. Banneret had been a daring horsewoman in her
youth, and though motherhood had necessarily
abated her enterprise, the courage which neither
poverty, sickness, fatigue, nor mortal pain had
power to tame, was still unshaken, and enabled her
to bear her part in the expeditions in which the
family revelled. Her willowy figure, but little
altered from the days of girlhood, was admirably
suited for equestrian exercise. She, like the rest
of the family, delighted in the glowing atmosphere
of the desert, and, now that circumstances
had conspired to free her from the trammels of
housekeeping, she surrendered herself unreservedly
to the enchantment of the hour.</p>

<p>‘What a glorious experience this is for the
children—for all of us, indeed!’ she exclaimed
<a name="png.251" id="png.251" href="#png.251"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>247<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>more than once. ‘I think you and I, Arnold,
enjoy the whole thing nearly as much as they do—the
foreign surroundings, the verification of old
history and legend, the aloofness of all things
from the rawness, if I may use the word, of their
native land.’</p>

<p>‘Yes,’ he replied; ‘one seems to absorb everything
in a deep, unuttered spirit of thankfulness;
and while contented with our lot in life, we have
one feeling in common with some of our fellow-visitors
at the hotel: a conviction—I speak of Lord
Westerham and that South African millionaire who
came to the Savoy last week—that our financial
position is assured, impossible for anything to
alter. We are, however, in a higher position than
the millionaire. With him brain work and anxiety
have told a tale. His health is impaired. They
say he suffers terribly from insomnia, than which
I can imagine nothing more agonising. A man
whom I knew, otherwise enviably placed, finding
that change of air combined with a sea voyage had
no effect, hired a cab one day, went out for a
short drive, and shot himself.’</p>

<p>‘What a dreadful thing to do! He must
have been insane.’</p>

<p>‘Not necessarily. The mental torment, unrelieved
by “sleep that knits up the ravelled
sleave of care,” had reached the stage when it
became unendurable. People are not necessarily
mad when they elect to face the problem of the
Great Hereafter.’</p>

<p>‘I cannot but think that they <em>are</em>,’ said she, ‘or
they would remain to confront the ills of life, rather
<a name="png.252" id="png.252" href="#png.252"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>248<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>than be false to every duty and callous to the suffering
of those whom they leave behind. But the idea
is hateful to me. I cannot bear to discuss it.’</p>

<p>The days of dreamy delight in the land of the
Pharaohs came all too swiftly to an end. The
season had advanced. If they wished to see the
glorious greenery of England in the spring, they
could not afford to linger among the ruins of the
past, however stupendous or awe-striking. It was
determined to make one halt, and one only. As
there were three women of the party, what doubt
could there be of the decision? They were to
visit Paris! A short sojourn in Malta produced
a cry of delight from the girls as they walked from
Nix Mangiare stairs to the Strada Reale. A drive
to St. Paul’s Bay, a fleeting vision of the drawbridges
and fortifications, of narrow streets and
lofty houses; mule-carts, mantillas, and water-carriers;
priests with sombre robes and broad-leafed
hats. There was so much to see, and but
little time in which to do it. The Governor’s
Palace was visited, reminiscent of Grand Masters;
L’Isle Adam, and doubtless de Beaumanoir, so
hard and unrelenting, in the case of the noble and
unhappy Rebecca; the ramparts where, guarded
by iron railings, were fosses of awful depth, besides
old-world towers and batteries, which the Moors
in past centuries had good cause to dread.
Another day was granted in favour of a visit to
the Church of St. John.</p>

<p>‘Oh, we should be disgraced,’ said Hermione—‘have
to hide our heads in shame—if we dared to
say that we had spent a day in Malta and had not
<a name="png.253" id="png.253" href="#png.253"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>249<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>been inside that most lovely church! Think of
the Knights of Malta! Why, we are standing on
their marble tombstones! De Rohan—think of
the motto: “Ni prince, ni roi, Rohan je suis.”
Isn’t that it? Perhaps Bois-Guilbert lies not
far off—no, he can’t be; he was a Templar,
Far from respectable, I daresay; but one can’t help
loving him—can you now? Rebecca preferred
Wilfred, probably because he was fair and she was
dark. I’ve noticed that contrasts in complexion
tend that way.’</p>

<p>‘If such nonsense is the outcome of your visit
to Malta, we need not have lost a day,’ said Mrs. Banneret. ‘Pray bring your thoughts more into
harmony with the surroundings. Listen to that
wonderful music—the organ is heavenly, and that
soaring soprano might be the voice of an angel.
I wonder at you, my dear!’</p>

<p>‘Oh, mother dear, forgive me!’ pleaded the
penitent; ‘I did not intend to be irreverent; but
whether it is the lovely air, or the intoxication of
travel, I can’t say, for one’s tongue seems to run
along of itself. I won’t offend again.’ And here
tears dimmed the bright eyes of the sensitive
maiden, as mother and child embraced over one of
the few differences which ever ruffled the calm of
their deep mutual love.</p>

<p>Mr. Banneret making his appearance with the
two younger girls, explanations were deferred, and
the party made their way homeward.</p>

<p>Only a short stay, limited to the time necessary
for the purchase of <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">articles de Paris</i> and the indispensable
shoes and gloves, was made in Paris,
<a name="png.254" id="png.254" href="#png.254"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>250<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the all-important dress question being left to a
more convenient season, when it and the leisurely
Continental tour could be thoroughly enjoyed.
At present the parents, although indulgent to the
border-line of prudence, were actuated by motives
unconnected with the enjoyment of picture galleries,
gardens of Armida, or military reviews, where the
striking uniforms of Zouaves and Spahis delighted
the girls. Mrs. Banneret yearned with all the
intensity of the maternal heart to see her boys
again.</p>

<p>The head of the family had not said much on
the subject, and, save the sharer of his joys and
sorrows, none had heard him open his heart upon
a matter which nevertheless lay very near it—had
indeed caused him more anxiety than he cared to
express. ‘How are these boys of mine likely to
turn out?’ was a query which arose in his mind
at early dawn, when he always awoke; sometimes,
although not often, in the watches of the night;
occasionally during the day with insistent pertinacity.
He had seen so many cases where early
moral training, a good example, a liberal education,
good society, and good advice had been all
too powerless to stem the downward current of
indolence, extravagance, and dissipation. The
fatal knowledge that for them, at least, there was
no necessity for industry, self-denial, or economy,
overbore all old-fashioned arguments, as they considered
them to be.</p>

<p>‘The governor,’ thus referred to in latter-day
speech, ‘had made “pots of money”—it had been
all right for <em>him</em> to work and slave in the queer
<a name="png.255" id="png.255" href="#png.255"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>251<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>early times that old buffers yarned about. He was
bound to do it, of course, or go under. But they
were <em>not</em>—that made all the difference. They
were sorry to disagree with him—he wasn’t half
bad, the old governor—in fact, a dashed good
sort. But he wasn’t up to date! He had no
idea of how a chap had to chuck the coin about,
to keep in the front rank, nowadays. He <em>must</em>
have the necessaries of life. Think of what polo
costs! You couldn’t get a decent pony under
fifty or sixty quid; then you must have a boy—a
smart one too; two ponies were little enough—safer
to have four, in case of accidents. Fellah
must be decently dressed if he goes out at all—and
tailors, if they were any good, charged such
infernal prices! He’d a fairish allowance, but last
Cup Day made a hole in it’—and so on—and
so on.</p>

<p>This was the way the sons of his old friends
talked; this was the way they acted—sad to relate.
He heard them at the clubs—where they came
down late for breakfast, looking as if they required
a ‘strongish nip’ to steady their nerves. They
confessed with cheerful confidence that ‘supper
after the theatre had not been conducive to
appetite. They really intended to take a pull
some day—perhaps get married. But, really,
Sydney and Melbourne had become such infernally
dull holes that there was nothing to keep
a fellow from goin’ to sleep except bridge and
billiards—which didn’t always pay.’</p>

<p>Would it not be worth while to try politics
for a little excitement? was suggested. There
<a name="png.256" id="png.256" href="#png.256"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>252<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>was the landed interest to develop legitimately—or
indeed to defend. A wave of socialism had
arisen, was indeed likely to become a tidal wave
if no effort was made to arrest the doctrine of
which among the earliest expositors was the late
lamented John Cade.</p>

<p>‘What!’ cries ‘the heir of all the ages’—‘mug
up Goldwin Smith, Herbert Spencer, and
those other Johnnies—to rub shoulders with a lot
of fellows that drop their <i>h</i>’s all over the shop?
Shouldn’t get in, for one thing—and, if I did,
why there’s hardly a gentleman in the whole
caboodle!’</p>

<p>‘Whose fault is that?’ queried the senior.
‘Have you ever tried?—or have any young men
of your class, except Wharton and Conyers, and
what are they among so many?’</p>

<p>‘Don’t know that I have—not built that way.
Some fellahs like that sort of thing—I don’t.’</p>

<p>‘Of course it doesn’t matter. It might interfere
with your amusements. Then you don’t
mind that the laws are being made by the people
you despise and won’t associate with—laws to bind
your children—and their children after you—if
you ever have any: you’ve lost the chance of
modifying them—or blocking the suicidal and
destructive ones. Laws made by men without
capital in land or business—chiefly without culture,
often without character; laws made to bind that
part of the population who are handicapped by
the possession of qualifications anciently held to
be titles to respect—now held to place them below
the swagman, the loafer, the drunkard, and the
<a name="png.257" id="png.257" href="#png.257"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>253<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>pauper, as guarantee for place and power! How
does that strike you?’</p>

<p>‘Well, it does look mean—rather a crowd of
“rotters” to belong to—I must think it over—I’m
popular round about old Banda-widgeree—I
think I’ll have a shy for the district next election
if it’s not too late. I’m almost afraid it is.
They’re talking of nationalising the goldfields—the
land—the railways. Hang it!—they’ll want
to nationalise a fellah’s bank-balance next.’</p>

<p>‘They’ll do that by a side wind, and if they
have the voting power on their side—as they have
pretty well now, what with adult and female
suffrage: ten thousand female voters in a metropolitan
constituency against <em>nine</em> thousand male
voters—whose fault is that?’</p>

<p>‘I’m afraid our crowd had most to do with it
by letting things drift—and I’m as bad as anybody.
Good-bye—thanks—I do see things a trifle more
clearly. Perhaps I’ll stand after all.’</p>

<p>Arnold Banneret had listened to, indeed joined
in, a conversation much resembling it one day.
It deepened the lines on his brow, which were
beginning to be more pronounced than the
advance of time warranted.</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter XI"><a name="png.258" id="png.258" href="#png.258"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>254<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XI</h2>


<p>‘<span class="smc">Suppose</span> Reggie and Eric turned out like that
young fellow!’ he told himself. ‘What good
would my life do me? Next to marrying one of
the daughters of Heth (the real, original millstone
round a man’s neck), what hope, satisfaction, or
comfort should I have in life? Is all my work,
thought, self-denial, and drudgery to go for
nothing? Shall I see as my male heirs and
successors a couple of well-dressed, good-looking
“moneyed loungers,” loafing through life
with no more interest in the great drama of
existence than the supernumerary at a fashion
play? Less useful, indeed, than the disregarded
“super,” for he works for his humble wage;
and these <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">nati consumere fruges</i> don’t even do
that.’</p>

<p>These reflections gave so gloomy a tinge to his
view of life that he felt inclined to pronounce the
whole scheme of human life a joke—a bad one at
that. ‘Why, a man might work his powers of
mind and body to the extremity of endurance, to
reach a well-defined goal, where happiness sat
enthroned, and then—when he got there—his
<a name="png.259" id="png.259" href="#png.259"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>255<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>powers of enjoyment might desert him, or malign
occurrences dash the cup from his lips, and the
apples of the garden of the Hesperides turn to
ashes in his mouth! Why then should mortal
man seek to raise himself above the beasts that
perish? “Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow
we die.”’ <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Vanitas vanitatum</i> was the verdict
with which he concluded this series of enlivening
reflections, when a voice which always had
power to charm away the demons of despondency
fell on his ears.</p>

<p>‘Well, my dear Arnold, what are you looking
so serious about? Have you remembered that
we are to meet the Liddesdales at luncheon and
go with them to Aintree? We have settled to
see the great race run, and perhaps the boys will
be able to get away and meet us on the course.
The girls are so excited about it that their appetites
will suffer. There’s an Australian horse in it, or
a New Zealander, or something—at any rate an
Antipodean, more properly still an Australasian.
So we must all back him for the sake of our
national honour. What a splendid thing it will
be if he wins!’</p>

<p>‘Afraid he hasn’t much chance, my dear!
The jumps are not high enough—or stiff enough—for
a horse used to three-railed fences. Didn’t
some one describe the Grand National as a flat
race with a good many low fences in it? Four
miles and a half, a trifle over, they say. It wants
a fast horse, a thoroughbred and a good stayer.
I’ve always held that we—I speak of the South
generally—should win it and the Derby some day.
<a name="png.260" id="png.260" href="#png.260"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>256<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>And so we shall, but there’s a difficulty about the
age that complicates the latter race. However,
that can be got over, I suppose, in time; but I
don’t feel in racing trim, somehow.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, nonsense, my dear! you mustn’t get into
low spirits now we’ve got everything we ever
wished for, and more besides. It looks like the
pilot that weathered the storm breaking up after
the ship is safe in harbour. Come along and see
the girls’ new dresses. They’re in such good
taste, and yet “quite excellent” as to fashion and
fit.’</p>

<p>The London season! How often had the
words fallen on the ears of the Australian family!
What a world of meaning it conveyed to the
juvenile section! Vast, mysterious, splendid—the
acme of enjoyment—the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ne plus ultra</i> of fashion.
The pinnacle of perfection in all things desirable,
with boundless riches as a substratum, solid, unquestioned,
supreme among the nations, what
power was like England? And here they were,
actually living and breathing in her metropolis—the
world’s metropolis, as they had often heard
it called. After London there was nothing more
to see—nothing more to learn. There were
orders of nobility on the continent of Europe—Counts
and Princes, Barons and Grafs, in profusion—but
what were they to the nobility of
England, where only the eldest son was heir to
the ancestral title? Not cheapened, as abroad, by
the law which gave the rank to every child of the
house and to every child of <em>their</em> children—thus
multiplying titles, which having little or no means
<a name="png.261" id="png.261" href="#png.261"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>257<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>upon which to support the dignity, brought contempt
upon the order and the race. Day by day
as they rode or strolled in the parks they saw
magnificent equipages, unsurpassed for beauty and
uniformity—such as no other capital could supply—such
horses, such carriages!—such equipages
generally—as struck them with surprise and admiration.
And the number and quality of them!
As the sands of the sea—innumerable. They
never seemed to come to an end. The private
carriages were overpowering enough in all conscience,
but by the Four-in-Hand Club—the
Coaching Club—on the days of the annual processions,
were they wonder-stricken, speechless! Such
teams, with such action—in such condition! such
coachmen—such footmen—beyond all conception
of matching, all imagination of fashion and completeness!</p>

<p>Of course they had not been long in town
before they were taken to the theatres and opera
houses, where certain performances were in full
vogue and acceptation. Here they were entranced
by the perfection of the impersonations, the
splendour of the staging, the pathos and the
majesty of the finest vocal talent of the world,
supported by the grandest instrumental harmony.
Of this last consummation an Australian compatriot,
born and reared to womanhood in a
southern metropolis, was a <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">prima donna assoluta</i>
during that memorable season.</p>

<p>Heroes too, naval and military, passed in review,
in park or street, before these young people.
They were evidently desirous to store their minds
<a name="png.262" id="png.262" href="#png.262"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>258<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>with the exact presentment of the demigods of the
race, ‘in their habit’ as they lived, for retrospective
meditation. Kitchener was in the Soudan
again, but they had sight and heard speech of
Lord Roberts—Roberts of Kandahar!</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘Then we put the lances down,</div>
<div>Then the bugles blew, as we rode to Kandahar,</div>
<div>Marching two and two,’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">quoted Vanda. He was mounted, looking a horseman
and a soldier, every inch of him, from plume
to spur—carried by a lovely charger, but <em>not</em> on
the historical Arab. Much they grieved that
Volonel the beauteous, the high-born, the beloved,
had passed away to the land of the ‘Great Dead.’</p>

<p>‘Do you believe,’ queried Vanda, ‘that the
dear horses we have all known, and loved and
mourned, are denied a future life, when so many
of our rubbishy fellow-creatures, idle, criminal and
despicable in every sense, are to be pardoned and
promoted? I hardly can. It seems inconsistent
with the scheme of eternal justice.’</p>

<p>‘It is a large question,’ replied Reggie, ‘and
besides, my dear Vanda, you are not old enough
to argue on debatable points of doctrine. It is
hardly edifying at your age.’</p>

<p>Of course there had been a great meeting with
‘the boys,’ by which endearing term the Cambridge
students were known in the family. They
did not lose much time, it may be believed, before
presenting themselves at the Hotel Cecil, in which
palace a telegram from Paris notified that the
family had taken apartments. They were received
<a name="png.263" id="png.263" href="#png.263"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>259<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>with acclamation, and their growth in ‘wisdom
and stature’ was favourably remarked upon by
Hermione and Vanda. Certainly they were good
specimens of the Anglo-Saxon youth of the day,
whether reared in Great or Greater Britain. Tall,
well proportioned, athletic, well dressed, and showing
‘good form,’ which means so many indefinable
qualities and habitudes, it may be imagined with
what pride and joy their parents gazed on them,
and how, from very joy and thankfulness, their
mother’s eyes overflowed as her loving arms embraced
her first-born and his brother. Their
father’s short but fervent greeting was not effusive,
after the manner of Englishmen, but none the
less heartfelt and secretly joyful. As such, fully
understood by the sons of the house.</p>

<p>Then followed, of course, unlimited talk, with
explanations, reminiscences, expectations, descriptions,
sketches of functions impending or otherwise,
with interjections by the girls—occasionally
repressed but indulgently allowed, even when not
strictly in order, on account of the exuberant
happiness, even transports of the present meeting.
None could deny that. They were a pair of
youngsters of whom any family might have been
proud. Their looks were in their favour certainly.
Reginald, the elder, with dark brown hair
and eyes, regular features, and a figure which
united grace and symmetry in equal proportions,
was generally held to be handsome—and supposed
to be clever. An ardent and successful student,
he had distinguished himself at his college; in
the Union he was looked upon as a promising, even
<a name="png.264" id="png.264" href="#png.264"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>260<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>brilliant debater. Already he was attracted by
the prospect of a legislative career, and while connecting
himself for the present with the Liberals,
was conscious of a leaning to Conservative principles,
and a belief that with age, experience, and
ripened judgment he might be found in the ranks
of that great party which, while recognising and,
in proper time and place, advocating reasonable
progress, regarded as above all things the honour,
the safety, the durability of the Empire.</p>

<p>The brothers, as happens usually in families,
differed in a marked degree from each other, not
less in physical than in mental attributes, while
both were well up to the standard of strength and
activity demanded of well-born, well-educated
Englishmen in their college days.</p>

<p>Eric, the younger, less studious than his senior,
had taken a leading part in the open-air contests
of strength and skill which absorb so large a portion
of the leisure of British University men. At
cricket, football, ‘the gloves,’ he was—if not
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">facile princeps</i>—always among the half-dozen
from whom were picked the champions of their
respective colleges, in the annual or occasional
contests. Each had, of course, staunch backers
and enthusiastic supporters, who battled desperately
for their inclusion in the team for international or
county cricket; or, higher honour still, in the
annual boat-race at Putney. Here the younger
brother had scored, as he was three in the Cambridge
Eight, and with another Australian was
prepared to die at his oar, to uphold the men of
his country and college. As this classic contest,
<a name="png.265" id="png.265" href="#png.265"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>261<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>which was to be decided before Good Friday, was
now only a few days distant, and arrangements
had been already made, and invitations accepted, for
places in a house-boat, it may be imagined what
feelings animated the breasts of the entire family
as the day of the absorbing fixture drew nigh.</p>

<p>On one never-to-be-forgotten day the girls
and their mother were taken by the young men,
proud of the privilege of escorting their handsome
sisters and the stately mother, over the precincts of
Cambridge. The day was fine, for a wonder—a
soft sky—a gentle breeze—a day when walking
was a pleasure, and the fresh, pure air a delight.
‘There used to be an old stone bridge over the
Cam about here,’ said Reggie, ‘beside which the
great Benedictine Monastery of the Fern had
probably something to do with the foundation of
the University.’</p>

<p>‘Where did the students live?’ asked Hermione;
‘in the Monastery?’</p>

<p>‘They were lodged at first in the houses of the
townspeople. The long street, hereabouts, begins
with Trumpington Road, but it ends in a narrow
lane, fronting Sepulchre Church. Here are, you
see, the more important Colleges. The students
were possibly a more or less unruly lot. At any
rate, in 1231, Henry III., we are told, issued
warrants “for the Regulation of Cambridge
Clerks.” Troublous times ensued, for in Wat
Tyler’s time the rabble (I beg their pardon), the
labour party of the period, sacked the Colleges,
but were attacked and repulsed by the young
Bishop of Norwich.’</p>

<p><a name="png.266" id="png.266" href="#png.266"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>262<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘So bishops used to fight in those days?’</p>

<p>‘Yes, under stress of circumstances—there were
several instances—Bishop Odo was another priest
militant. The rebellion did not last long, fortunately;
but Jack Cade only foreshadowed the
utterances of some of our latter-day legislators
when he swore that his horse should be put to
grass in Cheapside.’</p>

<p>‘We should not like George and Pitt Streets
to revert to kangaroo grass again,’ said Vanda,
who was highly conservative, ‘but worse things
have happened when the people got the upper
hand.’</p>

<p>‘Let us hope that reasonable counsels will
prevail,’ said Mrs. Banneret; ‘in the meanwhile,
suppose we explore this beautiful building. What
is it called?’</p>

<p>‘This is the famous Fitzwilliam Museum,’
answered Reggie, ‘to which the Earl of that name
bequeathed a picture gallery, a valuable library,
with 120 volumes of engravings, and a hundred
thousand pounds.’</p>

<p>‘A princely gift. Is this the Sculpture Gallery?
How superb these marbles are, and what lovely
Greek vases!’</p>

<p>‘The building seems worthy of its contents,’
said Hermione. ‘What a glorious façade! The
portico and colonnades are worth a day’s study.
If we lived near I should spend hours and hours
here.’</p>

<p>‘We haven’t half time enough for it to-day,’
said Eric; ‘there are still the Ellison Pictures, the
Botanic Gardens, and the Mesmer Collection to
<a name="png.267" id="png.267" href="#png.267"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>263<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>see. It will take us till lunch time to look over
the Colleges.’</p>

<p>‘Are there many?’ asked Vanda.</p>

<p>‘Ever so many. Here is Trinity to lead off
with; the largest collegiate foundation in Europe,
learned people say. The Masters’ Court was
built at the expense of Doctor Whewell. You
can see his cipher, the “W.W.”’</p>

<p>‘“How reverend is the face of this tall pile,”’
quoted Hermione; ‘it quite awes one. The grand
architecture—the wondrous antiquity. No one
can sneer at these halls of learning.’</p>

<p>‘St. John’s College,’ said Eric ruthlessly,
passing on, ‘is the second largest. Has splendid
restorations, I beg to observe. We needn’t wait
longer than to verify the armorial bearings of the
foundress of this and Christ’s College on that
massive gateway.’</p>

<p>‘Let me look,’ said Vanda; ‘who was she?’</p>

<p>‘Margaret, Countess of Richmond, and mother
of Henry VII. King’s College was endowed and
founded by Henry VI. in connection with Eton.’</p>

<p>‘I recollect,’ continued Vanda—‘“her Henry’s
holy shade.”’</p>

<p>‘The Chapel,’ said Reggie, ‘is said to be an unequalled
example of the Perpendicular order of
Gothic architecture, whatever that may be. This
fretted roof is not supported by a single pillar. It
is vaulted in twelve divisions. Each keystone
weighs more than a ton.’</p>

<p>Before the day finished they had a modest
lunch, where the famous Trumpington ale was
partaken of by the whole party as <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">de rigueur</i> and
<a name="png.268" id="png.268" href="#png.268"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>264<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>a part of the performance. They saw the Roman
ruins at Grandchester, and mused over Byron’s
pool. The visit to Girton College was reserved for
another day. At Stourbridge, the girls shuddered
at the sight of a disused chapel of an ancient
edifice said to have been an hospital for lepers.</p>

<p>‘Lepers here!’ exclaimed Vanda; ‘I didn’t
know that there ever were lepers in England.’</p>

<p>‘They were common enough, not only in Britain
but throughout the continent of Europe in the
Middle Ages,’ explained Reggie; ‘they had to carry
bells and give warning as they walked, were forbidden
to enter towns and villages, and so on.’</p>

<p>‘How dreadful! What a comfort that we
don’t live among such horrors. That was what
Nurse Lilburne’s husband was supposed to have
been torn away from her and shut up, on that
dreadful island, for—only on suspicion too!
Where are we now, Eric?’</p>

<p>‘This is Madingley, where the King, as Prince
of Wales, lived when he was at Cambridge. Gray’s
“Elegy” was written there, it is supposed.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, how delightful! I wonder if they made
his Royal Highness learn it by heart, like all of us.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>‘The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea, etc.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>“Lea” means “meadow” in English, doesn’t
it? “River flat” in early Australian, like “mob”
for “drove,” “paddock” for “field,” “rise” for
“hill,” and so on.</p>

<p>All necessary arrangements had been carefully
made long before the great day—the Carnival
of the Thames. What hopes and expectations
<a name="png.269" id="png.269" href="#png.269"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>265<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>had been careering through the minds of
the young people during the preceding period!
Visions of a lovely spring day, when the riverside
region would be glorified with budding willow,
oak and elm, lime and chestnut; where the
nightingales at eve would sing a pæan for the
victors—Cambridge, of course; for were there not
two Australians in their boat—the Banneret boat?
a circumstance unique in the University river-history.
Then, again, depression, deepening to
despair, as the weather prophets and the cloudy
skies foretold evil,—a drizzle, if not a downpour.
In such case what was to become of the
lovely boating suits, the hats, the dresses, the
parasols, bewitching, irresistible?—soaked, muddied,
limp. The girls dismal and unattractive; the boys—the
men—wretched and cross—or worse, reckless
and disgusted. The picture was intolerable.</p>

<p>‘I shall drown myself,’ said Vanda—when for
the twentieth time the subject was discussed at
breakfast—‘I know I shall, if our boat doesn’t
win, and be fished up from the oozy Thames by
some “waterside character,” or jump overboard in
the intoxication of victory. Either way I shall
hardly survive the event—I——’</p>

<p>‘Here comes mother!’ interposed Hermione,
who, naturally, as became the elder sister, was less
impulsive and demonstrative; ‘perhaps she will
think it better that you should stay at home, rather
than display the <cite>Bride from the Bush</cite> characteristics
before an English audience.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, that hateful novel! Thanks, sister dear!
You have hit upon the true corrective. I promise
<a name="png.270" id="png.270" href="#png.270"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>266<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>to be “splendidly, icily null,” rather than give
myself away to the sneering English of the period.
Oh, mother, <em>do</em> you think it will rain? Whatever
shall we do?’</p>

<p>‘Who was talking about suicide, just now? I
thought I caught a word or two of nonsensical
threats, as I was nearing the door. If I thought
daughters of mine——’</p>

<p>‘Oh, darling mother, don’t go on! I know
what you are going to say,’ entreated the penitent
girl; ‘it was only my nonsense. Why, Eric said
the other day that two of the men in the Oxford
crew had resolved in the case of defeat to study
for the Church and go in for slum curacies.’</p>

<p>‘I never doubted that young men as well as
young women could talk nonsense,’ conceded Mrs. Arnold, with benevolent candour; ‘but in the
meantime suppose we wait a little longer before
we go into heroics about the weather, which we
cannot alter or defy.’</p>

<p>‘I second the motion,’ said Mr. Banneret, who
at that moment entered the room with the <cite>Times</cite>
in his hand. ‘I don’t like to hear the question of
the weather discussed flippantly. It is too serious
a subject. I have known more than one case
where a poor fellow committed suicide because it
<em>didn’t rain</em>. It meant ruin to him: the loss of
twenty years’ work and self-denial. So there was
some sort of excuse. But complaints and cheap
wit about so grave a subject are out of place. I
believe that the day will be fine after all. We
shall see.’</p>

<p>‘Then I will promise and vow to be good for a
<a name="png.271" id="png.271" href="#png.271"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>267<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>month,’ said Hermione. ‘Vanda will not compare
old and new countries in mixed society; Reggie
will not wear his superior English manner; and
Eric will read steadily for his degree, even if he
has to be an Australian squatter.’</p>

<p>‘I suppose I ought to take one for the credit
of my native land,’ said Eric, ‘but I am going to
be a colonist whatever happens. I’ve no notion
of loafing about in England. There are too many
of that sort here already. There’s a trying season
coming, unless I mistake the signs of the times—industrial
warfare as well as the other thing. And
I mean to be in the thick of it.’</p>

<p>‘And so will I,’ said Reggie, ‘as soon as I get
my double first. I’m going in for Australian
politics.’</p>

<p>‘What good will it be to you out there?’
said Eric.</p>

<p>‘That’s my business, but I can’t think that an
all-round University training can unfit a man for
any career, at home or abroad. There may be a
temporary prejudice; but if a man shapes his
course sensibly, he is bound to be of more weight,
even in a democratic assembly, with such an addition
to his intelligence, than without. Look at
William Charles Wentworth—Dalley—John Lang,
and others. The two first were the darlings of the
people (Dalley an Imperial Privy Councillor), and
always exercised immense political power. Lang
was acknowledged to be a brilliant linguist and
successful barrister in India. Sir James Martin,
too, though without University training, was a
man of such phenomenal and comprehensive
<a name="png.272" id="png.272" href="#png.272"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>268<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>intellect, that he was independent of it. He filled
the highest political and legal positions with unexampled
success. His last act as Chief Justice of
New South Wales proved, strange to say, posthumously
successful. An important and complicated
mining case was heard before the Full Court,
composed of Sir James and two Judges, during
his last illness. It was given in favour of the
complainants by a majority of the Justices, Sir
James dissenting. He left his reasons, stated in
writing. The defendants appealed to the Privy
Council. Some delay occurred. In the meantime
Sir James, who had been for some time ailing,
died. The decision of the Privy Council came
out shortly after. It was in favour of the appellants,
thus upholding, even from the grave, the
soundness of the dead Judge’s opinion and legal
knowledge.’</p>

<p>The day before the great boat-race of the year
was doubtful. <em>The</em> day was, however, altogether
charming and delicious. The wind of yesterday
had died down. The few soft, fleecy clouds that
flecked the sky, the fair blue firmament of the last
week in March, had almost, of course not wholly,
disappeared, as they would have done in Australia.
Still it was a delicious day. Even Vanda admitted
this, though prone to disparage the old land in
comparison with the new. They were all suitably
attired and ready to start directly after an early
breakfast. The girls’ boating costumes, as each
had promised to accept a passage in a club-boat,
rowed by an ardent admirer, left nothing to be
desired. Such hats, such skirts, such parasols, and,
<a name="png.273" id="png.273" href="#png.273"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>269<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>of course, the Cambridge colours! They had had
some practice in a four-oar in Sydney Harbour
since they had come to live on the shores of that
peerless waterway. So they considered themselves
judges of the art and science of rowing, and were
disposed to be critical and competent spectators.
Their patriotic feelings were deeply stirred, for were
there not two, really two, colonials in the Cambridge
crew—a circumstance almost unparalleled in
the annals of University racing. Of course they
knew that the Diamond Sculls had been won by
Mr. Ronaldson, of Western Victoria, and twenty-five
years after by his son, of the South African
Mounted Infantry, both Australian born. This
they knew, for he was a neighbour of theirs, and
they had seen the sculls in the library at ‘The
Peak.’ They knew, too, that for years past there
had been no ’Varsity boat-race without an Australian
in one or other, generally in both, of the
contesting boats. Still, ‘You never can tell till the
colours are up,’ is a racing adage as well on water
as on land. They knew how true, in the great
races they had watched at Randwick and Flemington,
and their gentle bosoms fluttered each
time when the heartshaking thought would intrude
that it <em>might</em> be their hard lot to see the shadow of
Barnes Bridge fleet over the Oxford boat a few
seconds before it crossed that of Cambridge.
They had experienced such disappointments in
their lives—had seen Tarcoola, a Lower Darling
outsider, win the Melbourne Cup, when the family
money—not very much, for Mr. Banneret discouraged
gambling in all forms, but what Vanda
<a name="png.274" id="png.274" href="#png.274"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>270<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>called ‘their hard-earned savings,’ put together in
shillings, sixpences, and even threepenny bits—was
on Toreador.</p>

<p>This malign stroke of fortune they had borne
and survived. But the personal element was so
intermingled with <em>this</em> event that if it did not come
off, the future was dark indeed.</p>

<p>They kept their race-glasses fixed on the boats
as the men were getting in. How handsome Eric
looked, and how proud they were of him! An
inch or two over six feet in height, yet not looking
it from the perfect symmetry of his figure,
effectively displayed by the boating costume, many
a girl’s heart went out to him besides those of his
adoring sisters, and many a fervent wish, not to
say prayer, ascended as the Cambridge boat, wildly
cheered, tore out and took her place by Putney
Bridge. Then Oxford followed, amidst shouts that
shook the air, rowing, for her, a quicker stroke
than usual. If she can keep it up, what price
Cambridge? The thought was maddening, and
the girls’ faces began to look gravely anxious.</p>

<p>On the river’s banks a human hive seems
to have settled. Black are the bridges, the
lawns, the balconies, and the windows. The
crowded steamers must be dangerously o’erladen;
and surely the protagonists, in this grand trial of
skill, strength, and endurance, will task every
sinew, muscle, limb, and heart-valve to win the
laurel crown of the year. The English crews
fight for their College, their Alma Mater; but the
Australians are for their respective Colonies, <em>their</em>
native land: to show, as they have done in other
<a name="png.275" id="png.275" href="#png.275"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>271<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>historic rivalry, that the sons of Greater Britain
are on a level in this as in other respects with
their relatives from the wondrous isles from which
their fathers came. ‘I ride for my county,’ quoth
Valentine Maher. In much the same sense as the
West of Ireland member of ‘The Blazers’ rode,
the colonial champions in the Cambridge boat may
each have vowed, as they stretched each manly
thew and sinew, to do a man’s best for the good
land for which their fathers had toiled and striven
and fought in the long-past years; with droughts
and fires, blacks, bushrangers, and other foes of
the pioneer—resulting, alas! not seldom, in total
wreck and financial ruin after the work of a life’s
best years.</p>

<p>However, these are not holiday thoughts. The
present is sunlit and joyous; let us enjoy it while
we may. There is a temporary cessation of the
murmurous, confused, unintelligible growl of the
crowds. The course is clear. The boats are off—<em>off</em>!
The race has begun. So has the true
excitement, the desperate struggle of the swarming
crowds on the swaying steamers and the towing
path.</p>

<p>‘Oh! which is in front?’ cries Vanda. ‘Don’t
say it is Oxford, or I can never survive this
day.’</p>

<p>‘Don’t be a goose,’ says Reggie magisterially.
‘Watch Hammersmith Bridge. There—I thought
as much—Cambridge is ahead.’</p>

<p>‘Hurrah!’ called out Hermione, who up to
this point had been discreet and decorous. ‘Oh,
I beg pardon! but the strain was too great. Look
<a name="png.276" id="png.276" href="#png.276"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>272<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>at that girl, with the Oxford colours and a pink
parasol—how she is waving it about. They hadn’t
parasols, I suppose, in those days, or I’m sure
Rowena would have waved hers at Ashby-de-la-Zouche,
when Ivanhoe’s lance sent the Templar
rolling in the lists. That was an exciting affair, if
you like. How I should have liked to have been
there!’</p>

<p>‘Hermione,’ said her mother, ‘we shall have
to leave you at home next time if you cannot control
your feelings; you are doing your country an
injustice by your want of <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">retenue</i>.’</p>

<p>‘Look out for Barnes,’ said Reggie, in low,
vibrating tones, as of one who had no time for
trifling. ‘By Jove! Cambridge has put up a
spurt and drawn level. How they’re shouting on
the bridge. Cambridge! Cambridge! The light
blue for ever! Cambridge wins!’</p>

<p>It is even so. Cambridge leaves rowing, and
one—two—three—four seconds pass before Oxford
finishes. The great race is over for the year.
Eric and his crew are on the wharf before the
Ship Inn, at Mortlake. Happy heroes—‘o’er a’
the ills o’ life victorious.’ Victors in a world-famed
contest. The news flashed within a few
minutes to all the centres of the old world and
the new. It is not, ‘What will they say in England?’
although that is of as much or more engrossing
interest to the colonist as to the home-born
Briton; but also, ‘What will they say in Sydney
and Melbourne, Adelaide and Hobart, Brisbane
and Perth—ay, in distant Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie?’
In everyone of these aggregations of
<a name="png.277" id="png.277" href="#png.277"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>273<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>people and commerce, where divers nations are
represented and various tongues are spoken, there
will be a knot of watchers at the telegraph offices
to know if the news of the great race has ‘come
through,’ and many a wager will be won and lost
as each man of sporting tastes and traditions has
backed his fancy, whether with the dark blue or
the light. There will be healths drunk in far-off
lands to-night, and to-night recollections of the
Trumpington ale, of walks along ‘the Backs,’
where the Cam ‘wanders through frequent arches,
with groves and gardens of unique beauty,’ will
recur to grizzled graduates of Cambridge and
Oxford.</p>

<p>This great and crowning mercy having been
vouchsafed to them, by which the Bannerets, young
and old, would for evermore hold themselves to be
indissolubly linked with the Cambridge victory, the
family had leisure to consider what should be their
next inroad into sport amid fashionable surroundings.
Hermione and Vanda had enjoyed the
ecstatic pleasure of being rowed on the broad
expanse of Father Thames; had also been congratulated
by the men of their brothers’ college on
Eric’s noble performance, which (they said) had
materially aided in the glorious victory. These
Austral maidens had thereupon come to the conclusion
that nothing in the world came<!-- TN: inferred; original partially obscured --> up to
the accessories and environments amid which the
nobler sports were transacted in England. They
wondered what would be the next open-air entertainment
at which they would be likely to assist,
and as the weather, for a wonder, was becoming
<a name="png.278" id="png.278" href="#png.278"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>274<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>finer every day, <em>almost</em> rivalling the glorious sunshine
of their native land, some one threw out a
suggestion about the Liverpool Grand National
Steeplechase, to come off on the 25th—next week,
indeed—at Aintree.</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter XII"><a name="png.279" id="png.279" href="#png.279"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>275<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XII</h2>


<p>‘<span class="smc">I see</span> that the Liverpool Grand National
Steeplechase is to come off at Aintree on the 25th
of March,’ Mrs. Banneret had said, at breakfast,
one morning. ‘Your father has decided to take
us to that great race, which I feel certain we shall
all enjoy. Even I must renew my youth, and
recall the days when I used to ride—actually <em>ride</em>
to the country race-meeting held at Appin, near
Barham Court, our old home in New South
Wales. My eldest brother always rode in the
principal steeplechase. And what tremendous
excitement there was when he won!’</p>

<p>‘How delightful!’ said Vanda. ‘What was
the name of the dear horse?’</p>

<p>‘I remember it well,’ said the matron, her eye
kindling and her clear cheek flushing with the
memories of a bygone day. ‘It was Slasher;
he was bred in the family, and trained by my
brother himself. The Governor’s wife walked up
to the Judge’s box, and patted his neck. She
congratulated Val—who had just received a commission
in the 50th Regiment, known to be under
orders for India.</p>

<p>‘“You have my best wishes, Mr. Bournefield,
<a name="png.280" id="png.280" href="#png.280"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>276<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>and I feel confident that you will always be in
the forefront of the battle, as you have been
to-day—I wish you every success in life!” Val
bowed low, and said he hoped to do honour to
her ladyship’s good opinion. So he did, poor
fellow! That is his portrait which hangs in
my bedroom.’</p>

<p>‘What! the one with all the medals and
clasps—such a handsome, soldierly-looking man.
Why, his hair is grey!’</p>

<p>‘Yes, he was Colonel Bournefield when he
was killed, shot through the heart, waving his
sword, and leading his men on in the Sikh
War. He was only twenty when he won that
race.’</p>

<p>‘Was he handsome, mother?’</p>

<p>‘It was thought so. A very nice-looking boy,
with blue eyes and curly fair hair—full of mischief,
and afraid of nothing in the world. Poor
Val! How he would have enjoyed coming with
us to-day!’</p>

<p>‘Isn’t it fortunate that there is an Australasian
horse in the race?’ said Hermione. ‘I wonder
if he has a chance of winning—I must back
him in gloves, if nothing else. What is his
name?’</p>

<p>‘Moifaa, a New Zealand name; he comes
from there, and has won steeplechases in his own
island. What did Eric and Reggie say about
him?’</p>

<p>‘They went to see him in his stable, and liked
him ever so much—a fine horse, nearly or quite
thorough-bred, with immense power, and a fair
<a name="png.281" id="png.281" href="#png.281"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>277<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>amount of speed. They were going to back him
for a moderate amount.’</p>

<p>‘Then I vote we do likewise,’ said Hermione,
‘always supposing father approves. It will give
us so much more interest in the race. Delightful,
won’t it be, if we can pay our expenses, and
have all the fun and excitement to the good?’</p>

<p>‘Do you agree, mother?’</p>

<p>‘We must see what your father says—I daresay
he and Eric will look him well over. Then
we may invest with confidence.’</p>

<p>‘Really,’ said Vanda, ‘one would think that
all these charming “fixtures” had been arranged
specially for our benefit. I never heard of so
many, more or less mixed up with Australians.
It’s quite flattering to our vanity, of which we
are supposed to have our share!’</p>

<p>‘Not more than English people,’ said Hermione;
‘the difference is, that we talk more when
we win anything, because it is a pleasant surprise,
having been brought up to believe that the
British article is in every department superior.
The Englishman disdains to dwell upon the
fact, because his unquestioned excellence in art,
science, sport, and fashion must be (he supposes)
admitted by the whole civilised world!’</p>

<p>‘That’s what makes him hated abroad, I
suppose?’</p>

<p>‘Often unjustly, I have thought,’ interposed
Mrs. Banneret. ‘His quiet manner is translated
into supercilious pride, as also his distrust of
casual acquaintances, who may be, and indeed
often are, undesirable. Our Australian habit is
<a name="png.282" id="png.282" href="#png.282"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>278<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>quite the reverse, and, as I have more than once
warned you, my dear girls, not always free from
disagreeable developments.’</p>

<p>‘Yes, indeed!’ said Vanda; ‘you remember
that delightful Sicilian Count, who turned out to
be a cardsharper, or something worse?’</p>

<p>The day of the great steeplechase at length
arrived. It did not rain, though it was cold and
bleak. It was snowing in Lancashire—so they
heard, but Aintree was dry. However, the
Australians were more curious than alarmed
about such a phenomenon. Besides, it gave
the girls an excuse for wearing their furs, which
were of the first quality. The next obvious duty
was to scrutinise the competing horses as they
came out in procession. ‘Here is the King’s
horse, Ambush II.; he has been made first
favourite,’ said Eric. ‘He won this race in 1900.
Isn’t he a grand animal, and in the very pink of
condition—goes out at 7 to 1. Now, girls, look!
Here’s the King himself! come on purpose for
us Cornstalks to see him. Ambush II. is being
saddled. His Majesty pats his neck, and shakes
hands with his jock, the well-known Anthony—wishes
him good luck, of course. Isn’t that worth
coming all the way from Australia to see?’</p>

<p>‘Very nearly!’ said Vanda, who was eagerly
taking in every detail of this truly astonishing
performance. ‘Do you think he will win?’</p>

<p>‘There’s no saying,’ replied her brother
guardedly; ‘he did win this race, and so did
Manifesto. But they say the stewards have
raised the leaps, or made them stiffer, this year.
<a name="png.283" id="png.283" href="#png.283"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>279<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>There is a bit of a row about it. That gives the
Maori horse a better chance.’</p>

<p>‘Why?’</p>

<p>‘Because the jumps in Australia and New
Zealand are notoriously the biggest and stiffest in
the racing world. So the horse that can “negotiate
them with ease to himself and satisfaction to the
lookers-on,” need not fear Aintree, or any course
under the sky.’</p>

<p>‘But didn’t some gentleman say he considered
the course absolutely unfair?’</p>

<p>‘Very likely; but others who had ridden and
trained horses at Aintree saw nothing to complain
of.’</p>

<p>‘How many starters are there?’</p>

<p>‘Twenty-six. What a splendid-looking lot
they are!’</p>

<p>‘Oh! here comes Reggie! Who is that with
him, Eric? He looks nice.’</p>

<p>‘He’s a Cambridge chum—same college, and
a wonderfully good chap. A great hunting man
in his own county. He’s always wanting us to
go and stay with him at Castle Blake, where
there’s no end of shooting and fishing. We’re
going some day, when we can get away.
They’re coming now, and Reggie will introduce
him.’</p>

<p>At this moment the two young men came up.
The stranger was a handsome young fellow with
blue eyes of a daring and romantic character, and
that expression of <em>abandon</em> so characteristic of
every man of every class hailing from the Green
Isle—when out for a holiday.</p>

<p><a name="png.284" id="png.284" href="#png.284"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>280<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘Permit me to present my friend and college
chum, Mr. Manus Beresford Blake, of Castle Blake,
in the historic county of Galway. He’s making
believe to study for the Church, though whether
he follows up the profession after he’s taken his
degree, I make bold to doubt. In the meantime,
he’s coming to lunch with us, and will explain all
about this race, as I believe he knows every racehorse
and steeplechaser in Ireland.’</p>

<p>‘So much the better for us, my dear Reggie,’
said Mrs. Banneret, ‘for we know scarcely anything,
and I feel sure the girls are dying to get
reliable information.’</p>

<p>‘Here’s the very man! Manus, my boy! behold
two young ladies whose minds you can
store with every kind of useful knowledge about
the noble animal. Only don’t be led into thinking
that they are wholly ignorant of horse- and
hound-lore, though they do come from a far
country.’</p>

<p>‘I shall wait until our further acquaintance
before I presume to add to the Miss Bannerets’
library of useful knowledge. I presume that they
are accustomed to your vein of humour. Any
hints which my acquaintance with so many honest
horses, <em>not</em> quite so honest owners, enables me to
give, I shall be proud to offer.’</p>

<p>‘You and Eric have been round the horses,
Mr. Blake, I gather,’ said Hermione. ‘What
do you think of our champion, the New Zealander?’</p>

<p>‘Moorfowl, is it? for that’s what I heard a
bookmaker call him. A fine horse, there’s no
<a name="png.285" id="png.285" href="#png.285"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>281<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>denying it, but I hardly think—I doubt, that is,
whether he’s thorough-bred.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, of course,’ broke in Vanda, ‘he’s a
colonial horse, and therefore <em>can’t</em> be good enough
to win against an English field! Poor Moifaa!
You’ll see directly’; and the girl’s eyes sparkled,
the colour came to her cheek, as she raised her
head defiantly, as if to dare the world in arms to
disparage the steeds of the South.</p>

<p>‘I didn’t gather that my friend’s family came
from Ireland,’ replied Mr. Blake, with a smile half
of challenge, half of admiration, as he gazed at the
eager damsel, whose ardent championship heightened
her beauty so dangerously. ‘But I seem to
be accused of British prejudice before I have had
time to assert an opinion of any kind or description.
I merely indicated a doubt, and got no
farther, when Miss Vanda swept me away from
my position, before I had time to take one. That’s
a truly Irish statement, isn’t it?’</p>

<p>Here all the young people laughed, and Mrs. Banneret gently reproved the too fervent advocacy
of her younger daughter, hoping Mr. Blake would
excuse her on the score of her recent arrival from
a far country.</p>

<p>That young lady, however, declined to be excused
on the ground of being a savage (so to speak),
though she owned that she could not tamely suffer
Moifaa to be depreciated, as it seemed to her,
solely on the ground of his being born outside
their sacred England. However, she apologised,
and hoped Mr. Blake would overlook it, on the
ground of her youth and inexperience.</p>

<p><a name="png.286" id="png.286" href="#png.286"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>282<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘My dear young lady, I’ll overlook <em>anything</em>
you are pleased to say! I take it as the highest
compliment to contradict me, any time you feel in
want of a new sensation. And now, shall I say
what I think of this fine upstanding horse from the
South?’</p>

<p>‘Oh, by all means!’</p>

<p>‘Then, remember, we start fair. He’s a grand-looking
horse—would be just the sort to carry my
father, who’s sixteen stone, over the Galway stone
walls—but I’m doubtful—no, I’ll say, apprehensive—that
he’s “too big to get the course,”
as they say here. Seventeen hands is a big horse,
though his make and shape are almost perfect,
I’ll allow, and finer shoulders I never saw. And
so we’ll know more after the race—I’ll have
something to say then.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, here comes my father! He was detained
in London about matters of business.’</p>

<p>Mr. Banneret had met Mr. Blake at his son’s
rooms at Cambridge, so there was no need of an
introduction. He had excellent news from Pilot
Mount, which enabled him to join the family
party with even higher expectations of enjoyment
than he had anticipated.</p>

<p>He brought with him a New Zealand friend,
whose successes in land investment had placed him
in a position to indulge himself with what he called
a ‘run home’ every three or four years. Mr. Allan Maclean was a typical Highlander of the
dark-haired, swarthy type, middle-sized, but broad-shouldered,
and sinewy of frame, giving promise
of exceptional strength. He had emigrated to the
<a name="png.287" id="png.287" href="#png.287"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>283<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>land of the Moa and the Maori when a mere boy,
had worked hard, and formed so shrewd an outlook
as to the progress of the young colony, that he
was now not only independent, but likely to be,
within a few years, one of the richest men in the
South Island.</p>

<p>‘I suppose this is an interesting race to you,
Maclean?’</p>

<p>‘Decidedly so—in fact I came home a month
earlier chiefly to see it run. Glendon Spencer is a
great friend of mine, and I knew not only Moifaa,
but his dam, Denbigh—a magnificent animal,
and a winner of steeplechases in her day—not unimportant
ones either.’</p>

<p>‘I heard that you backed him heavily.’</p>

<p>‘Well, fairly so. I took thirty to one, in
hundreds, from Joe Johnson. Being early in the
market, I got a shade more of the odds. I am
not a betting man, generally; but in this case I
felt confident, and stood to lose a trifle, or win
enough to pay my travelling expenses, and something
over.’</p>

<p>‘You colonists are a demoralising lot, it must
be admitted. Fancy the example to me dear
friend Reggie Banneret, and his brother—poor
innocent Eric! Think of it now! rushing over
the South Pacific to see a race run, and within a
few months clearing back again, with £3000 in
your pocket.’</p>

<p>‘If the old horse stands up. It’s rather a big
“<em>if</em>,” isn’t it? But I’ll trust my luck this time.
It’s not the first time I’ve backed him. I saw him
win the Great Northern Steeplechase in Auckland,
<a name="png.288" id="png.288" href="#png.288"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>284<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>three miles and a half, with eleven stone twelve
up, as well as the Hawkes Bay Hurdle Race,
carrying twelve stone. He was taken to England,
with the idea of winning this race; and I believe
he <em>will</em> win it. Isn’t that the bell? What a
string, to be sure! Twenty-six coloured for the
race. What horses—what people—what a sight!
Old England for ever! God save the King!
Here comes His Majesty’s Ambush II. looking
his very best, and Anthony, no less, the proudest
jock in Britain this day.’</p>

<p>Here they all start for the preliminary canter—what
a cheer from the assembled thousands! Now
they are paraded. No time lost at the start.
They are off—off! A deep, wordless hum succeeds,
like the surge voice of a lately aroused ocean, still
reminiscent of storm and tempest, though now the
wave and wind be still. ‘Look! Pride of Maberton,
Loch Lomond, and Inquisitor are away,
followed by Railoff, who falls at the first fence.
Ambush II. is down at the next.’ Alas! The
girls are so sorry—not that they wished him to
win, but to have been among the gallant few that
fought it out to the end. Deerslayer goes on from
The Gunner, and Loch Lomond, and half a dozen
others, amongst whom, going steadily, are Moifaa,
Detail, and Manifesto.</p>

<p>Deerslayer continues to lead over Valentine’s
Brook, the next to come down is May King, after
which Honeymoon and Old Town fail to clear the
dry ditch. Now the excitement becomes intense!</p>

<p>‘Oh, look!’ cries Vanda, ‘at Moifaa. How he
is coming up! Well done the Maori!
<a name="png.289" id="png.289" href="#png.289"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>285<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Aké—Aké—Aké! He has passed Deerslayer—The
Gunner and Kirkland are next, with Nahilla, and
a lot of others behind. Look at that gallant old
Manifesto! How easily he takes his jumps!’</p>

<p>‘Becker’s Brook—doesn’t Nimrod mention it
somewhere?’ said Hermione. ‘Oh, poor Deerslayer
is down!—the slayer among the slain.
Fortune of war.’</p>

<p>‘Now, Moifaa,’ shouts Allan Maclean, ‘it’s time
for you to test your “mana.” Death or glory!
He’s going strong; Kirkland and The Gunner also.
Ambush II., enjoying himself without a rider, keeps
well up, but cannoning into Detail—turns him
into “another detail” (<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">pace</i> Mr. Kipling). There
is a fall in the dry ditch. Benvenir breaks down.
Loch Lomond breaks his neck. Moifaa draws
clear of Kirkland and The Gunner on the flat,
and, striding along, beats Mr. Bibby’s Kirkland
by <em>eight</em> lengths; The Gunner a neck behind
<em>him</em>.’</p>

<p>‘Who was fourth horse?’</p>

<p>‘Shaun Aboo—Robin Hood fifth. Poor dear
old Manifesto last!’ concluded Vanda. ‘<!-- TN: opening single quote invisible -->“And
that’s how the favourite was beat,” as Gordon
sings.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The great race is over. Nothing more until
next year. The winners retire to count up their
gains, the losers to calculate how they may liquidate.
This last is a more serious affair. As Moifaa was
led in towards the weighing-stand, a burst of
applause greeted horse and rider. There were
very few of the cheering company who had not
<a name="png.290" id="png.290" href="#png.290"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>286<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>lost upon him, but a British crowd is chiefly
just, and upholds a fair field and no favour.</p>

<p>With regard to the performance, to quote an
eminent sporting authority, ‘no finer exhibition of
jumping ability has ever been seen at Aintree than
that afforded by the New Zealand horse. He
seemed to go half a foot higher than anything else
in the field, and to land in the most collected
manner. For the last mile it looked like a match
between Moifaa, Kirkland, and The Gunner. But
when once on the race-course, any one could see
that Moifaa was a certain winner if he stood
up.’</p>

<p>The muster of colonials was alarming. Was
there going to be another Boer War? Indeed, had
occasion arisen, a formidable contingent could have
been recruited there and then. North and south,
and east and west—the bronzed, desert-worn,
weather-beaten Sons of Empire turned up in the
paddock, never so crowded before. Men were
shaking hands enthusiastically who had last met
in Sydney or Melbourne—Perth or Brisbane—Calcutta,
Peshawur, Nigeria, or New South Wales—the
back blocks of Queensland or the northern
territory of West Australia, where the pearling
luggers with their Malay crews make high festival
when the ‘shell takes’ are good.</p>

<p>How far, how widely, the roving Englishman
wandered in his quest for fame or fortune, was
abundantly demonstrated by the number and
quality of the ‘Legion that never was listed,’ on
that auspicious day. Such companies and troops—rank
upon rank, as they closed round the
<a name="png.291" id="png.291" href="#png.291"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>287<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>champion of the day—the first Australasian horse
that had ever won against Britain’s best ‘chasers,’
in the classic race of world-wide fame that had no
fellow in the contests of horse and man since the
world began.</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter XIII"><a name="png.292" id="png.292" href="#png.292"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>288<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2>


<p><span class="smc">Mrs. Banneret</span>, recalling her Flemington experiences
on Cup Day, had arranged for a symposium
on a novel and comprehensive scale—to
take place after the great event of the day. Notwithstanding
the widely differing conditions of the
respective race-courses, she determined, with the
co-operation of her husband and sons, to have
something like a representative Australian function,
worthy of her country’s hospitable customs and of
this truly memorable occasion.</p>

<p>Having persuaded several of their most intimate
friends to have their carriages standing fairly close
to each other, a sort of ‘corral’ was arranged,
within which a clear space was left free.</p>

<p>This gave room for tressels, upon which were
placed temporary tables, rather long and narrow,
but capable of holding such meats, wines, and
other refreshments as are usually dispensed at
races. Of course some diplomatic management was
necessary to carry through an innovation foreign
to the traditionary, time-honoured habitudes of
English race-goers. With the help of a few extra
police (the Inspector had been in Australia) and a
<a name="png.293" id="png.293" href="#png.293"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>289<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>small army of waiters, supplied by the caterer, a
reasonable compromise was arrived at. A calculation
was made, by which it could be demonstrated
that if even a third more than the number of
expected guests arrived, they could be supplied
with seats and a liberal supply of the delicacies of
the season, together with a few glasses of ‘Dry
Monopole,’ or, having regard to the lower temperature
of Britain, with a ‘touch of the real Mackay.’</p>

<p>It was well that the calculation did not fail on
the elastic side; for when it leaked out that
Arnold Banneret, sometime of Carjagong, New
South Wales, and more recently of Pilot Mount,
West Australia, was entertaining his friends, had
won largely, indeed, on the victory of Moifaa, it
was wonderful what a number of colonists turned
up. Among them were Lord Newstead and his
lovely wife, the latter in her priceless Russian
sables, and otherwise appropriately adorned. She
was so glad to meet her husband’s kind, good
friends, whose chance meeting with Percy and poor
dear Southwater had been so fortunate for both.
She hoped that Mr. and Mrs. Banneret and the
girls would pay her a visit at Newstead. As for
Mr. Reginald and Mr. Eric, if they could spare
the time, they would know—young men being so
scarce just now—how welcome they would be at
her country house, or, indeed, any other. She
believed she would really take a run over to that
delightful Golden West some day—where, apparently,
the precious metal was lying about in
heaps, waiting to be picked up.</p>

<p>‘Not quite so easy a game as that,’ said his
<a name="png.294" id="png.294" href="#png.294"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>290<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Lordship—‘eh, Mr. Banneret? Little accidents
like fever, “robbery under arms,” hunger and
thirst, intervene sometimes <em>before</em> the discovery of
Tom Tiddler’s Ground, or Pilot Mount. We both
had a look-in from the fever fiend—a “close call,”
too, as our Yankee friends say—and but for that
tender nursing—why, bless my soul! you don’t say?—it
can’t be! Well, of all the people in the world
who’d have ever thought of seeing <em>you</em> here!’ and
upon this excited exclamation, Percy, Lord Newstead,
rushed forward, and accosting a pair of rather
distinguished-looking persons, seized the lady by
the hand, and shook it effusively, somewhat to the
surprise of her companion, who had evidently never
seen his Lordship before. Lady Newstead, too,
looked slightly curious until her husband, almost
dragging the strange lady with him, said, ‘My
dear, allow me to introduce to you Mrs. Lilburne,
who saved my life in West Australia, and to whom
you owe your present possession of my unworthy
self. There was <em>one night</em> on which I never thought
to see England again, I assure you.’</p>

<p>‘My dear Percy, you needn’t be quite so
demonstrative. Mrs. Lilburne looks almost
alarmed. I quite agree with you in believing
that we should never have met here but for her
great care and kindness. Really, Mrs. Lilburne,
I think I should have recognised you even without
Percy’s assistance—he has so often described
you to me. But I see Mrs. Banneret is laying
claim to a share of your attention; so I think
we had better do honour now to the lunch, to
which we were all so kindly invited.
<a name="png.295" id="png.295" href="#png.295"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>291<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Mr. Lilburne is wondering where <em>he</em> comes in. I see
we must make common cause. I am anxious to
hear some of <em>your</em> adventures, which I am told
are too thrilling.’</p>

<p>‘I should be charmed, Lady Newstead—they
were rather unusual; but my wife and I have
entered into a solemn compact that I am not to
divulge the secrets of the prison-house. She has
the copyright—if I may use the term—and to her
alone belongs the right to disclose that strange
passage of my life. In the meantime, we are
both quite well, and more than happy. Permit
me to offer to fill your glass with our mutual
friends’ excellent champagne, and to wish them
continued health and unclouded happiness.’</p>

<p>Lady Newstead accepted the invitation, and
they moved over to a position nearer their hostess,
who, with the aid of the head of the house and the
younger branches of the family, was ably discharging
her manifold duties.</p>

<p>Just then Mr. Banneret, whose ordinarily calm
manner seemed to have acquired an accession of
gaiety from the influence of the scene, had been
explaining to Lady Woods, who, recently arrived
from Perth, had assumed her well-known character
of ‘the life and soul of the party,’ how delighted
he and his wife were to find so many old
friends able to keep high festival with them
this day.</p>

<p>‘If I could (borrowing a joke from the
“Goldfields Act and Regulations,” which I used
to know by heart) obtain a Booth License to
dispense wines and spirits, I should be inclined to
<a name="png.296" id="png.296" href="#png.296"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>292<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>call this the “Inn of Strange Meetings”—inasmuch
as the number of friends and acquaintances
who have “come up” from the Under World, as
Tennyson hath it, is like an army with banners.
Not only from the inmost deserts, but—and here’
(his face changing suddenly as he spoke) ‘comes
one from the grave itself.’</p>

<p>With these words he hailed a tall man sauntering
past, who, dressed in the height of the
reigning race-course fashion, in no respect diverging
from the canon of ‘good form’ in raiment
or otherwise, bore yet an exceptional and striking
personality.<!-- TN: superfluous closing quote deleted --></p>

<p>‘Tena koe, Captain, haere mai.’</p>

<p>A Maori response immediately followed, as
the person addressed, drawing himself up, bent
a pair of stern blue eyes upon his interlocutor,
while Arnold Banneret, whose expression was compounded
in almost equal parts of welcome and
wonder, fear and amazement, gazed anxiously
upon the stranger’s countenance. The new-comer
was tall, considerably indeed above the height
of men ordinarily thus described, though his
broad chest and athletic frame caused his unusual
height to be less apparent. His bronzed cheek
was traversed by a scar, ‘a token true of
Bosworth Field,’ or other engagement, where
shrewd blows had been exchanged.</p>

<p>‘Glad to see you again,’ said the host.
‘Waiter, bring Captain—Captain——’</p>

<p>‘Bucklaw,’ interposed the stranger guest—‘been
back to the old place.’</p>

<p>‘Of course, of course, quite natural!’ continued
<a name="png.297" id="png.297" href="#png.297"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>293<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>his entertainer; ‘bring Captain Bucklaw champagne.’</p>

<p>The glasses were not small, having been
specially ordered, and as the gallant Captain
drained his, he clinked glasses with his host, and,
with a glance which combined an air of reckless
daring with a savour of almost schoolboy mischief,
he said: ‘It’s not necessary to say, Judge,
that I’m here incog.—Captain Bucklaw, of the
steamer <cite>Haitchi Maru</cite>, with British-owned cargo,
and passenger steamer now at anchor below
Gravesend, cleared from San Francisco, is not
to be mistaken for the captain of the <cite>Leonora</cite>
beneath the blue wave of Chabrat Harbour. I
brought over a cargo of rice, and take back one of
flour with, of course, sundries, not particularly
named in the manifest. She’s faster than most
“tramps,” and carries five guns—two of them
No. 7 quick-firers.’</p>

<p>‘And so you came to England to see a steeplechase?’</p>

<p>‘That is so—or rather, being in England again,
I thought I would have a look at the great race
that everybody was talking about. Heard, too,
that there was a New Zealand horse in it. You
know that we Southerners are death on horse-racing.
That time you and I met at Opononi<!-- TN: original reads "Oponomi" -->,
Captain John Webster’s place on the Hokianga
(I bought a cargo of Kauri timber from him), I
went to the race meeting at Auckland, where we
were filling up with frozen lamb. I was struck
then with the make and shape of horses bred at
Mount Eden—saw Carbine, too. What a horse
<a name="png.298" id="png.298" href="#png.298"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>294<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>that was! Now in England, I hear. So I backed
Moifaa, like the other flax and manuka men, and
made money enough almost to buy a new ship.’</p>

<p>‘But, Captain, how is it that we see you here,
or indeed anywhere else, in <em>the flesh</em>? We heard
that——’</p>

<p>‘Yes, I know—been dead nearly three years.
Knocked on the head and thrown overboard by a
rascally cook’s mate. Dead, of course. Blue
shark’s meat, and so on.’</p>

<p>‘That part is true, then?’</p>

<p>‘Yes, I <em>was</em> stunned and thrown overboard by
that scoundrel and the boatswain together. But I
was not drowned—far from it. The water
brought me to, and I struck out for an island that
I knew in that latitude; and, fortunately, before
I got near enough to the reef for the sharks to
sample me, I was picked up by a canoe, with
natives, crossing from one island to another.</p>

<p>‘They took me to their village, where I lived
for six months. Reported dead, of course. So I
concluded to stay dead. It’s not a bad thing, now
and then. I was taken off by a whaler, and
landed at Valparaiso to begin life afresh as Captain
Bucklaw, and got a new ship when this Russo-Jap
War broke out; and now stand a chance of
dying an Admiral of the Japanese Fleet. But
say—isn’t that my passenger of the <cite>Leonora</cite> from
Molokai to Ponapé and ports? Don Carlos
Alvarez? Suppose we fire a gun across his bows,
and bring him to? Who’s the handsome woman
he’s talking to?’</p>

<p>‘His wife—the celebrated Nurse Lilburne, of
<a name="png.299" id="png.299" href="#png.299"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>295<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Pilot Mount, Kalgoorlie, West Australia, who
saved more lives in the typhoid fever epidemic than
all the doctors on the field.’</p>

<p>‘Is that so? Then I’m proud of having been
the means of bringing her best patient back to her.
Hope he’ll stay <em>put</em>. The buccaneer has more than
one good deed to his account; maybe the recording
angel won’t forget to post that one up!’</p>

<p>‘Oh, Captain, is that you? We heard you
were dead—how grieved Alister and I were after
parting with you.’</p>

<p>‘I was reported missing for six months, señora!’
said he, with a low bow, and the fascinating smile,
half melancholy, half remorseful, which had proved
so irresistible in his path through life. ‘It is
nearly the same thing—sometimes worse indeed—meaning
slavery, tortures, indignities; but
occasionally, though rarely, one escapes, through
the mediation of his Patron Saint, let us say, and
has once more the honour to salute his friends—and
passengers!’</p>

<p>By this time Mrs. Banneret had moved closer
to the romantic personage, to whom she was made
known in due form; and the younger members of
the family having come up, lured by the report
that the tall stranger was a pirate of the Spanish
main—or some such dark and terrible adventurer
analogous to fascinating outlawry, they were
presented severally, but kept gazing as if spellbound,
congratulating themselves upon having
seen—even if it were for but once in their lives—a
real-life accredited delightful pirate!</p>

<p>‘Such a handsome man!’ said Hermione. ‘It’s
<a name="png.300" id="png.300" href="#png.300"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>296<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>not that alone—though, of course, he <em>is</em> very handsome,
and he has beautiful eyes, that look right
through you, and has immense strength, plain for
all men to see. But there’s the calm dignity of
command, a birthright never to be acquired.
You feel that such a man <em>must</em> be obeyed; that
no one would <em>dare</em> to resist for one moment. No
doubt he has shed blood—which is dreadful to
think of—but he has saved life also, and done
many merciful and charitable actions—if we only
knew.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, yes! scores, hundreds,’ said Vanda:
‘carried starving crowds of natives away from
their islands when the crops had failed; picked
up canoes at sea when they were beginning
to cast lots for one to die to save the rest;
<span class="nw">and——’</span></p>

<p>‘Don’t tell me any more,’ pleaded Hermione.
‘I can’t bear it.’</p>

<p>‘And they say that if he was arrested he could
be thrown into prison for offences against maritime
law—whatever that may be. He <em>was</em> arrested at
Honolulu, and was a prisoner upon a British man-of-war.’</p>

<p>‘Yes!’ cried Vanda; ‘but they couldn’t prove
anything against him. So they had to let him go
again, and he gave a ball afterwards. So he
couldn’t have done anything very wicked. He
sings, and plays on the violin, and guitar too.
What a draw he would be in opera!’</p>

<p>‘Mrs. Lilburne says she will <em>never</em> forget his
kindness to her husband. He got him away from
that dreadful island, where he would have died.
<a name="png.301" id="png.301" href="#png.301"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>297<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>So would she. She had a great mind to commit
suicide, and was only kept alive by the incessant
work in the hospital at Pilot Mount, where she
nursed father, and Lord Newstead, and lots of
poor miners.’</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter XIV"><a name="png.302" id="png.302" href="#png.302"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>298<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2>


<p>‘<span class="smc">Really</span>,’ said Vanda, ‘when we want to see our
Australian friends, the proper thing is to come to
England. We have certainly met more in a
month here than we ever did in a year in the
colonies.’</p>

<p>‘And we never should have fallen across
Captain Hay——I beg his pardon, Captain Bucklaw
in Australia,’ assented Hermione. ‘I wonder
what will be his end. Something romantic and
far from peaceful, I feel certain. Oh, here he
comes to say good-bye! Why can’t he stay
another day, I wonder?’</p>

<p>‘Reasons of State! The Captain never stays
long in one place, I’ve remarked,’ said Mr. Lilburne, who, with his wife, now joined them.
‘He had a wire from his agent that the cargo
was complete, and the <cite>Haitchi Maru</cite> only waiting
for her commander.’</p>

<p>Mr. and Mrs. Banneret now came forward,
while the Lilburnes shook hands warmly with the
man who had been their friend in need, whatever
might have been his career under other circumstances.</p>

<p><a name="png.303" id="png.303" href="#png.303"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>299<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘<em>We</em> shall never forget you,’ said Mrs. Lilburne;
‘you saved two lives when you rescued
Alister from that inferno.’</p>

<p>‘The Captain knows he may count on us whenever
he likes to call,’ said her husband. ‘We
hope to be able to repay him in kind.’</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>‘It was time for us to go, my lads;</div>
<div class="i5"><span class="ns">            </span>It was time for us to go,’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">said he, chaunting the refrain of an old sailor-song,
in deep melodious tones. ‘I have never yet been
caught napping, but, believe me, this meeting of
true friends will be among the most precious
memories of a reckless life, and if any of the
present company should find themselves in danger
on sea, or land, within a hundred miles of this
skipper, he’ll effect a diversion if it’s in the power
of mortal man. But, after all, it’s a ten-to-one
chance we never meet again. Think of me as one
who might have been a better man with better luck.
Adios, señora. Adios, Don Carlos Alvarez. Adios,
señoritas.’ Here he shook hands once more with
the men, and bowing low to the girls and Mrs. Banneret, strode away to a swift hansom which
awaited him, and disappeared from their eyes.</p>

<p>There was a peculiar feeling, somewhat allied
to regret, yet perhaps even more to relief, when
their picturesquely lawless friend took his departure.
This sentiment was shared in lesser degree
by the older, more experienced individuals of the
party. But the girls were frankly grieved at the
loss of so romantic an acquaintance—the tears,
indeed, coming into Vanda’s eyes as she realised
<a name="png.304" id="png.304" href="#png.304"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>300<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>that she could hardly hope to know ‘a real pirate’
again.</p>

<p>‘Do you think he really <em>was</em> engaged in the
Black Flag business—death’s head and crossbones,
and so on?’ queried Eric.</p>

<p>‘I don’t think that was ever proved,’ answered
Lilburne; ‘more likely a trifle of privateering, or
“blackbirding,” as labour-recruiting was called in
the early days of the Queensland sugar-planting
industry. But there <em>was</em> a warrant out for him,
and, indeed, for Hilary Telfer—that tall, fair man
standing near Mrs. Banneret with his lovely wife;
he was supercargo on board the famous <cite>Leonora</cite>.’</p>

<p>‘What a beautiful creature she is!’ said Hermione;
‘what a figure, what eyes, and such a face,
lit up by a charming smile! She is something
like a Spanish girl we saw at Santa Barbara, and
yet not quite the same type—far more beautiful,
with grace personified. I can’t quite place her.’</p>

<p>‘She is a descendant of Lieutenant Fletcher
Christian, the leader of the mutineers of the
<cite>Bounty</cite>, who disappeared somewhere about the
year 1788, and formed that very interesting community
at Pitcairn Island. They were not
discovered until September 1808, when Captain
Folger, of the American ship <cite>Topaz</cite>, seeing
smoke rising from an island, from which a canoe
was approaching, was hailed by the occupants in
good Saxon English. “Won’t you heave us a
rope, now?” was the request from the frail bark,
and, a rope being thrown out, a fine young man
sprang actively on deck. “I’m Thursday October
Christian,” he said modestly, “son of Fletcher
<a name="png.305" id="png.305" href="#png.305"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>301<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Christian, and the first man born on the island.”
H.M.S. the <cite>Briton</cite> and the <cite>Tagus</cite>—the former
commanded by Sir T. Staines—were in search of
an American ship which had seized some English
whalers, when they suddenly came in sight of an
uncharted island. It was Pitcairn, but should
have been two hundred miles distant—being
placed on the chart by Captain Carteret (who
discovered it in 1767) three degrees out of its
true longitude.’</p>

<p>‘It seems almost incredible,’ said Mr. Banneret,
‘that a canoe carried on a man’s shoulders should
be safely handled amidst such terrific surges, but I
recollect seeing Australian aboriginals at Two-fold
Bay carrying their bark canoes <em>on their heads</em> to
the water, and fishing successfully when it was by
no means smooth. English-speaking strangers
proved themselves to be unsurpassed boatmen—to
be recognised in the aftertime as such amongst
the best whalemen in the world. Twenty years
had elapsed since Fletcher Christian and his mutineer
associates, with their Tahitian wives, had left
Mataavai Bay. During the whole of that time
the actors in the tragedy had disappeared from
mortal ken as completely as if they had been sunk
“deeper than plummet lies,” with their broken-up
and abandoned vessel the <cite>Bounty</cite>.’</p>

<p>In 1808 Captain Mayhew Folger first came
upon the little community of Pitcairn Island; in
1814 the Anglo-Tahitians had increased to the
number of forty. Nothing was done by the
British Government until 1825, when Captain
Beechey, in the <cite>Blossom</cite>, on a voyage of discovery,
<a name="png.306" id="png.306" href="#png.306"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>302<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>paid a visit to Pitcairn Island. A boat under sail
was observed coming towards the ship. The crew
consisted of old Adams and ten young men of the
island. The young men were tall, robust, and
healthy, with good-natured countenances, and a
simplicity of manner combined with a fear of doing
something that might be wrong, which prevented
the possibility of giving offence. None of them
had shoes or stockings. Adams, in his sixty-fifth
year, was dressed in a sailor’s shirt and trousers,
and wore a low-crowned hat. He still retained
his sailor manners, doffing his hat whenever he was
addressed by the officers.</p>

<p>Sir Thomas Staines’s letter, written on 18th
October 1814, stated that every individual on
the island (forty in number) spoke excellent
English. They proved to be the descendants of
the deluded crew of the <cite>Bounty</cite>. The venerable
old man, John Adams, was the only surviving
Englishman of those who last quitted Tahiti
in her. The pious manner in which all those
born on the island had been reared, and the
correct sense of religion which had been instilled
into their young minds by the old man, had given
him the pre-eminence over the whole of them.
And to him they looked up as the Patriarch of their
tribe.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The great day, the great race was over. The
Australian family had enjoyed their modest triumph
in seeing the good horse from a sister colony win
the blue ribbon of the great cross-country contest,
coming in victorious over hedge and ditch,
<a name="png.307" id="png.307" href="#png.307"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>303<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>brook and rail, with the best blood of England
eight lengths behind. That was an honour which
could never be taken away from them. In years
to come any of them would be able to say, ‘I saw
Moifaa sweep over the four miles and a half of
a stiff course (as English people reckon) with as
much ease as if it had been a hurdle race. And
until we see an imported horse from England win
a steeplechase at Flemington, we shall be entitled
to hold that the horses bred south of the line
possess unequalled speed, stoutness, and jumping
ability.’</p>

<p>From the far ocean-surrounded islands of the
south land, where still linger the traces of the moa,
and the apteryx perplexes the tourist, to the torrid
levels of the West Australian fields, where the
miner’s harvest is weighed and reckoned in ounces
of fine gold, the love of athletic sports, which the
British emigrants carried with them, has caused
their representative champions to be respected
from India to the Pole.</p>

<p>After this equine battle of Waterloo it was, of
course, natural for the victorious Austro-Britons
to fall back upon their base in London—the Hotel
Cecil, where they and the Allied Forces might
arrange for future operations during the spring
and summer campaigns.</p>

<p>The Bannerets were not, as may be imagined,
without acquaintances, and, indeed, friends of long
standing in high places. Cadets of noble houses
had visited Australia in the early ’fifties (1852
to 1856), when the goldfields of Ballarat and
Bendigo, Eaglehawk and Maryborough, were at
<a name="png.308" id="png.308" href="#png.308"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>304<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>their marvellous height of productiveness; where,
also, the purchase of a few shares overnight might
result in a fortune before breakfast for the investor.
Besides such glimpses into Aladdin’s
cave, there was the entirely new spectacle of goldfields,
where the precious metal might be seen in
the matrix, and the operations for its extraction by
chance workers of every degree of age, nationality,
or occupation witnessed. It was a fascinating
and novel experience to watch the process in
shallow ground, hardly less primitive than the
ordinary digging of potatoes: to mark the runaway
sailors, farm hands, shepherds, or stock-riders,
joking the while, as they occasionally
threw up a ten- or twenty-ounce ‘nugget’ of
almost pure gold, worth £4 per ounce, or a lump
of the gold-studded quartz, to the tourist
bystander peering down the edge of the shaft,
with the touching confidence that it would be
punctiliously returned, after being wondered at,
and perhaps weighed, by the obliged stranger.
Such things sound improbable, but are, nevertheless,
strictly, rigidly true, as can be avouched by
any miner of the period. The neighbouring
squatters, in a general way men of birth and
breeding, had been pleased to welcome these agreeable
strangers to their homes, where, the daughters
of the land being often handsome and attractive,
the stranger guest had no particular objection to
prolonging his stay when his hosts and other
neighbouring magnates were so anxious to secure
his society.</p>

<p>Lord Salisbury was known to have lived in a
<a name="png.309" id="png.309" href="#png.309"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>305<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>tent, with a friend or two, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">more Australico</i>, and
personally, as ‘Mr. Cecil,’ studied the humours of
a ‘rush’ near Bendigo. As he did not stay long
or, presumably, make a fortune, he probably consoled
himself with the reflection that he had gained the
rare experience of a personal examination of a vast
colonial industry at first hand, which would be
valuable in forming political opinion as to the
treatment of British colonies, under new and
original conditions. In the light of his Lordship’s
ministerial responsibilities in later life, perhaps it
was well for him that he should be in a position to
observe the process of formation of a British state,
with municipal, mercantile, civil, and military
functions, of a character befitting the Empire,
evolved from the heterogeneous components of a
goldfields population. How doubtful, how improbable,
that order, achievement, high attainment,
should ever have been so produced, contemporary
journalists and visitors have left on record. For
the proof, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">respice finem</i>, behold the tree-shaded
street, broad, straight, tram-pervaded, at Ballarat;
the lake where formerly the wild duck swam amid
the reedy marsh; the steamers thereon which
equalise the traffic; the gardens where the weary
tourist may rest, or read, upon a bench prepared
by the municipalities, while he gazes around on
the wide transformed landscape. Naval officers,
cadets of great houses, budding field-marshals,
had all been temporarily adopted at Arnold
Banneret’s paternal home. The middies were
now, some of them, admirals; the Honourable
Mr. Sedley and Mr. Villiers were now barons
<a name="png.310" id="png.310" href="#png.310"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>306<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>and earls, having ‘come into their kingdoms,’ so
to speak.</p>

<p>They did not forget the friends who had dined
and mounted them, provided shooting and hunting
parties, thought nothing too good for them; and
invitations flowed into the Hotel Cecil for garden
parties, dances, dinners—in fact, all the gaieties of
the season.</p>

<p>And what a season it was! ‘Oh to be in
England, now that April’s here!’ For the nonce
it was a fine, warm, even <em>dry</em> summer, which enhanced
the green glory of the century-old oaks,
the ‘immemorial elms,’ and the various flowers of
the great parks and also of the natural woodland.
What joy it was to these young people to wander
with their brothers along the ‘leafy lanes, where
the trees met overhead, when the merry brooks
ran clear and gay’! To note, lying underneath
the aged oaks, the skylark rising from the field,
and pealing his matin song of gladness.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>And Phœbus ’gins arise,</div>
<div>His steeds to water at those springs</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>On chaliced flowers that lies;</div>
<div>And winking Mary-buds begin</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>To ope their golden eyes:</div>
<div>With everything that pretty is,</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>My lady sweet, arise!’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">quoted Hermione.</p>

<p>Then the wild-flowers: what a feast of plant
life! What various colour, shape, bloom—of
every shade and tint, from the dingle, ‘where the
rath violets grow,’ to the daffodil bank, by the
<a name="png.311" id="png.311" href="#png.311"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>307<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>sun-kissed lake. ‘Isn’t that delicious?’ said Hermione;
‘who but our Shakespeare could have pictured so
delightfully the lovely summer of old England,
with the hedgerows and the pastures all glistening
with dew! That dear lark is coming down again—a
living song, floating through the blue ocean of
sky—singing as he falls. Then at last dropping
like a stone into the field—I saw him close to that
patch of red clover.’</p>

<p>‘But <em>we</em> have skylarks in Australia,’ said Vanda,
who objected to unqualified praise of England for
being England; ‘our bird doesn’t fly so high,
certainly, and stops more quickly, but he sings a
sweet little tuneful lay. He has not had a thousand
years in which to practise.’</p>

<p>This colloquy took place one morning before
breakfast, at which unusual time, about 5 <span class="allsc">A.M.</span>,
these young people elected to get up, for once in
a way, that they might be enabled to say they had
seen an English sunrise, and heard an English
skylark. They were staying at an old—ever so
old English hall, where everything was in keeping
with tradition and history. The century-old oaks
were there; the forest was the same, mercifully
spared, and lovingly tended; the aged oaks were the
immediate descendants of those under which Gurth
and Wamba lay and chaunted their roundelay when
Bois-Guilbert, the Templar of the period, inquired
the way to Rotherwood, and was directed all wrong
by the eccentric Wamba.</p>

<p>Yes! there were the oaks, huge of girth, mighty
of spread and shade, and clothed to the very tips of
their enormous branches with delicate leaflets, bursting
<a name="png.312" id="png.312" href="#png.312"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>308<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>buds, and every variety of leafage which goes
to furbish up the glorious green garb of an English
spring.</p>

<p>Now that the spring had arrived, the real
English spring—written about, talked about, sung
about by everybody that had ever been in England,
or read about the great and glorious Motherland—they
were all mad with hope and expectation, also
with ardent desire to go in and possess the land of
faerie. Fortunately, for once, the climate did not
betray them. The weather continued fine and
open. Frosts were few and far between. The
grass in the meadows, thick and verdant, spread a
velvet garment over all the land. Over the fields
around stood ancient farm-houses, near villages with
names as old as the Norman Conquest. Around
were ruined abbeys and crumbling spires, besides
bridges over brooks, where swam the fat carp which
had tempted the monks to sink their foundations
first, and to follow up with the stately piles, which
sheltered so many a lordly abbot and his train of
cowled brethren, lay and spiritual, with servitors,
tenants, and retainers, military and otherwise.</p>

<p>All this strengthened the desire of the Bannerets
to establish themselves in a country residence,
whence they might issue forth in quest of the
more desirable entertainments, at the same time
preserving the home feeling, and having a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pied à
terre</i> which would give them standing in the
county superior to that of mere birds of passage.</p>

<p>The girls of the family, now that the spring
was distinctly on, and the summer, by natural
course of nature, might be expected to follow,
<a name="png.313" id="png.313" href="#png.313"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>309<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>desired no change. They felt, and indeed repeatedly
affirmed, that their cup of joy was full—that they
never expected to be so truly, consciously, ecstatically
happy. Every night Hermione and Vanda retired,
after a day filled with novel and delicious sensations,
to dream of a new kind of felicity on the morrow;
a forecast the reality of which rarely disappointed
them. Their parents occasionally uttered a note of
warning as to the too eager pursuit of pleasure, and
the need of moderation even, on the score of health.
But there was small reason for caution on that score:
the young people had exceptionally strong constitutions—sound,
unworn, and elastic, with all the
marvellous recuperative power of early youth.
Their cousins and friends in the country districts
of Australia had been known to ride thirty or forty
miles to a ball, at which to dance until daylight
afterwards, with but little or no fatigue. They
belonged to the same type, and were not a whit
behind them in endurance, defying fatigue or
lassitude where pleasure or interesting travel was
concerned. So all manner of recreative experiences
had been tested—hackneys for the park, rides and
drives, concerts and theatres, balls and parties,
receptions given by certain returned Governors, to
whom they had been socially known in Australia.
These proconsuls lost no time in inviting them to
entertainments where they met various great ones
of the land, to whom it was explained that they were
really ‘nice’—distinguished even in a sense, and
ever so rich—owning gold mines of unquestioned,
almost fabulous richness.</p>

<p>There was then no difficulty about invitations
<a name="png.314" id="png.314" href="#png.314"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>310<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>and engagements; the trouble was to keep up
with them all, and so arrange that they did not
clash, and at the same time to find out the right
people at whose entertainments to be ‘seen.’
They were naturally popular in this new environment,
with more or less foreign elements. The
girls were voted pretty (Hermione, indeed, was
very handsome), well dressed, well mannered, and
above all ‘nice’—that mysterious adjective which
goes for so much in English society. The young
men, too, were good-looking, well turned out, and
so closely resembling Englishmen of their age and
standing, that surprise was expressed that they
should be Australians, there being no peculiarity
of accent, or appearance, betokening their colonial
origin. They were also athletic beyond average
form—being skilled at tennis, cricket, and other
fashionable games.</p>

<p>Now the vitally important matter next on
hand was the selection of a home. Mr. Banneret,
after due consideration, had decided to invest in
an estate. The Hotel Cecil was well managed,
comfortable, even luxurious. It was, of course,
expensive, even perhaps extravagant. But that
was not the reason for disapproval. Money was
no object, as the phrase runs.</p>

<p>Still, Arnold Banneret and his wife disliked
hotel life <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en permanence</i>. The continual change
of acquaintances, with whom a certain sort of
association was almost impossible to avoid, was
distasteful to them. They did not, as their experience
matured, think it, in all respects, beneficial
to the girls. For them and their brothers they
<a name="png.315" id="png.315" href="#png.315"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>311<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>wished to re-create the home feeling. They
longed for the change once more to peaceful
country life—where they might live among such
neighbours as made the chief rural luxury, and
secure, if such might be, valuable and enduring
friendships.</p>

<p>To this end it was decided to <em>buy</em> an estate.
Leased houses, with perhaps suitable grounds,
furniture, and belongings, were all very well in
their way. But people’s ideas about furniture and
other matters differed widely sometimes. And,
at the delivering-up day, misunderstandings were
likely to arise—had arisen within their experience.
Thus it was decided to buy. They could then
comfort themselves with knowing that they were
safely settled for years to come—could not be
turned out by the whim of the proprietor, or any
one else. And if the worst came to the worst,
and circumstances compelled them to return to
their own country, they could, of course, re-sell;
and as estates in England, valuable and well placed,
did not vary much in value, they could get their
money back without serious deduction.</p>

<p>The girls at first did not take kindly to the
idea. They found their present mode of existence
much to their taste. But their mother had with
some regret observed that a subtle change was
taking place in the character of her daughters.
Constant amusement, of course, they had no
difficulty in procuring. It was furnished without
effort on their part. But it pained her to discover
that an alteration of taste was even now showing
itself. They did not care so much for the more
<a name="png.316" id="png.316" href="#png.316"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>312<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>rational forms of amusement; they began to
crave more and more for excitement; and
provided that it was of a sufficiently novel and
bizarre nature, they seemed, to her watchful eye,
to be growing more and more careless of surroundings,
and of the status of the people with
whom they were necessarily associated.</p>

<p>In order to combat this feeling, and to render
the departure from the Hotel Cecil, and its continuous
round of gaieties, less depressing, Mrs. Banneret began diplomatically to descant upon
the more permanently attractive features of
English country life,—the ancient trees, the
historical associations of the manor-house and the
grounds; the neighbouring gentry, the hunting
fixtures, the pleasant parties made up for shooting,
coursing, fishing, and other time-honoured
sports, for the performance of which desirable
guests would be brought down from town or
invited from neighbouring families; the archery
meetings, after which it was the fashion of the
county to have impromptu dances; the hounds
on the lawn, the distinguished personages, the
aristocratic M.F.H., the ‘coffee-house’ feature
of the meets, the hunting women, the road
riders, their friends, and other people’s friends,
the garden parties—in short, all the hundred and
one pleasant meetings, half sport, half business,
which only a country life could adequately
provide.</p>

<p>‘Think,’ she said, ‘my dear girls, what a
different life it would be for us all! Your father
is pining for a return to regular home life, such
<a name="png.317" id="png.317" href="#png.317"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>313<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>as he and I enjoyed when you were little, and
which, in spite of the troubles of a Gold Commissioner’s
life, we even now look back upon as
our happiest days. He wants to have a decent
stable, a couple of hacks, a brace or two of
hunters; his phaeton pair, and a dogcart horse;
a landau for me and you on great occasions; a
safe hunter apiece for you girls, and perhaps
another, or so, for a friend. Besides, with a
moderate-sized estate—ten or twelve thousand
acres—he can enjoy some shooting and amateur
farming, which will give him healthy exercise—he
doesn’t get enough now, and it’s bad for him.
He’s getting too stout; you see that yourselves,
don’t you? Then we shall be the Bannerets of
Hexham Hall. I feel quite like the Lady of the
Manor already.’</p>

<p>As the good matron kept summing up the joys
of this ideal life—the glorious awakening in the
fresh, sweet atmosphere of the country, the song
of the birds, the dewy lawns—the girls watched
her face glow and her eyes sparkle with almost
youthful lustre. They could bear the situation no
longer.</p>

<p>‘Mother! dear mother!’ cried Hermione,
‘don’t go on—I can’t bear it. We have been
wicked, selfish girls not to have seen it before. I
thought you and father had been looking out of
spirits lately. I see now how it was telling on
you. We’ll go, Vanda, wherever we are told.
It’s a shame that we should have had to be asked.
Only we must have a family council before the
place—the manor, the castle, or whatever it is to
<a name="png.318" id="png.318" href="#png.318"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>314<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>be—is finally decided upon. It can’t be so very
dreadful after all.’</p>

<p>‘Dreadful!’ cried Vanda; ‘it’s delicious. I’ll
undertake the dairy—and we must have lots of
lovely tiles, and such cream-pans, and a floor like
glass, and walls that can be washed down twice a
day. The next thing is to find the Castle of
Otranto. Will there be ruins, ghosts, and a
helmet to fall down with a crash? I must have
vaults, too, and a secret passage, where the former
lord of the castle was concealed when the Roundheads
sacked it. And such a range of stabling,
too! I must have two hunters if I am to keep up
my riding.’</p>

<p>The sons gave their unhesitating opinion in
favour of the estate. Land was cheap in England
at present—many of the owners being only too
glad to get rid of property which paid ridiculously
low in interest on capital, and was year by year
involving the so-called proprietor in heavier expense.
As to the value of a large historic family
mansion, it was looked upon as the proverbial
white elephant, which the owners would be only
too pleased to get rid of, once and for ever.</p>

<p>Then the choice—that was the difficulty.
Arnold Banneret shuddered when he thought of
the scores of desirable places, old and half-ruinous,
ill-drained, decayed, damp, smothered in ivy,
shaded by vast growths of world-old groves that
it would be sacrilege to cut down, and death by
slow and gradual process to leave unaltered. The
new mansion ghastly with stucco—redolent of
fresh paint—the mistaken ambition of the
<a name="png.319" id="png.319" href="#png.319"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>315<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>manufacturer, tired of so soon after the contractor was
paid, and disgracefully new like the baronetcy;
these and other failures, like Banquo’s line of
shadowy kings, passed before him in review, until
he almost resolved to cut the whole concern and
go back to Australia, where, at any rate, one could
enjoy one’s life in peace. This was after a long
day’s rail to examine an over-praised, over-valued,
highly unsuitable investment, with too much house
and too little land—both being indecently inferior
in quality, besides being in a dull and undesirable
county.</p>

<p>‘It was thought,’ declared the agent, ‘that it
would just suit a gentleman from Australia, being
a bit wild-like, and not too trim and polished up,
as it were.’ He seemed surprised at being curtly
informed that a man did not come all the way
from Australia to encumber himself with an
indifferent house and exceptionally bad land, as the
attempts at crops plainly showed; that he had
been misled by the advertisement, and would be
sorry to take the place as a gift.</p>

<p>This was a bad beginning, but his wife comforted
him by saying that she could see that he
had been so bored by inaction that he was
evidently glad of the chance of taking a journey
<em>somewhere</em>, if only to end in disappointment; that
she was glad to see that he had so much of his
old energy left; that she must go with him next
time, when better counsels would prevail, and
success attend them eventually.</p>

<p>At length, after tedious delays and disappointing
inspections of every kind of country house—mansion,
<a name="png.320" id="png.320" href="#png.320"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>316<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>manor, and historic castellated abode—even
including a moat, an altogether satisfactory
purchase was effected. The place was historic, a
royal princess had lived there under strict guardianship
during her nonage. The place was
certainly far from modern in outward appearance,
but the interior had been restored tastefully, and
in accordance with the latest requirements, by the
owner, who, having fallen upon evil times, was
only too pleased to take a moderate price in cash
for a property which, with costly renovation and
additions, had cost a third more than the sale
price. When the probable purchaser and his wife
ran down by train to have a full and leisurely
inspection, they were more pleased than they cared
to show at the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">coup d’œil</i>.</p>

<p>It was the early forenoon. The day was fine—the
air mild, almost breezeless; the great oaks,
the venerable elms, the ancient walls which surrounded
the ‘pleasaunce,’ gave the whole place the
look of a monarch’s retreat for the time when
he might wish to rest from the cares of State and
enjoy a rare solitude, apart from the crowding
cares of sovereignty and the distraction of churchmen
and contending nobles.</p>

<p>Such indeed had Hexham Hall been in the
days of old. Princesses had lived there in the
time of their tutelage—princesses who must have
chafed, and perhaps cherished rebellious thoughts;
perhaps dreamed over the policy which they would
carry out when they became queens—for queens
they did become in due course of time, and having
uncontrolled power, they did carry out that
<a name="png.321" id="png.321" href="#png.321"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>317<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>policy; nor was blood spared in the process
which a lofty and fearless ideal of the ‘might,
majesty, and dominion’ of Britain demanded.
An estate of twelve thousand acres went with
the property.</p>

<p>It was favourably situated in the matter of
sport and social centres. Several packs of hounds
met within easy distance. The shooting was good,
and had been carefully preserved. There was a
trout stream such as would have delighted the
heart of the ‘Compleat Angler,’ particularly a
stretch of water not far from a ruined mill, which,
owing to latter-day mechanical inventions, had
been put out of commission.</p>

<p>There was a gamekeeper who went with the
estate, and whose keen, courageous expression at
once enlisted the sympathies of the younger
Australians. His cottage, his neatly dressed wife
and children, with their air of deep respectfulness
and old-fashioned curtseys, delighted them beyond
mention. The coops with young pheasants—the
lovely setters and retrievers—private property of
the keeper—such a dear feudal name, as Vanda
observed: these were some of the new possessions
which went far to reconcile the daughters of the
house to their removal from the Hotel Cecil, with
its endless joys.</p>

<p>The purchase of the baronial residence of Hexham
Hall had been carried to completion with
marvellous ease and celerity.</p>

<p>The Bannerets’ legal representative had met the
family lawyer of the Hexham properties, and after
certain conferences, with more or less courteous
<a name="png.322" id="png.322" href="#png.322"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>318<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>but pointed argument, a cheque signed by Arnold
Banneret for the largest amount ever drawn by
him was handed over, in exchange for which
acquittances and title-deeds, some of curiously
ancient date, were deposited in Messrs. Close and
Carforth’s deed-box.</p>

<p>The Australian family now felt themselves to
be invested with all manner of feudal attributes;
not perhaps quite including the privilege of ‘pit
and gallows,’ but, for all that, delightfully autocratic
of flavour and suggestion. They began to
feel reconciled.</p>

<p>After the removal from town, which was
effected with exceptional speed and completeness,
a rearrangement of the furniture was, of course,
necessary. The owner, an impoverished Earl
with a family, had lived on the Continent for
years past. He therefore welcomed the possession
of so large a sum in cash, a portion of which,
much to his private gratification, he was enabled
to devote to the clearing off of long-standing
debts, as well as to matters of family convenience.
Lord Hexham, indeed, came over from Bruges
to ratify all arrangements made by agents and
representatives, and to have, as he explained to
Mr. Banneret, a short ‘run up to town on his
own,’ so as to look in at his clubs, to escape the
monotony of the life at Bruges, which, though
economically prudent, was far from entertaining.
‘Nothing to do, day after day, but to look at that
confounded Cathedral, which I know by heart—and
all the Johnnies rave about till it’s perfectly
sickenin’. Never cared much about architecture—hardly
<a name="png.323" id="png.323" href="#png.323"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>319<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>know whether my own place is Tudor
or Gothic. Most awfully obliged to you, my
dear fellow, for taking it off my hands, and so on.
Benefactor to the deservin’ poor, don’t-cher-know—that
sort of thing. Is there anything I can do
to oblige you? Only say the word!’</p>

<p>‘I don’t see that there is anything more,’ said
the purchaser, ‘that isn’t included in the agreement.
Oh, by the bye, there are a few articles of
furniture, an old dower-chest with parchments,
some antique volumes, charters, and so on. I’m
a bit of an antiquarian in my leisure hours—having
more than I care for now, sorry to say. Would
your man of law put a price upon them—that is,
of course, if you have no dislike to part with them—heirlooms
probably?’</p>

<p>‘Would I turn them into cash? Like a bird,
my dear fellow—your man and mine can fight it
out between them. You could have the title too,
if there was no law to prevent it. Many a time
I’ve wished I could melt it, like the family plate.
Some of it <em>has</em> gone that way. You smile! It’s
the “frozen truth,” as our friend Lady Neuchatel
says.’</p>

<p>‘Of course you’re joking; your family succession——’</p>

<p>‘Not a bit of it. Talked it over with her
Ladyship and the children many a time. Jack, my
eldest son—he’s in the Guards—quite agrees with
me. So do the girls. “Oh, take the cash, and
let the title go.” Saw it in <cite>Omar Khayyám</cite>, she
said. Clever girl, Corisande! “Broken gods no use
any more, in modern times, without the money.
<a name="png.324" id="png.324" href="#png.324"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>320<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Rank without money the worst form of genteel
poverty.” Give you my word, Mr. Banneret, it’s
most refreshin’ start I’ve had for years. To
think of a decent credit at one’s private bank
account! Excuse my high spirits—makes me
feel like a boy again—not good form, I admit,
but situation exceptional.’</p>

<p>Arnold Banneret and this impoverished peer
‘got on,’ as the phrase is, wonderfully well together.
Like most Englishmen of rank, he was
utterly unaffected, never having had to take
thought about his position, or to trouble himself
as to the amount of consideration due to
it. Sufficient deference is cheerfully yielded to
Lords and Honourables in England and her
colonies, whether rich or poor, as long as they
merit respect from personal character. If they
are not so honoured it is entirely due to their
want of the qualities which are attributed to their
birth and breeding. Lord Hexham had been in
the army; had sold out when he succeeded to the
title; married shortly afterwards, and, without
being very extravagant, had lived a careless, easy
life, until the foreclosure of a long-standing mortgage,
and the accumulation of unpaid debts and
obligations, compelled a surrender. His family
was fairly large—four sons and three daughters—the
eldest son in the army, second navy, two
younger boys still at school. For the girls—Corisande
was grown up; Adeline coming on, ambitious
and slightly combative; Mildred still with
her governess. When all liabilities had been
liquidated or arranged, it was decided in a sort of
<a name="png.325" id="png.325" href="#png.325"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>321<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>advisory committee, partly composed of creditors
and partly of relatives, that the family must settle
for the next few years in a cheap place, somewhere
on the Continent, where the girls could learn
music and languages. But all expensive amusements—travel,
sport, house in town, yachting,
etc.—must be done with once and for all. If
the rents were regularly devoted to payment of
creditors and the release of mortgages for a few
years, the estate would be, perhaps not quite free
from debt, but in a condition to allow the head of
the house a reasonable income, and to afford the
young people all the reasonable social advantages
to which, by their birth and station, they had a
natural claim. The position was felt by the Earl
to be, in some respects, ‘rather hard lines upon a
fellow who hadn’t had much spending out of the
big indebtedness which had brought the family
ship aground.’ But it was felt that there was
nothing else for it, and his Lordship, taking his
wife’s advice, submitted to it with a fairly good
grace.</p>

<p>‘Deuced hard for your Ladyship, come to think—and
the girls won’t like it one bit. But they’re
young, and will get their music, and all the rest
of it, as good in Bruges, perhaps better, than in
London—cheaper too, ever so much cheaper.
Jack and Falkland will be fighting England’s foes
on sea and land. Mustn’t outrun the constable,
though; but they’re steady chaps, particularly
Jack—that’s one comfort. And if—I say if—we
can put in five years in this kind of rustication,
well, we’re not too old yet; we may look forward
<a name="png.326" id="png.326" href="#png.326"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>322<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>to a clean sheet, and a little reasonable fun, in our—what’s
the old song say?—“our declinin’ days,”
declinin’ days—that’s good, isn’t it? Well, I’ll
try to do my part—I <em>know</em> you’ll do yours.’</p>

<p>That settled it. The hunters, the carriage
horses, the park hacks, were sold; the choice little
herd of Jerseys, the greyhound kennel, were disposed
of. The well-known historic estate of
Hexham was finally sold out and out, to the
wonder and surprise of the country people, who
had a fixed idea that it belonged to the Crown, or,
in some mysterious way, could not be disposed of
without the royal sanction. However, it <em>was</em>
sold, everything advertised in the county paper,
and a large attendance witnessed the disposal of
all the belongings and valuables not secured by
special deed of settlement.</p>

<p>The all-important transaction being legally,
equitably, peacefully concluded, everything being
brought to the hammer—a few heirlooms in the
shape of pictures, statuary, etc., being reserved,—Lord
Hexham gave up his right and title to house
and lands, and the new family acquired possession
of the old Hall and the old acres.</p>

<p>It was a portentous proceeding, the girls considered,
who acknowledged a feeling half of awe
and half of triumph as they found themselves in
possession of the ancient keep, with embattled
walls, towers, and a portion of a deep and broad
moat. They were driven through the Norman
archway, seen through great elms and walnut
trees, partly concealing the quaint high chimneys
of the outbuildings, preserved through the
<a name="png.327" id="png.327" href="#png.327"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>323<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>entreaties, even threats, of Lady Ermentrude. The
Dowager Countess reached her ninetieth year
before she surrendered her state and the deference
which she exacted as due to the most exalted
pedigree in Britain. A portion of ‘the flanking
towers, with turrets high,’ did certainly look
rather grim and menacing, favouring the idea that
an attack in force might be expected at any time.
But the remaining portion of the great building,
or rather the collection of buildings, had been so
modernised, that the perfection of comfort and
artistic elegance demanded by latter-day life had
been secured, combined with the luxurious amplitude
of quasi-royal apartments. It was wonderful
how the huge building had lent itself to ornamentation,
to surprises, and luxurious lounging nooks
and corners. Here quiet converse might be had
by congenial spirits, or wide landscapes surveyed,
beauteous with glimpses of lake and river varying
the cultured sweep of pasture and arable, which
seemed only to end with the horizon.</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter XV"><a name="png.328" id="png.328" href="#png.328"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>324<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XV</h2>


<p><span class="smc">By</span> the time that arrangements were fully completed,
Lord Hexham and the Banneret family
had become quite intimate, and in a sense confidential.
He had dined with them at the Cecil,
where Australian friends were asked to meet him
in a quiet way. He was a sociable personage, and
the more he saw of his successors at Hexham
Hall the more he liked them. Between cultured
men of the world there is a certain freemasonry,
which deprives social intercourse of all <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">gêne</i> and
awkwardness, no matter to what country they
belong.</p>

<p>With Mrs. Banneret and her girls his Lordship
was much impressed, feeling, as he told her truly,
as if he had known them for years. He saw how
she sympathised with him; the hard necessity for
the eviction—so to speak—of this noble family,
after their long and close connection with their
ancient home, appealed to her tender heart.
Underneath his affectedly frivolous treatment of
the subject she divined, with a woman’s intuitive
perception, that there was, could not but be, a sore
feeling—rising at times to remorse—at the thought
<a name="png.329" id="png.329" href="#png.329"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>325<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>that, by his own neglect and indolent mental drift,
he had forfeited the heritage of his race. To the
family change of circumstances she never referred,
but he was aware that it was in her thoughts. In
her calm, undemonstrative way she conveyed the
idea of regret in the abstract, as inseparable from
such an exodus. And in his heart he honoured
her for the unspoken sympathy.</p>

<p>When the Earl departed for the United Service
Club in London, he wrote, thanking Mrs. Banneret and her husband for their hospitable
kindness, and, for which he was even more grateful,
their delicate consideration for a ruined man—conscious
only too keenly of his own shortcomings
and inefficient stewardship.</p>

<p>The merry month of May passed with credit,
having provided, for once in a way, appropriate
weather, including a decent average of sunshine.
The midsummer month arrived in all the glory of
that delicious time, of roses and lilies, with all
vernal triumphs. And now, in the second week
of June—flushed June—came to pass a wondrous
equine exhibition, the carnival of coach and
harness perfection, unapproachable for form and
fashion in any other land under the sun—the
meeting of the Four-in-Hand Club! What an
ecstasy of excitement and admiration possessed
these young people when, at the Magazine in
Hyde Park, twenty coaches, utterly perfect in their
appointments, lined up.</p>

<p>First in order was Colonel Sir Alfred Somerset’s
team of chestnuts—not the famous one of three
piebalds and a skewbald, so well known, so
<a name="png.330" id="png.330" href="#png.330"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>326<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>much admired, in days gone by. Next, the
regimental team of the Coldstream Guards—the
grey team of last year, driven by Sir Pleydell
Bouverie; Mr. Hope Morley’s bays, a miracle of
matching and stepping together; Colonel Frank
Shuttleworth’s black browns; Lord Newlands’
favourite team of dark browns. Then comes
another, at which the girls exclaimed, as original
and striking—Captain Valentine’s two chestnuts, a
roan and a bay; Sir Henry Ewart’s fine chestnuts,
with Mr. Albert Brassey’s well-known bays. Mr. Banneret recognised the tall figure of Lord Loch,
driving the Grenadier Guards’ bay team.</p>

<p>The horses, of course, commended themselves
to the Australian family by their size, power,
action, and perfect matching, except, of course,
in the cases of intentional chequers of colour.
Their lofty crests, their high action, the wonderful
finish of harness, coach, livery, servants, and
appointments generally, they admitted to transcend
anything within their experience. Then the
perfect ‘form’ of the drivers, gloved, hatted,
‘frockered,’ and generally turned out <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">à merveille</i>,
unapproachable, unequalled in Christendom,
or elsewhere.</p>

<p>‘They can’t help carrying themselves well,’ said
Eric, ‘with bearing-reins; their heads braced up
to the same angle—driven on the bar, too. Not
much chance of their pulling unreasonably or
getting away with the driver—full of corn and
rest as they undoubtedly are. It’s a lovely sight
for people who understand horses.’</p>

<p>‘All the same,’ contended paterfamilias, ‘they
<a name="png.331" id="png.331" href="#png.331"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>327<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>are rather heavy for any work except this show
business, and would be none the worse for a blood-cross.
With stages of twenty or twenty-five
miles and back, our Australian teams would be
easily in the lead; none the worse for it either, on
the following day. But these horses are not
expected to do real work.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, it’s idle to depreciate these turn-outs,’
said Hermione. ‘Nothing in the world can be
finer! How I should like to be on the box-seat
of that coach with the lovely chestnuts—Captain
Quintin Dick’s, aren’t they? And going on to
Hurlingham afterwards? We must have a look
at the polo there, some fine day. Do we know
any one there in that behalf? as I heard a lawyer
say in father’s Court, one day.’</p>

<p>‘Yes, we do!’ stated Vanda, with some eagerness.
‘Of course there’s Captain Neil Haig; he
was A.D.C. to the Governor in West Australia.
He played in Melbourne, don’t you remember,
against the crack Western Club. Four Englishmen
against four Australians. It was a drawn
game—he’s a wonderful hitter.’</p>

<p>It was agreed, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">nem. con.</i>, that a party should
be made up for Hurlingham the next time there
was a match on. Following which arrangement
the conversation became general, until, shortly
after one o’clock, Mr. Lovegrove gave the word,
and the procession, headed by the President, Lord
Ancaster, moved off; some of the coaches going
on to Hurlingham, as arranged in the programme.</p>

<p>‘There can’t be anything finer under the sun,
for form and finish,’ declared Reggie, ‘but the
<a name="png.332" id="png.332" href="#png.332"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>328<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>American coaching in Australia for cross-country
work, over bad roads, for speed and punctuality
has greatly the advantage. Their coaches and
teams, of course, do not compare in the matter of
appearance, and are not expected to. But the
passengers are better accommodated, and the
American cross-handed style of holding the reins
gives better, greater power over the team. Think,
for instance, of having to handle six or seven
horses at night—three in the lead, with a heavily
loaded coach and indifferent roads. The lamps
too, placed on high, are more numerous, thus
throwing the light farther out ahead. The service
is more efficient and satisfactory than the English
fashion, which prevailed in Australia until quite
recently.’</p>

<p>‘Everything in its own place,’ said Mrs. Banneret. ‘The pioneer work in Britain was
finished centuries ago. In our Greater Britain it
has only lately begun. Our young men have
rough work and different results to look to. Let
us hope that they may learn in time to combine
use and ornament.’</p>

<p>‘That’s where these English fellows beat us, I
must say,’ interposed Eric. ‘Looking at them
there, sitting up as if they were only intended to
drive accurately, to advertise their teams and their
tailors, one might think that they couldn’t do
anything else—never had done. There could be
no greater mistake. They <em>have</em> done all sorts of
things—great things, many of them—but you’d
never know it from themselves. The Englishman
doesn’t talk. You must hear his exploits
<a name="png.333" id="png.333" href="#png.333"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>329<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>from some one else. You never will from himself.’</p>

<p>‘I’m afraid people don’t think that way about
us,’ said Vanda dolefully. ‘In fact, they say just
the opposite sometimes—when they quote Anthony
Trollope, who frequently mentioned the word
“blow,” which is Australian for “boast.” That will
be rectified by and by. We are a baby nation,
so far, but will calm down to the regular, steady,
solid Anglo-Saxon march. We’re only excitable—being
in the midst of “war’s alarms” at present—likely
enough to be dragged in, too, if these
Russian cruisers keep on raiding our commerce.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, Vanda! you don’t say so?’ said
Hermione, who was not disposed to throw down
the gauntlet to Russia just yet, though much in
sympathy with Japan. ‘Think what a dreadful
thing war is!’</p>

<p>‘It’s a much more dreadful thing,’ said her
sister, ‘not to fight to the death for home and
hearth. Think of dear old Australia being overrun
by the Yellow Peril, or even our kind friends,
the Russians and Germans.’</p>

<p>‘But surely there can be no danger of the
Chinese making war upon us? Consider how
unwarlike a people they are! and how thousands
of them would fly before disciplined troops.’</p>

<p>‘I am not so sure of that,’ said Mr. Banneret.
‘General Gordon was of opinion that, if well led
by European officers, in whom they had confidence,
they were equal to any troops in the world. As
for the danger of the irruption of the Goths and
Vandals, the late Sir Henry Parkes, a veteran
<a name="png.334" id="png.334" href="#png.334"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>330<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>statesman, was of opinion during the latter years
of his life that Australia’s greatest danger in the
future would be from the proximity of such
nations as China and Japan, immensely superior in
numbers, and becoming gradually possessed of all
the scientific arms of precision. He probably had in
his mind China and Japan, the inhabitants of which
countries, our legislators, led by the labour party,
have laid themselves out to insult and degrade.’</p>

<p>‘Seems unfair, doesn’t it?’ said Reggie. ‘In
our policy of “Government by the poor,” they
scarcely grasped the idea of a combined Japanese
and Chinese force,—with a score of ironclads,
landing an army corps in North Queensland, and
marching south!’</p>

<p>‘But what would England’s Navy be doing all
the time?’ demanded Vanda.</p>

<p>‘England’s Navy,’ replied Reggie, ‘might have
something else to do at that particular time—more
especially if Russia, Germany, and perhaps
France, chose to consider it a befitting time to
teach these proud islanders that the “sea, and all
that in them is,” was not their inalienable birthright.
Besides, it’s a long way to come, and our noble
army of town-bred artisans, back-block shearers,
swagmen, and shepherds would make no great
stand against their countless hordes. The coast
all looted, with banks and treasuries rifled, as
also private property of all kinds; the city
population helpless in the hands of the ruthless
spoilers. Think of it! It would then be a case
of “Oh, weep for fair Australia!” as an Australian
poet sang a year or two since.’</p>

<p><a name="png.335" id="png.335" href="#png.335"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>331<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘What a ghastly picture—a kind of Verestchagin
nightmare! It’s enough to freeze the blood in
one’s veins. And what power could come to our
aid? Oh, I know! Blood is thicker than water.
When it came to the actual spectacle of a British
Commonwealth submerged beneath a flood of
barbarism, America would come to our aid. The
“Stars and Stripes” would “chip in,” as they say.
The Dominion of Canada, more loyal than Britain
itself——’</p>

<p>‘New Zealand too—that makes a respectable
number of Allied Forces,’ said her father, smiling
at the girl’s eagerness.</p>

<p>‘But the mere conception of such a calamity,’
he continued, ‘makes one’s flesh creep. When one
reckons up the toil and thought which the subduing
of the wilderness has cost, the labour and the treasure
expended in building up these fair cities—these
grand provinces, this population of British blood
and nurture, not inferior to any people in the
world; to believe that the fruit of heroic colonisation,
for which noble lives have been spent, noble
blood shed, should have been all for nought—for
worse than nothing—for ruin and desolation—the
degradation of a nation, as in the old-world
chronicles, about which we read, and take no heed;
then, and then indeed, might one come to doubt
the purpose of the Most High, the Divine plan of
Providence, the beneficent scheme of the Universe.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The business of the installation of the new
family was not completed without a fair allowance
of work and labour, even excitement.</p>

<p><a name="png.336" id="png.336" href="#png.336"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>332<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>There necessarily remained much to do before
the final arrangements were complete. An
additional morning-room for the girls was to
be chosen, in which to write and make society
arrangements, to receive their friends, to hold
informal afternoon teas, and to perform any kind
of needlework, and literary pastime, quietly and
reposefully.</p>

<p>Of course furniture for some of the principal
reception-rooms had to be purchased and arranged.
Grave councils were held before this scheme could
be carried out. But at length everything was
completed, and the collective taste of the family
fully satisfied.</p>

<p>Then the first step, an important one in county
neighbourhoods at home or abroad, was taken—the
Bannerets went to church <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en famille</i>. The
Vicar, the Rev. and Honourable Cyril Courtenay,
had called, as soon after their arrival as was
consistent with etiquette, in advance of his lady
parishioners. This proceeding he justified on the
ground of his wish to make himself acquainted
with the religious tendencies of the new Squire
and the rest of the family, with whom, by virtue
of his position, he would be brought into closer
than ordinary contact.</p>

<p>He was agreeably surprised to find at the first
interview with the new potentate and his wife
that harmonious relations were likely to exist.
Mr. Banneret, as an Anglican churchman, was
quite prepared to join cordially with Mr. Courtenay
in promoting the welfare of the parish;
promising at once liberal donations to the funds of
<a name="png.337" id="png.337" href="#png.337"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>333<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the charitable societies, nursing clubs, and all
such benevolent arrangements for the welfare of
the poor. Mrs. Banneret had acted in similar
positions before, and was quite willing to take a
leading part in Dorcas societies, and other institutions
for the benefit of widows, and labourers’
families, such as are always in a state of chronic
or accidental distress in the most happily situated
parishes.</p>

<p>The Vicar, speaking for the laymen of his
diocese, was thankful, he might say, most grateful
to Providence, that had so ‘shaped our ends,’
in a manner so unforeseen, while so beneficial to
the church and to the needs of this long-neglected
parish. Mrs. Courtenay, he needed not to say,
would be only too happy to work in concert with
Mrs. Banneret in all parish and church matters.
She would pay her respects on an early date to the
new Lady of the Manor. So the Vicar took his
departure, leaving the Hall, as he told his wife, in
a much more cheerful state of mind than had
formerly been his experience after interviews with
the ruling powers of Hexham.</p>

<p>Rarely, indeed, had he been able to extract
subscriptions for urgent needs of the church,
however strongly he might paint the discreditable
state of the venerable edifice and the poverty of
the village poor. Lord Hexham was uniformly
polite—he could not be otherwise to the Vicar, a
contemporary of his own at Cambridge, and a personal
friend. But his logic was unanswerable:
he had no money to spare—hadn’t had for years—never
should have again, as far as he could
<a name="png.338" id="png.338" href="#png.338"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>334<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>make out. Lady Hexham was refined and
courteous, but the parable was unaltered. She
could hardly pay for the girls’ frocks, for the
boys’ uniforms; next year they might not have
bread to eat. Rents were falling; certainly the
agent received them, and disposed of them mysteriously
to a bank, she heard. Only a fraction
seemed to come their way. Once upon a time
the tenants paid cheerfully; even admitted—wonderful
to relate—that they had sold their
crops well, had had a good year. But even so,
when butter, beef and mutton, cheese and fruit,
came in from the colonies and America in overwhelming
quantities, what was the use of a good
season if the prices went down to depths unheard
of—and stayed there? As for the agent, it was
needless to think of asking <em>him</em> to reduce a rent
on cottage or holding, however small.</p>

<p>‘It’s asking me to rob his Lordship of his
dues, simply, or else the mortgagee, which comes
to the same thing. I’m powerless—otherwise
should have been happy—<em>most</em> happy to contribute.
As a private individual you are welcome
to my guinea annually, as usual.’</p>

<p>With civil speeches and scant coin the Rev.
Cyril had perforce to be content. He recognised
the justice of the argument. The family would
have subscribed reasonably, if not liberally, to all
the customary calls upon the Lord of the Manor,
if the head of the house could have afforded it.
But he could not afford it, and there was an end
of the matter. The parish, the tenantry, and the
neighbours—a few staunch friends of the family
<a name="png.339" id="png.339" href="#png.339"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>335<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>perhaps excepted—would be not sorry to exchange
an impecunious proprietor, too poor and hampered
by debts and mortgages to do anything for sport
or charity, unable to entertain, or in almost any
way to keep up an appearance befitting the
descendants of Raoul de ——, who had ‘come
over with the Conqueror,’ and having <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">more
majorum</i> married the heiress of ——, had entered
into possession of the Hexham lands and feudal
privileges, together with as much of the adjacent
common land as a rapacious Norman baron, high
in favour with an unscrupulous sovereign, could
by force or fraud manage to appropriate. The
descendants of such a man should have been able
to not only freely disburse the customary manorial
dues, but to keep up all state and dignity befitting
the position. As he could not, the villagers concluded
that it was the next best thing to welcome
the new family, who, though they had come from
a wild sort of country—as they’d heard tell on—called
Horstrailier—seemed a decentish sort, and,
anyhow, were well off, and did the thing respectable.
So the village church bells were rung, and
the new family was greeted by a crowd of some
fifty odd souls, comprising a large proportion of
women and children, who hurrahed, and made
formal demonstrations of welcome, as the carriage
and a string of railway cabs, with servants and
luggage, passed through the Tudor gateway, and
drew up inside the more ornately modern portico
of the baronial hall.</p>

<p>The girls at once rushed up to their rooms,
where, as their own maid and some other house
<a name="png.340" id="png.340" href="#png.340"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>336<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>servants had been sent down the day before, they
were able to appreciate the view and make ready
for lunch. This meal they professed themselves
ready to enjoy with a true country appetite—as the
morning had been more or less exciting, even in a
sense fatiguing. It was fortunately a fine day,
so that the beauty of the grass, the foliage, the
surrounding landscape, impressed them strongly.</p>

<p>‘Oh, what an Eden of a place!’ said Hermione.
‘How happy we shall be! How thankful we
ought to consider ourselves in having come into
such a delightful home, and, what is of more
consequence, having the means to keep it up.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, yes!’ assented Vanda, ‘we ought to have
a good time, but I’m not sure that we shall be
really happier than we were in dear old Sydney,
when we first went to live in Charlotte Bay Place.
What a glorious view there was of the Heads and
the harbour! What boating picnics we used to
have! I should like to go back there some day.
Here we shall have to live a quiet English country
life, being good to the poor, and so on, like the
girls in Jane Austen’s books. There’ll be no
adventure about it. I suppose the Vicar will want
us to teach in his Sunday school.’</p>

<p>‘You needn’t teach there if you don’t wish.
Mother won’t compel you, I’m sure,’ replied
Hermione. ‘I think I shall rather like it after all
the racketing and gaiety we’ve had in London.
I feel as if a reposeful life here would be a pleasing
change. My conscience has been troubling me
lately, for taking all the good things of life and
making no return. It seems so selfish and ungrateful.’</p>

<p><a name="png.341" id="png.341" href="#png.341"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>337<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘Oh, well,’ said Vanda, ‘perhaps one would
feel more contented if one had a few good works
to put on the credit side of the account. I know
I’ve been rather dissipated lately. This quiet
country life may do us good, in more ways than
one. Oh, mother’ (as Mrs. Banneret came in
to see if the young people were ready, and to
notify that the great bell for luncheon was about
to clang), ‘Hermione and I have just resolved
to be good. We are going to visit the poor, and
teach in the Sunday school, and do our duty, just
like the Jane Austen girls.’</p>

<p>‘I am very pleased to hear it, my dears; only
I don’t wish you to take such a resolution in any
but a serious sense, and an earnest resolve to do
your duty and set an example, as far as in you
lies, to the people among whom our lot for some
years, if not always, will be cast. You have had
all the rational amusement, and quite a full allowance
of what the world calls pleasure, to last you
for some time. I quite agree with you that it will
be a good opportunity to begin in some respects
a different and, with God’s grace, a higher life.’</p>

<p>On the Sunday morning following this important
conversation, the Banneret family made
their appearance in the roomy enclosure which
had been for many generations consecrated to the
use of the Lord of the Manor, his family, and
apparently as many of his relations and dependants
as he chose thus to honour. The church was
fairly well filled, as it happened, much to the
gratification of the Vicar, who was not displeased
to note the presence of neighbouring magnates,
<a name="png.342" id="png.342" href="#png.342"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>338<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>with their wives, who from time to time directed
an intermittent gaze towards the new occupants
of the Hall pew. Arnold Banneret with his wife
and daughters made a good appearance therein.
Indeed it had been for some years unoccupied,
during the absence of the family abroad: such
being the traditional custom. Mrs. Banneret and
her daughters were well but quietly dressed—her
wish to that effect having been gently but firmly
expressed. ‘We have recently come from town,’
she said; ‘it is reported, no doubt, that we are
very rich. In this quiet place nothing could be
more vulgar than any display of fashion bordering
upon finery.’ This settled the matter. The
dresses were studiously plain; so much so, that
the rustics of the congregation were secretly
disappointed in not seeing unusual splendour,
doubting in consequence whether the new-comers
were so rich as they had been led to believe.</p>

<p>As the service proceeded, the thought came
into the mind of this Australian squire of the
many differing localities and positions in which
he, with his wife and children, had worshipped
before they came to this lordly abode. Not
infrequently had he been the officiating lay
minister, reading the Burial Service over the
dead miner, victim of some sudden landslip or
premature explosion; reciting the words of the
litany, now sounding in his ears, in a half-finished
wooden building, roofed with eucalyptus
bark or corrugated iron; driving miles through
snow for the purpose, or in mid-summer crossing
the brick-red plain, amid dust and simoom-like
<a name="png.343" id="png.343" href="#png.343"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>339<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>blasts. Through all these incongruous scenes,
and from these and a hundred other various parts
played by him in the great drama of life, he had
emerged safe and unharmed. Not only unharmed,
but placed in this position of honour and dignity—by
no merit of his own, but by the operation
of, apparently, the primary forces of Nature.
Riches, too, had been added for the further
advantage and enjoyment of those whom he loved
more—yes, far more, than his own life. Ought
he not then, out of the fulness of a heart welling
over with gratitude, to echo the solemn prayer
of the concluding litany?</p>

<p>At the conclusion of the service, the mail-phaetons,
dog-carts, carriages, and other vehicles
showed that some at least of the parishioners had
a distance to come, which necessitated driving.
The party from the Hall were scarcely a half-mile
from the church, so that there was no need for
taking out the carriage. The family, as a whole,
were good pedestrians—‘The short walk was quite
a pleasure,’ as Vanda told every one, ‘and it would
have been absurd to take out the horses.’</p>

<p>When Lord Hexham returned to his family
at Bruges, after a concluding week in London,
in which to show himself to his clubs, and have
a little social companionship with old friends and
comrades, he took with him a letter from Mrs. Banneret, of so sympathetic and unaffectedly kind
a nature, that Lady Hexham nearly relented. She
would have been indeed more than human if
she had not felt the least little bit of envy and
jealousy of these people from a far country, who
<a name="png.344" id="png.344" href="#png.344"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>340<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>had entered into their labours, so to speak, for
no other reason than the chance possession of
more money than they knew what to do with.
Hard, no doubt, did it seem to her, that while
she and her girls had to stint and save, scarcely
able to afford themselves decent frocks, the
daughters of these <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">nouveaux riches</i> should
have their Paris gowns noticed in every fashion
paper, and described as ‘confections,’ and so
on, of the latest style. They were also seen at
Ascot, royal Ascot, these new dwellers in their
ancestral halls, their property in which, owing to
the extravagance of one generation and the
apathetic indifference of the next, had gradually
declined, and was now lost to the family for
ever.</p>

<p>However, his Lordship’s persistent advocacy
of their claims to consideration gradually weakened
her prejudices, finally inducing her to reply to
Mrs. Banneret’s letter in manner approaching to
the spirit in which it was written.</p>

<p>‘You know, my dear,’ he had said, in one of
the discussions about ways and means which had
followed his return to the peaceful home-life at
Bruges, ‘it really was an immense relief our
getting hold of such a lot of hard cash for poor
old Hexham. It puts us and our credit in such
a different position from what it has been for
years.’</p>

<p>‘I daresay it has, but I don’t want any more
credit, if you please—we have had more than was
good for us all along. What sort of people are
they? I suppose the girls are good-looking?
<a name="png.345" id="png.345" href="#png.345"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>341<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>That’s what <em>you</em> mean by crediting them with
all the virtues.’</p>

<p>‘They certainly are; but it’s very unfair of you
to talk in that jealous way. If you saw Mrs. Banneret, not to mention her husband and the
sons.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, there are sons, then?’</p>

<p>‘Yes, very fine young fellows; one of them
rowed three in the Cambridge eight this year—which
beat your favourite Oxford crew, my lady.
They’re handsome too.’</p>

<p>‘Well, I can’t be jealous of <em>them</em>, can I?’</p>

<p>‘No, nor of any girl or woman alive, as you
well know—say you know it, dear, won’t you?
You’re only trying to draw me?’</p>

<p>‘I suppose I must forgive you, as usual,
though you’ve stayed away an unconscionable
time, and spent more money in London than you
ought to have done—now haven’t you?’</p>

<p>‘I had to complete arrangements—and—er—er—there
were business details. Hang it! if a man
can’t have a little amusement when he gets a
cheque for a couple of hundred thousand, after
being mewed up in a place like this for years, when
is he to have it? And the old clubs were so
pleasant, and the fellows so glad to see me again,
y’know!’</p>

<p>‘Oh yes, I know! And ready to play bridge
and billiards, no doubt. So you think I’d like to
pay Mrs. What’s-her-name a visit, and see the old
place again? Perhaps it would be rather a lark.’</p>

<p>‘Don’t be reckless, dear! That’s not your
line, but <em>if</em> you could manage it, some day, when
<a name="png.346" id="png.346" href="#png.346"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>342<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the girls are at their pensions, I guarantee that
you’d enjoy it. It would please them awfully—and
<em>me</em>, if that counts.’</p>

<p>‘Well, perhaps I’ll see about it—but don’t be
sure just yet.’</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter XVI"><a name="png.347" id="png.347" href="#png.347"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>343<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XVI</h2>


<p><span class="smc">Among</span> the entertainments proper to the season,
which the family about this time witnessed, was
the polo match in the Champion Cup Tournament
between the ‘Magpies’ and the ‘Handley Cross’
teams.</p>

<p>The former team was composed of Captain
Hobson, Major Vaughan, Mr. Thynne, and Major
Lee; the latter played Mr. Rich, Major Anselm,
Captain Neil Haig, and Colonel Renton; Colonel
St. Quintin, timekeeper, and Mr. John Watson and
Major Kirke, umpires.</p>

<p>The girls were wildly interested, having seen
Captain Neil Haig (who put in the first big hit)
play in Melbourne.</p>

<p>On that occasion, four Englishmen played the
best team in Australia, composed of the three
brothers Camperdown and Mr. Wellesley. It
came off on the Moonee Valley ground; it was a
notable society function—Her Excellency Lady
Brassey, the wife of the Governor of the day, presenting
the prizes on the ground.</p>

<p>It was stubbornly contested, but ended in a
draw; Colonel St. Quintin, who happened to be in
Australia at the time, acted as umpire.</p>

<p><a name="png.348" id="png.348" href="#png.348"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>344<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>So much interested in the game were they, so
lost in admiration of the beauty and high quality
of the ponies, that, hearing there were to be two
club games played at Hurlingham on the following
Wednesday, they arranged to attend. To
their surprise and delight Lord Roberts and Lady
Aileen arrived to witness the play.</p>

<p>Lord Harrington’s team consisted of the Duke
of Westminster, Captain Neil Haig, his Lordship
himself, and Mr. de Kooep. A close finish, with
a draw, was the result. The day was lovely, the
play admirable, but one feature of the meeting
particularly interested the Australian contingent.
Vanda, whose eyes seemed to be everywhere,
exclaimed suddenly: ‘Why, there’s our West
Australian friend Gerald Branksome; and, just
fancy! it must be his wife with him. We heard
he was to be married this month, in London, to
the daughter of a high official in Albany, or
Perth, or somewhere. How pretty she is—so
well dressed too! What fun meeting them
here! Don’t you see them, Hermie? What
a swell Gerald looks—tall hat—frocker—most
accurate!’</p>

<p>The pair of spectators thus favourably reviewed
were seen to be in conversation with Captain
Haig, after which, the recent bridegroom retired
into the recesses of the dressing pavilion, whence
he shortly emerged in full polo costume, a few
minutes before the Victoria Cross Race was started.
A tall, well-built, fair-haired young man, he slipped
into the saddle on a club pony, led out for him,
with the ease of a practised performer, after
<a name="png.349" id="png.349" href="#png.349"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>345<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>carefully altering the stirrup leathers. The game
included dismounting, and lifting to the saddle
a dummy, presumably a wounded comrade, and
afterwards clearing the hurdles on the course—a
feat requiring more than average strength, activity,
and horsemanship. This feat was performed at
least once, during the late Boer War, by a member
of a New South Wales contingent. He deliberately
returned under fire for the purpose—the feat
taking place during a very hot encounter with the
Boers, who had ambushed a scouting party. The
leaden hail was so close and deadly that the
clothes of the rescuer and his comrade were
riddled. Neither was seriously injured, but the
poor ‘Waler’ who gamely carried his riders
out of danger received his death wound. The
Australian—for such he was—was accorded the
rare and precious, almost unique, decoration of
the ‘Queen’s Scarf.’</p>

<p>There were no bullets flying during the more
peaceful contest which the club’s courtesy provided
for the guest from a far country, none the less
was there need of a strong arm and exceptional
horsemanship. He was apparently no novice,
inasmuch as, after dismounting and remounting
with enviable activity, he finally won on the post,
to the great joy and pride of his wife, and those
friends who hailed from the gold-strewn lands
under the Southern Cross. The President congratulated
him in the handsomest manner, requesting
his Australian address, in order that the prize
for the race, which would be forwarded, might
reach him safely.</p>

<p><a name="png.350" id="png.350" href="#png.350"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>346<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>So the Hurlingham expedition closed in a
manner equally pleasing to the champion of Australian
horsemanship and his compatriots. They
went home together and heard all about the
wedding, ‘in the merry month of May,’ and the
honeymoon cottage on the river, where the
nightingale sang to sympathetic listeners, and
recalled Heine’s delicious poem. Nothing would
satisfy the Bannerets but a ‘sacred promise,’ as
Vanda called it, that they should stay for a week at
Hexham when they returned from Paris, for which
city of delights they were leaving on the morrow.</p>

<p>After such feats of horsemanship the youthful
division became clamorous for half a dozen hunters,
as the stable quad. (Eric said) was disgracefully
empty. What were <em>one</em> pair of carriage horses,
another of ponies for their mother’s phaeton, the
governor’s park hack, and one or two others?
The hackney was a darling for beauty and manners,
though the pater persisted in saying that in pace,
elasticity, endurance—in fact, as an all-round
horse—he was not a patch upon the famous
Gaucho, or Graysteel, which he rode in his
youth in Australia. He admitted that Count
D’Orsay walked fast, cantered easily, trotted
fairly, and, like his namesake and Private Willis,
was very generally admired. No fault could be
found with his manners and appearance. But
where would he be at the end of a seventy-mile
ride, which old Graysteel had several times performed,
off <em>grass</em>, with ease to himself and comfort
to his rider. Besides, he did <em>not</em> believe in hackney
blood. They were very sweet to look at—perfect
<a name="png.351" id="png.351" href="#png.351"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>347<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>almost in shape, carriage, and other requisites for
ornamental equitation.</p>

<p>But there was a ‘want’ somewhere: he
doubted if they could jump; he questioned if
they could stay; and, it was a hard thing to state,
but after you got away from the slow paces he
was afraid they were even <em>rough</em>—one ‘perfect’
animal that he tried certainly was so. In a slow,
rocking-horse sort of canter he was tolerable, but
after that he lifted you almost out of the saddle at
every stride.</p>

<p>‘Come, I say, sir!’ said Reggie; ‘you mustn’t
begin crabbing the horses of your ancestral home,
and all that, before you’ve been a year in England—sounds
provincial, doesn’t it? It takes time,
as you have often said, to pick up a first-class
hackney anywhere. Give the old country time,
and you’ll get hold of a covert hack or two that
will put these old favourites out of your head.’</p>

<p>‘That there are plenty of good goers to be had
here I never denied,’ he said, with a musing expression,
‘but when I think of Hope, The
Gaucho, and Graysteel, none of them can do
<em>that</em>. You boys were too young to recollect the
horses I rode and drove when your mother and I
were living on our western cattle station, or visiting
the sheep-run in Riverina.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, tell us about them—now do!’ coaxed
Vanda, seating herself promptly on the floor, and
leaning against her indulgent parent’s knee.
‘Mother rode, and drove, then—didn’t she?’</p>

<p>‘Yes, indeed! she was a bold horsewoman, a
good whip too. Absolutely fearless—so much so
<a name="png.352" id="png.352" href="#png.352"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>348<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>that I often anticipated her coming to grief.
However, she never did. So she must have been
clever or lucky, above the average.’</p>

<p>‘Now then, sir, about the horses? How were
they bred, and what could they do?’</p>

<p>‘Well, they were chiefly compounded of
English thorough-bred and high-caste blood,
middle-sized, but fast, hardy, tireless, and sure-footed
to a marvellous degree. The two best
all-round hacks I ever owned were Hope and
The Gaucho. The latter, the show horse of
the stud, was the offspring of a South American
mare, imported from Valparaiso in early colonial
days. Your respected father was a trifle more
active then, and used to break in his own colts.’</p>

<p>‘Is that why all Walers buck-jump, as people
say?’ suggested Eric.</p>

<p>‘Perfect nonsense!’ returned the senior, slightly
‘drawn.’ ‘Of the dozen and a half colts which I
broke to saddle—single and double harness, and
to carry a lady—hardly one but was as well
mannered as any horse in the Row, besides
having various accomplishments which English
horses could never dream of.’</p>

<p>‘What sort were they?’</p>

<p>‘Travelling over rough, stony country by night
as well as day, besides those of the Australian
camp horse or “cutter out.” These include
coolness and courage, when ridden through a
drove of a thousand excited cattle, keeping close
up to a sharp-horned savage, shoulder against
shoulder, or following up, the rider’s stockwhip
making hair and hide fly; racing neck and neck
<a name="png.353" id="png.353" href="#png.353"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>349<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>for one minute, and perhaps the next stopping
dead and wheeling within his own tracks, to block
a sudden break back to the herd,—this violent
exercise kept up from sunrise to sunset, with
perhaps a trifle of a dozen miles extra before the
station yards are reached. The “cutting out”
work, or separation of fat or strange animals from
the general herd, collected on camp, is not very
unlike polo—except that a second horse is rarely
used either by squatter or stockrider.’</p>

<p>‘How long did the “breaking” and “making”
business take?’ demanded Eric.</p>

<p>‘Truth to tell, it was short work, and rather
rough. As two-year-olds the colts were roped,
and handled unceremoniously, after the bush
fashion of the day.’</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘Wild as the wild deer, and untamed;</div>
<div>By spur and saddle undefiled,’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>


<p class="noindent">quoted Reggie. ‘You must have had an exciting
time, sir.’</p>

<p>‘By no means; full as they were of pluck, they
were hereditarily free from vice. Before the end
of the first week I rode one colt thirty miles,
alone and unattended. He was perfectly quiet,
and jumped logs like an old horse; the other was
much the same—free and temperate.’</p>

<p>‘But your groom helped you, and the stabling
counts for something?’</p>

<p>‘There was no groom, neither any stable.
They were kept in the yard, with the surcingle and
mouthing-bit on by day, and paddocked by night—grass
and water <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">à discrétion</i>.’</p>

<p><a name="png.354" id="png.354" href="#png.354"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>350<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘And what was the outcome of this cow-boy
treatment?’</p>

<p>‘They turned out accomplished hackneys.
Quiet in saddle and harness, and carried a lady—as
per advertisement.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, how nice!’ said Vanda; ‘what colour?’</p>

<p>‘Bright bay, with black points. Graysteel
excepted.’</p>

<p>‘What about paces?’</p>

<p>‘Fast and good, remarkable trotters, but if
touched on the curb would lead off on the right
foot at an easy canter. Hope walked fast, but
The Gaucho could never be got to do so, though
I tried him for hours and days patiently. His
dam, the Chileno mare, an animal of great courage
and endurance, had the same failing. But like his
half-brother, Hope, he could jump his own height,
was absolutely incapable of falling, and had been
ridden eighty miles between “sun and sun” more
than once. He, too, was quiet and staunch in
harness.’</p>

<p>‘Think they’d do in the Market Harborough
country?’ queried Reggie doubtfully.</p>

<p>‘Of course; brooks and trappy enclosures would
be a novelty, but they were clever, and would soon
come to know their way about. Rails they preferred,
the stiffer the better. Walls, being
straightforward obstacles, they rather liked. And
with twelve stone up I shouldn’t fear their being
in the first flight. Hope won a steeplechase,
over stiff post and rail country, against a strong
field, and another half-brother, Maythorn, a
son of The Premier, imported—sold to a
<a name="png.355" id="png.355" href="#png.355"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>351<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>hard-riding friend. Morton Gray, of Gray Court, gave
a lead to the Master of the Melbourne Hounds,
the well-known George Wharton, over the Bootles
gap, a stiff four-railer, with a “cap” on top, bringing
up the height to nearly five feet, and finished
a long day’s run without “putting a toe” on rail
or wall. He was a fine hackney also; and, as a
camp horse, a great performer. These horses
were reared in the Western district of Victoria,
then, as now, admitted to be, for soil, climate, and
pasturage, unequalled in Australia. And now I
think we have “talked horse” enough for the
present.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The important question of buying a few
hunters had been decided. Now was the time
to buy, before the hunting season set in. Mr. Banneret very properly considered that the best
animals were the cheapest in the end; and there
was no occasion to economise, the safety of his
children being the principal consideration. A sale
of hunters taking place at Tattersall’s in a few
days, he secured a few really good ones to begin
with. First and foremost, The Marchioness, a
wonderful brown mare, for 350 guineas—rather
extravagant, paterfamilias could not help thinking,
but the recollection of his last bank-balance
hardened his heart. She would set Hermione off,
who had fine hands and seat; and as she was a
front ranker with the Quorn, with faultless manners,
and declared perfectly sound by two eminent vets.,
the cheque was handed over. Vanda was provided
with the Admiral, at £180—an extremely safe,
<a name="png.356" id="png.356" href="#png.356"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>352<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>strong, experienced hunter, that ‘you couldn’t
throw down.’ ‘Just the thing for a young lady
as was doing her first season,’ the stud groom
said; ‘only wanted lettin’ alone, and trustin’ to
his discretion, like.’ He under-rated Vanda’s
abilities, however, as succeeding seasons were to
demonstrate. The boys got one apiece; paterfamilias
a couple—one of which Mrs. Banneret
could ride on occasion, when she went to see a
throw off. Their united values totted up to a sum
which caused Mr. Banneret to give a low whistle,
accustomed as he had become to his personal
liability for fabulous amounts lately. ‘I wonder
what I should have thought of such a purchase in
old times?’ passed through his mind. ‘However,
everything is comparative; when I gave a cheque
for ten thousand for the first payment in the
Bundawarra station, I thought it was an investment
that required careful management and some
good luck to carry through. But I little thought
I should ever draw one for two hundred thousand
odds, which the Hexham estate comes to—what
the upkeep of it will cost is for the future to proclaim.
However, I see the last accounts from West
Australia show the month’s “clean up” to be a
hundred and seventy thousand fine ounces, worth
best part of a million sterling, with the reef growing
wider and richer as it goes down. However, it
seems nothing like so good as some of these Rand
mines in South Africa. We live and learn. Let
us hope these young people of ours will estimate
their pecuniary position at its proper value. Their
early education has certainly tended to that end.
<a name="png.357" id="png.357" href="#png.357"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>353<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>The stud seems growing fast; however, there is
plenty of room. They say the stables were commenced
on this grand scale by the present Earl’s
grandfather, and were left unfinished for forty
years. He had a lucky win on the turf, and
made haste to utilise it by completing the main
building, where the clock-tower stands. Had he
only known! But of how many men—even
nations—may not that be said! Some day, perhaps,
a classic-quoting critic may fire off <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">de te
fabula narratur</i> at some member of the Banneret
family, now so high above the arrows of fate!’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Summer in England! What an idyllic season
it was. Now these young people from a far
country began to realise the immense, the incalculable
superiority of a land with a thousand years
of history behind it! Think of it—dwell on it—try
to grasp the immeasurable distinction of belonging
to such a kingdom, if not born within
its sea-bordered, sheltered bounds! Consider the
inviolate sea! Behold the land where no foe has
set unconquered foot since great Alfred drove
Dane and Norseman far from her cliffs and
beaches. The land where nobles and commoners,
alike resentful of tyranny, refused to wait till constitutional
resistance ripened into rebellion, but
stood strong, patient, though menacing, till an
overawed tyrant signed the great Charter of
Runnymede, which for all time gave pledge and
assurance of that justice never more to be delayed
or bartered to the commons of England; not
alone to them, but to the states, possessions, nations
<a name="png.358" id="png.358" href="#png.358"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>354<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>planted by her hand, and, except by their own act
and deed, secure of that priceless heritage for all
time.</p>

<p>How they enjoyed, how they admired and
appreciated, all the feelings so characteristic of
home life of which they had read and heard about
since earliest childhood. The corn, the hayfields,
with harvesters, gleaners, and nut-brown maids—wondering
at the abundance of female labour, so
unusual in the colonies, where women are too
scarce and valuable to do field or dairy work for
employers outside of the family circle. ‘Oh, the
greenery of England! words cannot describe it!’
as an Australian lady exclaimed during her first
summer in the ancestral home. ‘The delicious
shadowy woodland, where, if the season be propitious,
there comes not any wind or rain, where
the green turf is a velvet carpet, flower-bespangled
like an oriental purdah. Where the wood-rose
and eglantine, daffodil and primrose, violet and
woodbine, grace each cottage home!’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>The greater number of the amusements and
occupations proper to the summer time had been
availed of and thoroughly enjoyed, when word
came from Bruges that Lady Hexham had decided
to accept Mrs. Banneret’s kind invitation to spend
a fortnight with her at Hexham Hall. It would
fit in with her arrangements (she said) inasmuch as
she was coming over with her daughter, who was
to stay on a visit to a relative for the remainder of
the season, as their doctor believed a change would
be beneficial. She would like to see her old home
<a name="png.359" id="png.359" href="#png.359"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>355<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>again, and Lord Hexham would remain in charge
of the family while she was absent.</p>

<p>The missive was answered promptly, to the
effect that Mrs. Banneret would be charmed to
receive the Countess, and trusted that she would
make Hexham her home as long as it suited her
to remain in England, and would by no means
confine her visit to the term mentioned. Great
was the excitement which prevailed in the village of
Hexham (the news having leaked out through some
of the retainers still in service at the Hall) when the
carriage and waggonette drove up to the station,
and Lady Hexham, with her daughter and maid,
descended. They were met and warmly welcomed
by Mrs. Banneret and Hermione, but before they
could reach the carriage there was a perfect rush
to intercept them, headed by superannuated retainers
still resident in the village, who begged,
some indeed with tears, to be permitted to pay
‘their respects,’ as they expressed it, to their
former mistress and her daughter. It was touching
to witness the deep feeling of these survivals
of a long-past feudal era. They were not permitted
to kneel, but it was seen how much in
accordance with their feelings this act of homage
would have been.</p>

<p>‘Oh, milady! oh, milady!’ exclaimed the
aged ex-gardener and his wife, in chorus with an
infirm stable-helper, a keeper with one arm, and
a deaf laundress. ‘What a mercy that ever we
should ha’ lived to see your Ladyship and Miss
Corisande. The Lord above be thanked for it,
and bless His holy name!’</p>

<p><a name="png.360" id="png.360" href="#png.360"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>356<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>Lady Hexham had been a proud woman, and
bore herself so even yet, through all the years of
her comparative poverty; but the tears filled her
eyes as she saw the servitors of their former state
and grandeur make lowly obeisance before her.</p>

<p>‘Well, Benson? How d’ye do, Markham?
Glad to see you all looking so well—and Peggy,
and Mrs. Turton, too. I must come and see you
in a day or two—I was afraid I should find some
of you in the poorhouse.’</p>

<p>‘Yes, milady,’ said an ancient dame, whose
gnarled weather-worn features betokened the octogenarian,
‘and so we should ha’ been, only for
Madam here, and Muster Banneret; they wouldn’t
let none on us go as ’ad bin old servants at the
Hall. They found us work about the place—same
as we’d bin used to.’</p>

<p>‘Perhaps you wouldn’t object, Lady Hexham,
to their coming up to-morrow,’ interposed her
hostess, ‘when they can have some bread and
cheese and beer. You will then be able to hear
about their affairs at your leisure. Come up to
the Hall, Benson, at twelve o’clock, and bring any
of the old servants with you. Tell them Lady
Hexham would like to see them.’</p>

<p>Lady Hexham bowed without speaking—the
words would not come; the sharp contrast between
the new and the old regime had so powerfully
affected her that she was unable to say what she
intended.</p>

<p>The drive, short though it might be, was still
impressive, and doubtless awakened older memories
as they passed underneath the shadowy oaks, and
<a name="png.361" id="png.361" href="#png.361"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>357<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>marked the sun-rays glittering through the leaves
of the great chestnuts of the avenue. For the
rest, everything was as trim and well ordered as
hands could make it. That perfect neatness of
gravel and grass, flower-bed and foliage, which,
in England, speaks of the abundant cheapness of
skilled labour in that particular department, was
combined with the most tasteful arrangement of
lawn and grove and woodland, in broad effects of
light and shade.</p>

<p>‘Banneret had ridden over to a neighbouring
estate, but would join them at dinner,’ his wife said.</p>

<p>Meanwhile Miss Corisande was received by
Hermione and Vanda, by whom she was carried
off to her room, and duly placed in charge of a
personal attendant.</p>

<p>‘We hope you will make yourself at home, in
every sense of the word,’ said Hermione. ‘We
feel like base usurpers. But I daresay we shall get
over the feeling by degrees; you must try and do
the same. In your case it will take rather longer,
I fear.’</p>

<p>‘Don’t alarm yourself about that,’ replied the
Honourable Corisande, who did not seem inclined
to dwell upon the sentimental side of the affair.
‘I was too young to care much when we left the
old Hall for good; indeed, I side with Dad, and
vote it a jolly good thing that he’d been able to
work off the encumbered estate so well. We
look upon your father as our benefactor, I can
tell you.’</p>

<p>‘That’s very sweet of you, I’m sure,’ said
Vanda. ‘I know we shall be great friends directly.
<a name="png.362" id="png.362" href="#png.362"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>358<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Are you fond of riding? We’ve got a few decent
horses together, and hope to have more.’</p>

<p>‘Passionately; but, of course, I haven’t had
much practice. There are none to speak of in
Bruges. The English inhabitants are decayed
gentlefolk like ourselves, and the horses belong
to the canal boats mostly. It’s not half a bad
old place, though—music and languages cheap, so
it suits us down to the ground. We were very
young then, whereas now’—and here the speaker
cast a half-admiring, half-regretful glance around—‘we
should enjoy a change now and then.’</p>

<p>‘In that case, perhaps you’d like a canter to-morrow
after lunch? Hermione will lend you
her horse, which is quite “well-mannered,” as
English people say. Mine is rather “touchy,”
which is Australian for nervous. Hermione’s
habit will fit you, I think.’</p>

<p>This arrangement was carried out successfully.
The girls went off, with a groom behind, ‘accoutred
proper,’ ready to open gates or perform any service
required. Hermione’s palfrey went smoothly and
pleasantly, conducting himself to the entire satisfaction
of the Honourable Corisande, who said she
had no idea she could ride so well. The fact
being, that she had plenty of nerve, and got on
very well, having had an early experience of
ponies—which indeed, from their sudden stoppages
and occasional liability to kick, are by no means
to be despised as a preparatory riding-school. So
all was peace and joy when the girls returned.
Lady Hexham had paid a visit to an old friend,
to whom she had taken the opportunity to express
<a name="png.363" id="png.363" href="#png.363"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>359<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>her opinion of Mrs. Banneret and her daughters—entirely
favourable, at the same time hinting that
she had not expected quite such refined taste or good
manners.</p>

<p>‘You know, my dear Kate, we are not accustomed
to associate such qualities with wealthy
colonists; and those fools of novelists persist in
describing every one who makes money or a
career out of England as either a vulgarian or a
German Jew. We ought to know better, certainly,
as every one’s younger sons or brothers have been
going to Australia and New Zealand for generations.
Why they should necessarily turn into
clowns or roughs is hard to imagine, if we only
took the trouble to think. But that’s the last
thing English people do. We take everything for
granted. I am enchanted with our successors, and
quite endorse what Hexham says of them.’</p>

<p>‘And what did he say?’</p>

<p>‘Simply, that the family resembled English
gentlefolk, all over the world. That, short of
giving the old place back to us, there was nothing
they wouldn’t do. So it’s our fault if they are
not our very good friends henceforth.’</p>

<p>So the neighbours parted, Lady Hexham well
pleased to have renewed an old friendship under
such reassuring conditions. And when, after
returning to the Hall, the master of the house
met them at dinner, the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entente cordiale</i> became
so advanced that the Bannerets might have been
taken for the long-lost relations, returned from
foreign parts, laden with the gold and jewels which
<em>used to</em> reward those who dared the dangers of
<a name="png.364" id="png.364" href="#png.364"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>360<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the sea, the hazards of fever and war, in some far
eastern kingdom, where grew the pagoda tree.</p>

<p>The evening, following a fatiguing day, was
spent restfully—a little music, with more interchange
of girlish experiences. For the guests an
early retirement, although Corisande did not leave
Vanda’s room for a ‘good hour,’ as the maid
alleged, after she had been dismissed.</p>

<p>However, the three girls were up early, and,
after a stroll through the shrubberies, quite ready
for breakfast.</p>

<p>Though Lady Hexham had only intended to
stay for a week, and was, in a general way, unused
to changing her plans, she consented to remain for
a fortnight, at the urgent request of the Banneret
girls, who declared that they would be desolated
if Corisande was torn from them before their
garden party came off. This exceptional entertainment—which,
indeed, had been decided upon
long before the visit of the Hexhams came into
view—was to be on a scale of grandeur such as
had not been known in the county since the days
of the grandfather of the present Earl, whose extravagant
tastes and lavish expenditure had caused
the financial ruin of the family. Gradually Lady
Hexham seemed to weaken in her opposition to the
idea, and lastly decided, after the receipt of a letter
from her husband, that she really could not be so
ungracious as to refuse an invitation so kindly
made, so warmly pressed. Lastly, the great outwork
having given way, the last entrenchment
yielded. Lord Hexham stated his intention
of bringing over his youngest daughter, who
<a name="png.365" id="png.365" href="#png.365"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>361<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>had been included in the earlier invitation, and
sending her by rail from London. For himself—no!
He was sincerely grateful for the great
kindness shown to his wife and daughters, but he
would prefer to pay a visit later in the season.
And from this resolve he could not be moved.</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter XVII"><a name="png.366" id="png.366" href="#png.366"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>362<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XVII</h2>


<p><span class="smc">However</span>, this concession was all that could be
expected for the present. It was more liberal,
indeed, as Corisande confided to her new friends,
than she had hoped for, until the last moment.</p>

<p>Vanda was overjoyed at the idea of having a
new friend more nearly of her own age, and
declared that nothing was now wanting to ensure
her perfect happiness. Australian friends would
be forthcoming to complete the house-party. If
the weather was reasonable, the Hexham Hall
gathering would be one of the glories of the
summer. Why, indeed, should it not be a
triumphant success?</p>

<p>The day—the great day—was fine. Such a
glowing morn, tempered, as the sun-dial advanced
towards mid-day, with the deliciously modified
shade of groves which in olden days had seen the
‘green gloom’ of their depths invaded by the
gleam of knightly armour. The Banneret girls,
who had become accustomed to the sumptuous
leafage of the English woodlands, were not so
demonstrative as in their first experience.</p>

<p>But to Corisande, retaining only a dim,
<a name="png.367" id="png.367" href="#png.367"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>363<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>half-childish memory, it was a revelation as of a new
heaven, a new earth. The immense girth of bole,
the enormous spread of branch of the oaks, in the
‘King’s Chase,’ amazed her. There, indeed, the
legend ran, had ‘bluff King Hal’ in person
followed the deer. Here, beneath these leafy
shades, had he feasted with nobles, courtiers, and
ladies fair. In fancy’s ear, with cry of hound and
huntsman’s hollo, the gay greenwood rang and re-echoed.
What joyous days were those! she
thought. How much more colour and light
than in this sad-coloured, prosaic age!</p>

<p>This, in their hours of idleness, the young
people were prone to imagine, and, indeed, to assert,
in hasty generalisation, untempered by experience.
On calmer retrospect they were, however, compelled
to admit that, in larger outlook, variety of
occupation, and the wondrous advance of scientific
discovery, the moderns have immeasurably the
best of it. If the age no longer affords such
romantic situations as when</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>The Knight looked down from the Paynim Tower,</div>
<div>As a Christian Host, in its pride and power,</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>Through the pass beneath him wound,</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">we must admit that the captive with his ‘heavy
chain’ despaired of release by those ‘whom he
loved with a brother’s heart, those in whose wars
he had borne a part, who had left him there
to die.’</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>Sound again, clarion! clarion, pour thy blast!</div>
<div>Sound! for the captive’s dream of hope is past.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p><a name="png.368" id="png.368" href="#png.368"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>364<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘Can imagination depict a situation more hopeless,
more deplorable?’ remarked Reggie, who
now, reading for his ‘double first,’ thought himself
constrained to take the rational side of the
argument.</p>

<p>‘I think Sterne’s prisoner is a close parallel,’
argued Eric. ‘What a picture it is!’</p>

<p>‘But perhaps he had never been a knight,’
suggested Vanda, ‘so he would not have had a
past of gallant strife, with helm and charger and
nodding plume, to look back upon; perhaps not
even a victory in the lists, like Wilfred of Ivanhoe,
with his opponent rolling in the sand, and his
ladye-love, amid the beauty and fashion (smart set
of the period) looking on. Would that have
comforted him in his dungeon, or otherwise, do
you think?’</p>

<p>‘Rather hard to say. Who is the true heroine
of that delightful novel <cite>Ivanhoe</cite>?—as the lists of
Ashby-de-la-Zouche are referred to.’</p>

<p>‘Rebecca, of course! Thackeray, in his inimitable
ending of the novel, absolutely destroys
Rowena, who settled down as a worthy mate for
the doltish Athelstane.’</p>

<p>‘<em>Now</em>, look here, Reggie!’ said Eric impressively;
‘if once we get fairly started on Sir
Walter, we shall never get to the garden party,
or the great Hexham Hall revels, or, indeed,
anywhere else in the kingdom of fact and practical
politics. Hadn’t we all better “split and squander,”
as they used to do in the old Border days, when
they had managed some particularly lawless deed
of murder and rapine? We shall have my mother
<a name="png.369" id="png.369" href="#png.369"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>365<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>reading the Riot Act (which she can do on occasions,
mild as she looks). I wouldn’t presume to
dictate to Miss Aylmer, as an honoured guest,
entitled to respectful deference, but would merely
suggest that an adjournment to the scene of action,
as volunteers for the duties of preparation, would
be safer for her—indeed, for all of <em>us</em>.’</p>

<p>‘Come with me, Corie,’ said Vanda. ‘Hermie
and I will protect you; and, indeed, there is some
sense in what Eric says—rarely as it happens to be
the case.’</p>

<p>They were just in time to be detailed for
active service. Of course the caterer-general had
organised his forces, and was directing the movements
of his officers, not to mention the rank and
file, of whom there appeared to be hundreds.
Still, it was necessary to have aides-de-camp and
attachés between the controlling powers and the
heads of departments, and for this important
service the young people—eager, intelligent, and
alert—answered admirably. To be sure, they
had additional assistance, which could hardly be
overestimated. This contingent had arrived by
train while they had been discussing literary questions,
and had at once been requisitioned by Mrs. Banneret. Captain the Honourable Jack Aylmer,
of the Guards, the eldest son, heir to the title
and lordship of Hexham, if but to little else, was
a steady, hard-working young officer, devoted to
his profession, who had been wounded in South
Africa, and had gained the proud privilege of
having had the D.S.O. decoration attached to his
uniform by His Majesty King Edward in person,
<a name="png.370" id="png.370" href="#png.370"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>366<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the while Lord Roberts looked on approvingly. The
sailor brother, Lieutenant the Honourable Falkland
Aylmer, whose ship the <cite>Palmyra</cite> had happened
to get over from Malta about that time, dashed
into action at once, and proved himself to be the
right man in the right place. Who does not
know how the ‘handy man’ can multiply his inventive
talents, and communicate his mesmeric
quality at pinch of need? So when, on that
wondrous morning, the mid-summer sun, all
goldenly defiant of meadow mists and woodland
shadows, irradiated the scene, Hermione, Vanda,
and their young friends were satisfied, even
exultant, though occasionally tremulous lest anything
important had been overlooked.</p>

<p>But as the programme had been considered and
debated, submitted to the host and hostess over
and over again, there was little risk of such mischance
occurring.</p>

<p>Twelve o’clock had been mentioned as the
hour when the sports would begin, but long
before mid-day all entrances to the park were
crowded with a continuous stream of country
people. As they arrived, they were taken in
charge by the land steward and persons in
authority under him, who disposed them in
groups, so that they should diverge to different
localities in the park and chase. There, under the
shade of immemorial elms and oaks, might they
rest and recreate after the long walk which, no
doubt, many of them had taken.</p>

<p>Every kind of game, with due forethought,
had been arranged for, and prizes made ready for
<a name="png.371" id="png.371" href="#png.371"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>367<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>proficiency in those rustic sports, to excel in
which, since earliest Saxon days, had been the
pride of rural England. Running and leaping,
wrestling, cricket, single-stick, and football were
all duly provided for. Scores of athletic youths
contested eagerly. The adjudging of the prizes
gave general satisfaction, while their unusual
quality and value elicited hearty praise.</p>

<p>For the village lasses, similar contests and excitements
were not wanting. These were of a gentler
kind, tending to improvement in the domestic arts:
needlework in all its branches, as expressed in the
making and repairing of garments for children
and others of the household. For girls under
fourteen, and those under sixteen, foot races were
got up, which tested the pace and staying power
of the younger damsels. These had always been
popular contests, and could not have been omitted
from the programme without causing dissatisfaction.
Skipping, rounders, and hockey were not
neglected, though at this last exercise occasional
falls provoked the mirth of the bystanders, and a
black eye or two, with other bruises, bore witness
to the earnestness of the competing sides. The
young men rode at the quintain, wrestled, boxed,
pole-jumped, and tent-pegged, played at bowls,
and revived the ancient game of quarter-staff.
Last, not least, the prize for archery, a handsome
and valuable one, aroused such feelings of emulation
in the Dianas of the Hexham and West
Essex Clubs as had not been known since the
celebrated match which Lady Hexham recalled,
in the days of her youth, when she was a noted
<a name="png.372" id="png.372" href="#png.372"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>368<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>performer, and princes and nobles contended for
the honour of collecting her arrows. To conclude
the day’s entertainment there were hack and
pony races, hurdles and steeplechases. These last,
Australian innovations, were, however, modified
by restriction of the men and horses to the
families of tenants on the estate who took an
interest in the nearest pack of hounds, and found
it pay to school a promising four-year-old, likely
to bring a good price at the beginning of the next
season.</p>

<p>The invitation committee had extended the list
over a fairly wide social range. Besides the squirearchy
of the county and the neighbouring gentry,
the farmers and tradespeople, the tenants with
their families, and their visitors too, came as
a matter of right. There was room, and a
welcome for all. It was hoped that no one who
had worked in the fields, or on the grounds of
Hexham, would stay away. And judging from
the continuous march of people on foot and horseback,
in tax-carts, dog-carts, gigs, and waggons,
very few did.</p>

<p>Soon after mid-day the immense tables, placed
on tressels, were covered, as if by magic, with
viands of every sort, kind, and description, arranged
ready for the speedy consumption which it was
correctly assumed would take place. Products of
the home farm and many others were displayed,
replaced, and continuously provided, in never-ending
profusion. Beer flowed as if from a fountain.
The roast beef of Old England in barons
and sirloins, fish and fowl, mutton and lamb, pork
<a name="png.373" id="png.373" href="#png.373"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>369<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>and veal, puddings and pies, fruit, cakes,—all these
and more were assiduously furnished for the
banquet of which all present were pressed and
encouraged to partake.</p>

<p>While the rural contingent was judiciously dispersed
and subdivided, so as to prevent the assemblage
of an unwieldy crowd, it had been necessary,
in the interest of settled order and good government,
to invite a selection of the leading families
of this and adjacent counties, to head the entertainment.
The Duke of Dorlingham had graciously
honoured his invitation, while earls and
barons, with a proportion of baronets and long-descended
country gentlemen, responded cordially,
so that the great marquee, erected some days
previously, under the personal supervision of a
transatlantic firm of caterers, well known in London,
Brighton, and Australia, was filled with an
assemblage of aristocratic personages, from whose
ranks but few individuals of distinction in the
county were absent.</p>

<p>The accessories left little to be desired. The
cuisine was undeniable; the waiting service at table
was as nearly perfect as could be accomplished
at an <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">al fresco</i> entertainment; the wines were
admittedly beyond criticism. The turf around the
temporary structure was in perfect condition;
the branches of the great oaks waved banner-like
above the festive concourse:</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>The self-same shadows flecked the sward</div>
<div>In the days of good Queen Anne;</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">while within the enormous canvas walls, genuine
<a name="png.374" id="png.374" href="#png.374"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>370<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>enjoyment and tempered hilarity commenced with
the popping of the first champagne cork, nor
waned until the call for silence preceded that loyal
toast never absent from any festal function of
importance in Britain or her Colonies.</p>

<p>Then the Duke of Dorlingham rose in his
place at the head of the principal table. On his
right sat Arnold Banneret, on his left the Honourable
Corisande Aylmer, flushed with the consciousness
of youth and beauty, heightened by the
possession of an exalted position and acknowledged
distinction. The Duke had whispered his congratulations
to Corisande on their return to England
under circumstances, he trusted he might
say, favourable to the future fortunes of his old
friend’s family.</p>

<p>‘Indeed, your Grace,’ said the girl, ‘I don’t
think we could have had a happier return to
Hexham short of the dear old place being given
back to us. It is quite a fairy tale, and Mr. and
Mrs. Banneret are the angels of the story.’</p>

<p>‘I feel ready to believe it, my dear Corisande,
and I hope when you come to Dorlingham with
your new friends to hear all about it. I trust that
Lady Hexham, whom I must see before I go, is
quite well? But these good folks have nearly
finished cheering, so I must begin my speech.’</p>

<p>‘He had always,’ his Grace said, ‘been in
sincere sympathy with those daring adventurers
who, following in the wake of Drake and Raleigh,
Frobisher and Oxenham, had done so much for
the glory and expansion of England. His friend’s
grandfather, finding the limits of our island home
<a name="png.375" id="png.375" href="#png.375"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>371<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>insufficient, had sailed away in his own galley, a
modern Viking, across the Pacific Ocean, to the
wider, unshared, half-unknown lands under the
Southern Cross, so late discovered, so rich in
promise. A voyager over uncharted seas, amid
hostile tribes, he had faced dangers, had encountered
strange adventures, upon which he
would not at present dwell. It would suffice to
say that he found there, what he went so far
to seek—a noble appanage to the Empire.
(Cheers.) A land where millions of British-born
and British-descended people were now living in
peace, in comfort, and comparative affluence,
under conditions such as Englishmen had always
demanded for themselves and their families: conditions
of equal laws, of well-paid industries—in
circumstances, too, giving hope of a still more
prosperous future. Their host, after securing an
auriferous property of exceptional richness, had
decided to come “home,” as Australians wherever
settled still called Old England, in order to invest
a portion of his capital in the purchase of an
English estate. Such returning colonists, he had
always held, were of the greatest possible advantage
to the mother-country—not to one class alone,
but to all classes—by the employment of labour,
the circulation of capital, and, possibly, by the introduction
of new ideas. Men like their host, representative
of Newer Englands and Greater Britains
beyond the seas, had helped to build great cities
and add vast tracts of fertile land to her ancient
sovereignty—to her newly consolidated Empire.
They increased year by year the volume of her
<a name="png.376" id="png.376" href="#png.376"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>372<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>trade and commerce, so world-wide and far-stretching,
the foundation on which so much
of England’s “might, majesty, and dominion”
rested.</p>

<p>‘They might judge by what they had seen and
enjoyed to-day, of what value to the old country
men like their worthy host were likely to be. He
would not weary them. He was not a man of
words, but his friends knew that what he said, he
meant. His heart was in the toast which he gave
them; there was no need to ask them to drink it
with all the honours—their worthy host and hostess,
with their amiable family and friends’ (here he
looked paternally at Corisande), ‘and long life to
them, to enjoy what they have so honourably
gained, so liberally used.’</p>

<p>Arnold Banneret stood up in his place and
faced the great assemblage. He looked around
for a few seconds, permitting the applause which
had followed the Duke’s peroration to die down.
He met his wife’s gaze, half-proud, half-overcome
by mingled feelings. He read the expression
on her countenance, with the tear which
dimmed her eye but did not fall. He knew that
she was recalling the days of hard endeavour—the
doubts at times, almost the despair, which had
clouded early days in their chequered life, and
now as he stood there, with plaudits resounding
in his honour, his heart swelled high with natural
pride and satisfaction.</p>

<p>‘My Lord Duke, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said,
‘it would be insincere for me to deny that I feel
intensely the compliment, I may say the honour,
<a name="png.377" id="png.377" href="#png.377"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>373<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>paid me by his Grace and this distinguished and
representative assemblage.</p>

<p>‘That the work is hard, the privations severe,
in the pioneer’s life may not be denied; but the
difficulties, though grave, are not greater than
thousands of Britons have been willing to encounter
in the pursuit of fame and fortune, and,
thank God! are still willing for such prizes to risk
all that men hold dear. In the mysterious lottery
of life there is no denying the presence of an
element known as Chance, defying all calculation,
and turning the balance to success or failure.
“The race,” as they all knew, “was not always to
the swift, nor the battle to the strong.” They had
the warrant of Holy Writ for that. In his own
experience he had seen it often exemplified. Of his
comrades, one of the boldest explorers, one of the
most capable pioneers of the Great West Australian
desert, survived but to fall a victim in later years
to the arrow of a Nigerian savage; another not
less dauntless, and, in time of need, patient of
hunger, thirst, and all but the direst extremity
of famine, a master of woodcraft—ever tireless,
cheerful, and inventive, lay beneath South African
sands. But why dwell on failure or disaster—on
history as old as humanity? He, by God’s grace,
had <em>not</em> failed, but stood there to-day—not proud,
not vainglorious, but grateful to the bottom of his
heart for that Divine mercy which had shielded
him in danger and distress, in the dreary days when
he lay under the shadow of death. And, next to
the interposition of Divine Providence, was he
indebted to the lady who sat by Sir Piers
<a name="png.378" id="png.378" href="#png.378"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>374<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Hazelwood, his dear, constant, faithful wife, who had
nursed him in sickness, cheered him in misfortune,
and been bravest and most steadfast in the darkest
hour before dawn. (Continuous cheering.) He
would say, in conclusion, that he recognised the
exceptional good fortune which had come to him,
less for his personal advantage, than for the
power it gave of benefiting his fellow-creatures,
and relieving those less fortunately circumstanced.’
(Tremendous cheering.)</p>

<p>Other toasts were given—other speeches made.
Due honour was paid to Lady Hexham, by personal
friends and acquaintances of the family,
many of whom had come far to greet her. She
was visibly affected, and though actuated naturally
by conflicting feelings, declared to Mrs. Banneret that she never expected to feel so
happy again. As for Hermione and Vanda, they
kept assuring their mother that they quite realised
all ‘the claims of long descent,’ and couldn’t
think of letting Corisande go back to Bruges.
Mrs. Banneret was quite willing to adopt her;
Eric and Reggie followed suit; and so, with
more happy nonsense, ‘God save the King’ was
struck up by the much-enduring band, and the
great assemblage commenced to disperse, homewardly
intent.</p>

<p>But the summer day in the Northern Isles is
long—the twilight extends far into the night.
There was a moon also; and the soft, warm mellow
eve lingered, hour after hour, till the last departing
revellers were safely lighted on their path. There
was universal consensus of opinion—genuinely, if
<a name="png.379" id="png.379" href="#png.379"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>375<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>variously, in some cases incongruously, expressed—that
it was many a year since there had been the
like of it at Hexham Hall; it was almost too
good to be true that there would be another such
meeting next year. ‘Well, God bless Squire
Banneret, anyhow!’ was the benediction which
mostly concluded the argument and assertions.
The summer day was spent, indeed the lingering
twilight had long invaded the scene, when the rearguard
of the great host of guests and revellers
moved homeward, echoing in various forms of
speech the common sentiment of grateful appreciation.
The drags and carriages, phaetons and dog-carts,
had rolled, and rattled, and rumbled along
the high roads and lanes hours before, but still
the rural visitors, chiefly on foot, thronged the
pathways. Amid the confused murmur of voices
the dominant note of assent was the declaration
that the county had never seen such a treat before,
so thoroughly carried out in every detail, and that
if, as was promised, such an entertainment would
be annual, the tenants and humbler neighbours
would have indeed cause to bless the day when
the Bannerets came among them.</p>

<p>As for the families, as represented by Lady
Hexham, the Honourable Corisande and her
brothers, together with Mr. and Mrs. Banneret,
with their sons and daughters, there could not
have been found a more harmonious <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">rapprochement</i>
of the old order and the new. The girls
were frankly, genuinely fond of one another by
this time, a feeling which threatened to extend
beyond the division of sex,—the Honourable
<a name="png.380" id="png.380" href="#png.380"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>376<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Falkland, who had recently been in command
of a torpedo-destroyer, paying rather marked
attention to Hermione, and Miss Corisande inclining
to argumentative discussions with Reggie
upon the relative advantages, or otherwise, of old
and new countries. Nothing had advanced beyond
the ordinary limits of friendliness; yet there were
signs and tokens, recognised by keen observers,
that such positions were, under favourable
circumstances, capable of being permanently
strengthened.</p>

<p>As for the seniors, they were resting from their
labours after the exciting performance which had
been successful beyond all expectation. A series of
leisurely rambles through the, as yet, untraversed
beauty spots of Britain had been considered as an
autumnal engagement, in which Lady Hexham
consented, after a vain attempt to stem the tide of
opposition, as represented by the allied forces of
untitled Hexham, to permit her daughter to join.
They could not, even she admitted, hope to
secure a more wise, experienced chaperon than
Mrs. Banneret, not to mention Mr. Banneret,
who had been lauded, in his magisterial capacity,
for ‘admirable firmness and discretion’ under
conditions scarcely differentiated indeed from
those of civil war. This being the case, Lady
Hexham gracefully assented, remarking that it
appeared to her quite time to return to her
husband, and the rest of the family, if she did not
wish him to think her ashamed of their humble
home at Bruges. This view of the case appeared
so painful, that Corisande offered to return on the
<a name="png.381" id="png.381" href="#png.381"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>377<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>spot, but the proposal lapsed in default of a
seconder, or general moral support.</p>

<p>On the following day Lady Hexham left for
home, previously assuring Mrs. Banneret that she
had enjoyed her visit more than she could have
possibly imagined, entirely through the kindness of
Mrs. Banneret herself, and her family; she never
thought that their years of exile could have ended
with such a home-coming. It made amends in
great measure for the sorrow caused by their ruin,
and gave hope for the restoration of the family
to its former position. Once it had appeared
hopeless, but now, on account of the fortunate sale
of the estate, and the unusual liberality of the
purchaser, her most kind and generous husband,
they had hope of returning to England in a few
years, under brighter auspices. She asked her to
believe that she was truly grateful, and bade God
bless her in the future, and all belonging to her.
So the ladies embraced and bade adieu; the one
pleased to recognise a warm heart and kindly
feelings under an apparently cold manner, and the
other ready to uphold Australians as the most
warm-hearted, delicate-minded, delightful people
on the face of the earth.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>‘All good things must come to an end,’ says
the venerable adage, and the Hexham Hall garden
party was no exception to the ancient saw. The
summer was now at its height, the next change
would be a decadent one, after which the leaves
would fall, and people begin to talk about autumn
winds, declining days, and other depressing
<a name="png.382" id="png.382" href="#png.382"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>378<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>subjects. Hence it was necessary to arrange for
whatever plan of travel the family decided to
carry out before winter was upon them, with its
over-full programme of dances, dinners, hunting
fixtures, and other absolutely necessary functions.
The need for travel began to obtrude itself.
Young men and maidens, with their attendant
parents and guardians (for such indeed, nowadays,
is the order in which the migration of families
must be described), began to talk of guides,
alpenstocks, and other foreign necessaries, the
glories of the ascent of the Matterhorn, or the
panorama from the Rigi.</p>

<p>However, after a full and exhaustive survey of
plans and projects, the decision was practically
unanimous in favour of Britain. So much had
been dared and done during the present year, that
it was agreed not to tempt the chances of foreign
travel until a peaceful interval of restful rambles
in the ancestral mother-land had made them
fully conversant with all the scenes of interest,
beauty, and historic fame, with the leading characteristics
of which their reading had made them
familiar.</p>

<p>The party of travel was to be commanded by
Mr. and Mrs. Banneret: efficient, conventional
chaperonage being, of course, indispensable. It
was many years since the parents had enjoyed the
opportunity of a quiet progress through historic
scenes, which their general culture fitted them so
eminently to enjoy. When they had the leisure,
they had been without the pecuniary facilities,
without which tourists are necessarily hampered.
<a name="png.383" id="png.383" href="#png.383"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>379<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Now they were in possession of both. They left
Hexham, therefore, with the intention of enjoying
to the fullest extent the fortunate combination,
which comes so rarely in this troubled life of ours.
The Hexham girls, titled and untitled, numbered
three—Hermione, Corisande, and Vanda. Two of
these were abbreviated to Corie and Hermie for
the greater convenience of intimate friendly
converse, Vanda pleading that her name was
sufficiently short, and that ‘Van’ sounded rather
Dutch. It was resolved to reserve this weighty
matter for the test of experience and time.</p>

<p>But little time was wasted after the preliminaries
were agreed upon. Something was said
about following the route and the practice of
some latter-day Canterbury pilgrims, and walking
from London to that celebrated shrine. A party
of Australian friends, not very dissimilar in number
and artistic taste, had done so some years since,
sending on their baggage by coach and rail to the
terminus of each stage. But the elders of this
party dissented from the proposition.</p>

<p>In the first place, it was unnecessarily fatiguing;
also expensive in time. They had an extended
tour to consider, and would find that, although
they claimed to be over the average, as pedestrians,
sufficient exercise would be provided before their
return.</p>

<p>Moderate counsels prevailed, and though the
younger division were eager for the Pilgrim’s staff
and Cockle-shell business, the rail and coach party
carried its amendment. After this, what was to
be the first objective? The Lakes—Windermere,
<a name="png.384" id="png.384" href="#png.384"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>380<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Grasmere, the Wordsworth country, Rydal Mount,
and so on. Yes, decidedly.</p>

<p>They were fortunate in finding a decent hostelry
near Grasmere, which served as a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pied à terre</i>,
whence they could sally forth into the ‘royaulme
of faerye,’ and revel in memories of the glorious
dead. Here was the Poet’s ‘little nook of
mountain ground,’ overlooking the Lake of
Grasmere. Here he lived for eight years, hither
he brought his <span class="nw">bride—</span></p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>The perfect woman, nobly planned</div>
<div>To warn, to comfort, and command,</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">with whom he lived, in purest love and unclouded
happiness, even unto his life’s end.</p>

<p>The inn was not pretentious; there was no
crowd of tourists to conduce to landlordly independence
and the heightening of prices. But it
was delicately clean; host and hostess were thankful
for the patronage of such a company, and duly
respectful. The view from their chamber windows
was extensive and romantic, commanding a prospect
of the vale of the Rothay and the distant waters of
the Lake.</p>

<p>‘Now that breakfast is over,’ said Vanda—‘and,
oh! what a lovely sleep I had—and every one
seems to have eaten enough to last till to-morrow
morning, I vote that we lose no time, but get
over to Rydal Mount the very first thing. Luckily
the day is fine. I suppose we must walk?’</p>

<p>‘Walk? Why, of course!’ said Eric. ‘You
don’t suppose we’ve come to this jolly Lake
country, with views, and sunrises, and suchlike
<a name="png.385" id="png.385" href="#png.385"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>381<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>floating all about, to be jolted in the shandrydan
of the period? It will freshen us up after the
riotous doings at Hexham, where we must have
given our constitutions rather “a nasty bump,” to
say the least of it.’</p>

<p>‘Don’t talk in that horrid mundane way,’ said
Hermione, who was verging on the sentimental,
semi-poetical period of life. ‘There, yonder, is
Rydal Mount on the side of the hill, “The modest
house, yet covered with the Virginia creeper,” and
overlooking that lovely Windermere. Surely no
poet was ever more delightfully lodged?’</p>

<p>‘No poet was ever so happy in the whole
world, I believe,’ assented Corisande—‘except
perhaps Tennyson. Just think! He had married
the “perfect woman, nobly planned”; he had
the nicest, sweetest, devotedest sister, who agreed
with the perfect woman, which doesn’t always
happen. He was contented, even thankful for
his lot. He had leisure—friends too, who <em>were</em>
friends, that is, friends in need. They stood by
him when such support was of value: Raisley
Calvert, who left him a legacy of a thousand
pounds, which sufficed to give him leisure and
ease of mind just when he most required it; and
Lord Lonsdale, who paid up his father’s debt,
which meant life-long independence.’</p>

<p>‘How very seldom the friends of poets and
writers,’ said Mrs. Banneret, ‘think of the very
thing which would earn their everlasting gratitude!
They flatter and profess admiration, but stop short
of substantial benefits. But, perhaps, after all,
the poet’s healthiest frame of mind is that of
<a name="png.386" id="png.386" href="#png.386"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>382<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>independence. Being compelled to work certainly
brings out the best fruit of a man’s intellect.’</p>

<p>‘Yes, indeed! Yet it is pitiable to think how
poets and dramatists, not to mention the herd of
fictionists, worked under depressing conditions of
penury, even absolute want. Read the private
papers of Henry Ryecroft, which no doubt faithfully
represented the experience of the author. It
makes your heart ache—the direst poverty, hunger
and cold, shivering in semi-starvation—think of a
London winter under such conditions! How he
could have produced the work he did is a marvel!’</p>

<p>‘I may be allowed to remark, perhaps,’ said
Mr. Banneret, in a judicial tone of voice, ‘that
we are wandering from the direct path in discussing
the abstract question of a poet’s freedom from
care bearing upon the quality of his work. As
to the quantity, it may, and no doubt would, make
a serious deduction if at breakfast time the singer or
seer was uncertain as to the periodicity of dinner.
But I am inclined to think that, as to <em>quality</em>, the
enforced abstinence and lack of material comfort
were distinctly favourable to the “divine afflatus.”’</p>

<p>‘That being so,’ said Reggie, ‘and I am inclined
to agree with you, sir, we ought to address ourselves
to the practical side of our undertaking.
Before we make a start for Rydal Mount we are
bound to inaugurate the worship of the Poet by
the ladies repeating some of his lovely lyrics. We
must put it to the vote, and whoever gains the
largest number must recite the poem which she
deems to be the most distinctly representative of
the Poet’s genius? Who is the Wordsworth
<a name="png.387" id="png.387" href="#png.387"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>383<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>scholar of the party? and what does the lady
assert to be one of the Poet’s lyric triumphs?’</p>

<p>The voting was in favour of Mrs. Banneret.
That lady confessed that she had not been an
exhaustive student of the poet under discussion,
or indeed of any other—had not had time of
late years. But in an old scrap-album of her
girlhood’s days might be found several of his
poems, which she had copied out. One which
she still remembered was ‘The Fountain.’</p>

<p>‘It always appeared to me,’ she said, ‘most
truly representative of Wordsworth’s sympathy
with Nature; of his power of investing the most
ordinary incidents with</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i10"><span class="ns">                    </span>‘The gleam,</div>
<div>The light that never was, on sea or land,</div>
<div>The consecration, and the Poet’s dream—</div>
</div></div></div>

<p class="noindent">almost with a sacred simplicity, but still appealing
to the heart as ornate phrases rarely succeed in doing.
I still remember the opening verses of</p>

<div class="poetry-container" id="fountain">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem-head">‘THE FOUNTAIN</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘We talked with open heart, and tongue</div>
<div>Affectionate and true,</div>
<div>A pair of friends, though I was young,</div>
<div>And Matthew seventy-two.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘We lay beneath a spreading oak,</div>
<div>Beside a mossy seat;</div>
<div>And from the turf a fountain broke,</div>
<div>And gurgled at our feet.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘“Now, Matthew,” said I, “let us match</div>
<div>The water’s pleasant tune</div>
<div>With some old Border song, or catch</div>
<div>Which suits a summer noon;</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg"><a name="png.388" id="png.388" href="#png.388"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>384<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘“Or of the church-clock and the chimes</div>
<div>Sing here beneath the shade,</div>
<div>That half-mad thing of witty rhymes</div>
<div>Which you last April made!”</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘In silence Matthew lay, and eyed</div>
<div>The spring beneath the tree;</div>
<div>And thus the dear old man replied—</div>
<div>The grey-haired man of glee:</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘“No check, no stay, this streamlet fears;</div>
<div>How merrily it goes!</div>
<div>’Twill murmur on a thousand years,</div>
<div>And flow as now it flows.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘“And here, on this delightful day,</div>
<div>I cannot choose but think</div>
<div>How oft, a vigorous man, I lay</div>
<div>Beside this fountain’s brink.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘“My eyes are dim with childish tears,</div>
<div>My heart is idly stirred,</div>
<div>For the same sound is in my ears</div>
<div>Which in those years I heard.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘“Thus fares it still in our decay:</div>
<div>And yet the wiser mind</div>
<div>Mourns less for what Age takes away</div>
<div>Than what it leaves behind.”’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>Here the lady paused. ‘I think these verses
are all that I can remember of the poem at present.
But they impressed themselves on my memory long
since, as a delicious description of calmly happy old
age, of friendship founded on sympathetic tastes,
with a setting for the incident of the rural loveliness
of an English summer day.’</p>

<p>Much applause was evoked by the recitation,
given with taste and feeling.</p>

<p>‘Why, mother, I had no idea you had such
<a name="png.389" id="png.389" href="#png.389"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>385<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>a sentimental vein in your composition,’ said
Hermione. ‘Vanda and I used to think you were
quite stern about unprofitable reading, as you used
to call anything but history and language in the
old Carjagong days!’</p>

<p>‘Everything depends upon the proper time and
place,’ replied Mrs. Banneret, with a quiet smile.
‘You girls and boys would have learned very little
if you had not been kept to your morning lessons
in those days.’</p>

<p>‘But we were so terribly fond of books,’ argued
Vanda; ‘it ran in the blood. Why, father used
to read on <em>horseback</em>, when he took those journeys
to other goldfields and places—when he was driving,
too—by himself; you know he did!’</p>

<p>‘It was very natural, I’m sure,’ replied Mrs. Banneret. ‘Riding or driving all day, by one’s
self, is rather dull. Bishop Percy and his wife, a
charming woman, travelled in all weathers, through
the diocese, in a dog-cart. She used to read aloud
while he drove.’</p>

<p>‘I remember them quite well,’ said Hermione,
‘when they stopped at our old station. I was
quite a small child. They had no children. You
couldn’t have done that, mother, though you would
have liked it, I know.’</p>

<p>‘Indeed I should, but you tiresome children
came in the way of that and many other recreations.
What do you say at cricket when the innings
is over? “Next man in”—isn’t it? I think
mine is over, and that we should call upon Corisande
for a contribution, and then adjourn any other
intellectual exercise to a future occasion.’</p>

<p><a name="png.390" id="png.390" href="#png.390"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>386<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>This motion, being put to the vote, was carried,
and the young lady in question, being entreated
not to delay the movement of the pilgrimage,
graciously consented, remarking: ‘I am very fond
of birds, so all my friends will understand the
reason why I volunteer to give</p>

<div class="poetry-container" id="poorsusan">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem-head">‘THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,</div>
<div>Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:</div>
<div>Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard</div>
<div>In the silence of morning the song of the bird.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees</div>
<div>A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;</div>
<div>Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,</div>
<div>And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,</div>
<div>Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;</div>
<div>And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s,</div>
<div>The only one dwelling on earth that she loves.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘She looks, and her heart is in Heaven: but they fade,</div>
<div>The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:</div>
<div>The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,</div>
<div>And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">The acclamations were loud, so general, so prolonged,
that an encore was even demanded. Mr. Banneret, who had been unanimously elected stage
manager, felt it his duty to declare that no encores
would be permitted. ‘But,’ continued he, ‘as my
wife and Miss Corisande have complied with the
general wish, I think it only fair that my daughters
should furnish their share, which I think can be
managed without serious delay to the expedition.
<a name="png.391" id="png.391" href="#png.391"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>387<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Vanda, dear child, lead off! I know you have a
choice.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, certainly! Corisande told us she was
fond of birds; now I am passionately fond of
flowers. It will be quite in keeping therefore with
the spirit of our show if I choose</p>

<div class="poetry-container" id="daffodils">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem-head">‘THE DAFFODILS</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘I wandered lonely as a cloud</div>
<div>Which floats on high o’er vales and hills,</div>
<div>When all at once I saw a crowd,</div>
<div>A host, of golden daffodils;</div>
<div>Beside the lake, beneath the trees,</div>
<div>Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘Continuous as the stars that shine</div>
<div>And twinkle on the milky way,</div>
<div>They stretched in never-ending line</div>
<div>Along the margin of a bay:</div>
<div>Ten thousand saw I at a glance,</div>
<div>Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘The waves beside them danced; but they</div>
<div>Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:</div>
<div>A poet could not but be gay</div>
<div>In such a jocund company:</div>
<div>I gazed—and gazed—but little thought</div>
<div>What wealth the show to me had brought:</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘For oft, when on my couch I lie</div>
<div>In vacant or in pensive mood,</div>
<div>They flash upon the inward eye</div>
<div>Which is the bliss of solitude;</div>
<div>And then my heart with pleasure fills,</div>
<div>And dances with the daffodils.’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>‘Next girl in,’ said Eric. ‘Hermie dear, don’t
block the procession; consider all the pretty things
<a name="png.392" id="png.392" href="#png.392"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>388<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>said of Vanda’s artless lay. We know how fond
she is of the bliss of solitude, and how ready to
dance with the daffodils, or other eligible partners.’</p>

<p>‘Chiefly in order to put an end to your cheap
sarcasm,’ retorted Hermione, ‘also to finish the
affair decently, I will make an attempt to render
“The Solitary Reaper.” I remember weeping
bitterly over it in childhood.</p>

<div class="poetry-container" id="reaper">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="poem-head">‘THE SOLITARY REAPER</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘Behold her, single in the field,</div>
<div>Yon solitary Highland lass!</div>
<div>Reaping and singing by herself;</div>
<div>Stop here, or gently pass!</div>
<div>Alone she cuts and binds the grain,</div>
<div>And sings a melancholy strain;</div>
<div>O listen! for the vale profound</div>
<div>Is overflowing with the sound.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘No nightingale did ever chaunt</div>
<div>More welcome notes to weary bands</div>
<div>Of travellers in some shady haunt,</div>
<div>Among Arabian sands:</div>
<div>Such thrilling voice was never heard</div>
<div>In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,</div>
<div>Breaking the silence of the seas</div>
<div>Among the farthest Hebrides.</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘Will no one tell me what she sings?—</div>
<div>Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow</div>
<div>For old, unhappy, far-off things,</div>
<div>And battles long ago:</div>
<div>Or is it some more humble lay,</div>
<div>Familiar matter of to-day?</div>
<div>Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,</div>
<div>That has been, and may be again?</div>
<span class="ns"><br
 /></span></div><!-- stanza -->

<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg"><a name="png.393" id="png.393" href="#png.393"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>389<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang</div>
<div>As if her song could have no ending;</div>
<div>I saw her singing at her work,</div>
<div>And o’er the sickle bending;—</div>
<div>I listened, motionless and still;</div>
<div>And, as I mounted up the hill,</div>
<div>The music in my heart I bore,</div>
<div>Long after it was heard no more.’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>‘Charmin’! charmin’! absolutely, truly excellent!’
said the Honourable Falkland Aylmer, R.N. ‘Emphasis perfect, very clear and distinct
intonation, but there’s one triflin’ thing I noticed—slight
departure from “well of English undefiled”—probably
Australian fashion; excuse me for
alludin’ to it.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, of course, certainly!’ said Hermione. ‘I
know I’m only “a despisable colonist” (as the
author of <cite>Sam Slick</cite> said), but mother and father
are rather purists, and we fancied that we spoke
tolerable English.’</p>

<p>Falkland Aylmer’s blue eyes danced with mischief
and merriment at his successful ‘draw,’ thinking
the while how handsome the girl looked with
sudden glance and heightened colour; but putting
on an expression of exaggerated humility he said,
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have noticed—rather rude,
of course—but you and Miss Vanda are so perfect
in intonation generally, that I thought I would
venture just to <span class="nw">hint——’</span></p>

<p>‘On the contrary, I feel sure,’ said Hermione,
with a certain stateliness of manner, ‘that my
people would hold themselves deeply indebted to
you for pointing out any provincialisms—no
twang, I trust?’</p>

<p><a name="png.394" id="png.394" href="#png.394"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>390<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>By this time the rest of the family had gathered
round, amused and expectant.</p>

<p>‘Pray don’t keep us waiting, Mr. Aylmer,’
said Vanda. ‘You don’t know Hermie when she’s
roused, though she looks so quiet.’ Here every
one burst out laughing; her amiability being
proverbial.</p>

<p>‘If I must, I must—I rely on the mercy of
the Court’—here he lowered his voice to a deep
and impressive bass—‘but you can’t deny that you
pronounce the final “g.”’</p>

<p>‘Of course I do,’ replied the girl, who could
not help smiling, as indeed did all the spectators.</p>

<p>‘But you shouldn’t—oh, really, you shouldn’t,
dear lady! You said “bending,” and “reaping,”
and “singing.” We heard you distinctly “thrilling”
also.’</p>

<p>‘Of course I did; and why not?’ the girl
answered, with a distinctly bellicose air—looking
indeed as if she was likely to confirm Vanda’s
assertion of the possession of an unexpected
temper. ‘We were taught that dropping the
“g” was next door to the unforgivable sin of
dropping the “h.”’</p>

<p>‘But it’s not good form, dear Miss Banneret,
to sound the final “g.” Nobody does it—that is,
nobody that is anybody. The other way is old-fashioned.’</p>

<p>‘I don’t care,’ retorted the valiant Hermione;
‘our Australian way is good English, and that I’ll
abide by. The other is an affectation, a senseless
departure, copied by silly people who believe it to
be fashionable—like “dwopping” the “r.”’</p>

<p><a name="png.395" id="png.395" href="#png.395"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>391<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘Assure you, it’s nevah done now,’ said her
critical reviewer; ‘though I think I must
“pwactise,” if only to take a “wise” out of you
and Miss Vanda.’</p>

<p>‘We shall have to arrange an ambush for you
to fall into,’ replied Hermione, laughing good-humouredly.
‘We are willing to mend our ways
in minor matters when we think we are wrong,
but not merely to copy English fashions because
they <em>are</em> English, which would be affectation
indeed, and very properly expose us to ridicule.’</p>

<p>‘<em>Nothing</em> that you or Miss Vanda could say or
do would end so disastrously. I hope you believe
me,’ he added in a lower tone, ‘and forgive my
imprudence?’</p>

<p>‘I grant you my royal pardon,’ she said, holding
out her hand. ‘I confess that we Australians are
just a trifle touchy, and I began to be frightened
that I had committed some enormity.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Saturated as the feminine division of the
pilgrims was with the Wordsworth cult, nothing
but the necessity of laying out regular stages and
abiding by them prevented them from lingering
in this enchanted spot.</p>

<p>But the route was given; the leaders decreed
the hour; and protests were unavailing.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>But, hark! the summons—down the placid lake</div>
<div>Floats the soft cadence of the church-tower bells.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Northward, ever northward, was now the
appointed course of the wanderers: across moor
<a name="png.396" id="png.396" href="#png.396"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>392<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>and fell to Yorkshire, with its somewhat rude
inhabitants. Uninviting as it was in appearance,
with barren-looking moors and desolate stretches
of rocky undulations, it held within its bosom a
jewel of priceless worth. There stood the lonely
parsonage of world-wide fame, where had lived
the Brontë family—the wondrous girls who,
from that dreary parsonage, standing among
graves, on a wind-beaten hill-top, aroused the
admiration of the keenest literary intelligences of
the period. Then the order of the day was the
route to Keighley in Yorkshire, four miles only
from Haworth; and to Keighley by ordinary,
perhaps prosaic, methods the pilgrims proceeded.</p>

<p>For to Keighley, they were aware, the Brontës,
these strange children, fiercely desirous of knowledge
of all and every kind and sort, were
accustomed to walk from the village of Haworth.
Why? Because there was a draper’s shop?
Because there was at rare intervals a fair of
the period? None of these provincial recreations
interested this remarkable family. No!
But because there was a circulating library. For
that sole reason did these delicate little creatures
undertake the rough moorland walk of eight miles—four
miles there and four miles back—‘happy,
though often tired to death, if only they brought
home a novel by Scott or a poem by Southey.’
Brought home! To what a home did the tired
feet and aching limbs bring these eager searchers
after knowledge! To a ‘grey parsonage standing
among graves, on a wind-beaten hill-top; the
neighbouring summits wild with moors. A lonely
<a name="png.397" id="png.397" href="#png.397"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>393<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>place, among half-dead ash trees and stunted
thorns. The world cut off on one side by the still
ranks of the serried dead; distanced on the other
by mile-wide stretches of heath.’ Such, we know,
was Emily Brontë’s home, the vicinity inhabited
by Catharine, by Heathcliff, by Earnshaw, and
Hindley.</p>

<p>‘Oh, what a dreadful place to live in!’ cried
Hermione; ‘it recalls Kinglake’s description of
the country around Jerusalem—“a land unspeakably
desolate and ghastly”—no wonder the poor
things died early and Branwell drank. When one
thinks of that murderous school at Cowan Bridge
it is hard to restrain one’s feelings.’</p>

<p>‘Some people love moors and fells,’ argued
Vanda; ‘there’s a wild and rugged grandeur
about them; and Yorkshiremen, next to the Scots,
are among the boldest of the races of Britain.
Look at the men and women we watched going to
that mill!’</p>

<p>‘All very well,’ said her unconvinced sister.
‘The climate kills off the weak ones; but what of
those poor, sensitive little creatures, shivering and
ill-fed, in that unhealthy, undrained hole? That
fanatical idiot of a clergyman ought to have been
sent to gaol, and a teacher or two hanged! He
was rich too, and thanked God for the progress
of the school, while these dear babes starved by
inches.’</p>

<p>‘Gently, my dear Hermie!’ said Reggie; ‘he’s
not the only historical personage who has killed,
or tortured, for the glory of God; but the whole
affair is plunged in lamentation, mourning, and
<a name="png.398" id="png.398" href="#png.398"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>394<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>woe. I vote we leave for Scotland by the early
train to-morrow.’</p>

<p>‘By the very earliest,’ Eric agreed. ‘Another
day here would send us back to Hexham—despairing
of life, and fit for nothing but suicide.’</p>

<p>‘All the same, moors and heaths have their
redeeming features,’ insisted Vanda. ‘Don’t you
remember how Justice Inglewood calls Die Vernon
his “heath-blossom,” when, pulling her towards
him by the hand, he says: “Another time let the
law take its course—and, Die, my beauty! let
young fellows show each other the way through
the moors”?’</p>

<p>‘All very well for Die Vernon, with a blood
mare to ride, and a cavalier like Frank Osbaldistone
to gallop about with her. But think of three
lonely girls, with not even a wicked cousin, like
Rashleigh, to fight with, or a delightful, handsome,
romantic one like Frank, to fall in and out of love
with! But now I think the Brontë experience has
gone far enough. Let us agree that the incident
is closed. We make an early start to-morrow.’</p>

<p>‘And so say all of us,’ chorused the rest of the
party.</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter XVIII"><a name="png.399" id="png.399" href="#png.399"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>395<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XVIII</h2>


<p><span class="smc">The</span> next departure was made successfully.
From Yorkshire to Scotland is no great distance,
though the wanderers did not cross the moors to
Hawkstone Craig, but proceeded by the more
modern route of Keighley and Sheffield.</p>

<p>Behold the pilgrims then, by the kind offices
of the steam king, whose miracles Sir Walter
regarded with ‘half-proud, half-sad, half-angry,
and half-pleased feelings,’ landed within walking
distance of Abbotsford, and its haunting, magical
memories of the Wizard of the North. They
gazed with awe, and almost adoration, at the
towers and turrets, pinnacles and mouldings of
the famous abode of the more famous owner and
designer. It seemed to these ardent spirits not
so much a house, a family abode, as an enchanted
Arabian Nights Palace, compact of the flesh and
blood, the brain and spiritual essence of him
whose pride and life-work it was. They were able
to find suitable lodging accommodation in the
vicinity, whence they could sally forth and live, so
to speak, in that wondrous company of knights
and nobles, mediæval barons, Normans and Saxons,
<a name="png.400" id="png.400" href="#png.400"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>396<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>kings and queens, lovely heroines, and all the
<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">dramatis personæ</i> of historical romance. They
therefore, without delay, conceived and carried out
the project of ‘viewing fair Melrose aright.’</p>

<p>As it happened, the day had been doubtful, but
towards evening the wind dropped, and the night
being cloudless, and resplendent with the full radiance
of the harvest moon, they had taken all proper
precaution to be deposited as nearly as possible at
the exact spot where the imagined spectator of
‘St. David’s ruined pile’ would have located
himself.</p>

<p>It was a night superbly beautiful—mild, calm,
free from all disturbing influences, and permitting
our pilgrims the fullest freedom to gaze on
a scene at once romantic and inspiring, free from
all such interruptions as might be expected in the
light of day.</p>

<p>‘I think I must ask for a vote in favour of the
election of a president, or chairman—if there was
any place on which to sit,’ said Mr. Banneret.
‘We cannot afford to spend the whole evening
gazing at these ruins, worthy as they are of our
admiration.’</p>

<p>‘There is no one so fitted for the position, sir,
as yourself,’ said Falkland Aylmer, ‘and I beg to
propose that you be elected by acclamation to that
honourable position.’</p>

<p>‘I suppose I can second the motion,’ said
Hermione, ‘though I don’t believe they have
adult female suffrage in England yet; of course
it’s coming with other enlightened reforms.’</p>

<p>‘I believe Dad knows all the Walter Scott
<a name="png.401" id="png.401" href="#png.401"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>397<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>literature by heart,’ said Vanda—‘stock, lock, and
barrel, or rather, prose, poetry, and miscellany.
Those who are for—hold up the right hand.
Against—none: carried unanimously. Who will
contribute the immortal invocation? Behold the
hour and the man!’ as Eric Banneret stepped
forward, in answer to a signal from his mother.</p>

<p>That young man, who strongly resembled his
mother in appearance and leading characteristics,
as sons are wont to do by the acknowledged rules
of heredity, responded with a look of assent to
Mrs. Banneret’s suggestive smile of approval, and,
without further delay, began with the opening
<span class="nw">lines:—</span></p>

<div class="poetry-container" id="fairmelrose">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,</div>
<div>Go visit it by the pale moonlight;</div>
<div>For the gay beams of lightsome day</div>
<div>Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey.</div>
<div>When the broken arches are black in night,</div>
<div>And each shafted oriel glimmers white;</div>
<div>When the cold light’s uncertain shower</div>
<div>Streams on the ruin’d central tower;</div>
<div>When buttress and buttress, alternately,</div>
<div>Seem framed of ebon and ivory;</div>
<div>When silver edges the imagery,</div>
<div>And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;</div>
<div>When distant Tweed is heard to rave,</div>
<div>And the owlet to hoot o’er the dead man’s grave,</div>
<div>Then go—but go alone the while—</div>
<div>Then view St. David’s ruin’d pile;</div>
<div>And, home returning, soothly swear,</div>
<div>Was never scene so sad and fair!’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>‘Bravo, Eric!’ said Hermione. ‘I had no
idea you had such poetical leanings. Do they examine
in modern verse and elocution at Cambridge?
<a name="png.402" id="png.402" href="#png.402"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>398<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>I didn’t know they taught anything but Greek
and Latin.’</p>

<p>‘Didn’t you?’ replied her brother. ‘Perhaps
you would like to enter next term?’</p>

<p>‘I shouldn’t mind,’ returned the young lady;
‘only it’s rather late in life to begin. If I thought
I’d pull off the classic tripos, as Hypatia Tollemache
did, it might be worth while. One girl did—an
Australian, too—a year or two back. I
forget her name now. Oh, listen! wasn’t that an
owl? Let no one talk for five minutes, until “the
distant Tweed is heard to rave.” There it is; you
can hear it quite plainly now.’</p>

<p>The night was free from slightest breeze; no
sound broke the air but the weird, occasional cry
of the night bird.</p>

<p>‘I hear the Tweed,’ said Corisande suddenly,
as the ripple of the river over the shallows of the
upper stream came faintly but distinctly on the ear.
‘What a solemn rhythm it has! We shall never
forget this night, shall we? I feel drawn so much
nearer to dear Sir Walter, and to think that he
should no sooner have built and planted this lovely
place, decorated, beautified it—loved it, and
benefited every one within his reach, than the
great brain and the great heart wore out.’</p>

<p>‘Which exhibits the vanity of human wishes,’
said Mr. Banneret musingly. ‘His great aim
was to found a family, and that his children’s
children should inhabit Abbotsford after him.’</p>

<p>‘A very worthy ambition, sir,’ said Reggie,
‘which I trust other heads of families will bear in
mind, and, not being poets and novelists, will be
<a name="png.403" id="png.403" href="#png.403"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>399<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>wise in time, and neither over-build nor over-speculate
until they have provided for the rising
generation.’</p>

<p>‘And how about being the “architects of
their own fortunes,” as the phrase goes? Is that
honourable occupation to be taken away from
them—the men of the family, of course, I mean.
Who is to found New Englands and Greater
Britains if every young man in the old country is
left comfortably off?’</p>

<p>‘There’s a good deal to be said on both sides,
sir,’ said Reggie. ‘Personally, I should prefer to
go forth, like the prince in the fairy tale, to “seek
my fortune.”’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Melrose having ‘been viewed aright,’ studied,
and discussed from every possible point of view,
the trend of public opinion set strongly towards a
visit to Abbotsford, as the central point of attraction.
To be personally conducted would, of
course, be most desirable, the family being absent
in Switzerland. The housekeeper would, doubtless,
have instructions to permit such personages
and pilgrims of distinction to have, at any rate, a
limited permission to view the apartments with
which they had been familiar by description, and
in which the interest of well-informed visitors
chiefly centred.</p>

<p>Here, again, fortune favoured them, and a
delightful surprise was sprung upon the leaders of
the party.</p>

<p>To their great joy Mrs. Banneret received a
note from an Australian compatriot (whom they
<a name="png.404" id="png.404" href="#png.404"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>400<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>had first met near the Pink and White Terraces
of Te Tarata, New Zealand), as fair, as graceful,
as blue-eyed, as truly compounded of the air and
fire of the Scottish Highlands, as ever was a Princess
of Thule, though grown to woman’s estate ere
ever she saw the ancestral hills.</p>

<p>She was now ‘a woman grown and wed,’
though still too fairylike and youthful-seeming
for the matronly estate. Her husband was away
on his usual summer excursion, which she was sure
he would deeply regret, but as their home was
within a few miles of Abbotsford she would only
be too delighted to supply his place, as far as guide
and chaperon duties could be united. Fortunately
for the interests of the pilgrimage she had been
prevented from accompanying him.</p>

<p>‘We are being watched over by the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">genius loci</i>,
that is very certain,’ said Reggie. ‘How it comes
to pass that these delightful, interesting personages
seem to turn up at critical junctures, beats me.
May I ask if this Mrs. Maclean is above the
average in point of good looks?’</p>

<p>‘She is one of the sweetest, prettiest, most
charming young women I ever encountered,’
declared Mrs. Banneret.</p>

<p>‘And Dad met her on board ship, I think I
gathered?’</p>

<p>‘Yes, coming from New Zealand,’ volunteered
Vanda; ‘but wait till you see her. She has a look
of “Sheila” and “A Daughter of Heth” combined<!-- TN: original reads "com-combined" across linebreak -->.’</p>

<p>‘H—m, ha! There seems a certain uniformity
in the pleasant acquaintances Dad meets with
<a name="png.405" id="png.405" href="#png.405"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>401<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>on his travels. They are rarely to be described as
plain, I observe. But as long as you don’t object,
mater, it’s not our business.’</p>

<p>‘Your father’s taste is correct in all respects,
Master Reggie,’ replied Mrs. Banneret, with an air
of decision. ‘I hope we shall always be able to
say the same of your prepossessions.’</p>

<p>‘Hope and trust you will, mother dear! I
suppose none of us boys will have a chance with
this ex-princess; she seems to have got such a start.’</p>

<p>‘I saw her,’ said Hermione, ‘just before the
Melbourne Cup. Corisande and I are trembling
in our shoes.’</p>

<p>The fair object of this discussion lost no time
in commencing the hospitable office which she had
guaranteed to perform—making her appearance,
indeed, shortly after breakfast, and equipped for
joining the pedestrian party if such was desired.
Needless to say, she was enthusiastically received.
After greeting Mr. and Mrs. Banneret with true
Highland cordiality, the needful introductions
being completed, Mrs. Maclean said:</p>

<p>‘And so these are the young people I remember
in Sydney, after we landed from the <cite>Hauroto</cite>?
How they have grown! The young gentlemen
were in England, but Hermione and Vanda I
should have known anywhere. You can’t think
what a joy it is to me to meet you all here “on
my native heath,” so to speak—only I wasn’t born
on it; and it nearly broke my heart when we came
away from the old station on the Wondabyne, and
I was sent to school in England. I used to cry
and cry for hours. At last I got so low-spirited
<a name="png.406" id="png.406" href="#png.406"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>402<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>that mother began to talk of going back to
Australia. There was one book that brought
back the dear old days, however. I used to read
it over and over again when I felt homesick and
almost too miserable to live. It brought back the
scent of the gum leaf in the early morn, the gold
glint of the wattle-blossom in spring, and the rattle
of hoofs when the horses were brought in for the
day. At last they took it away from me, as it was
thought it had a bad effect. You will guess what
book it was!’</p>

<p>‘And of course it was <cite>The Marstons</cite>,’ said
Vanda; ‘we all went wild about it too. We
have a Rainbow in the family now, and a very
dear horse he is. I think every boy and girl in
the world, from “India to the Pole,” has read it.
However, we have read other books as well, and
now we are pledged to talk heather and rowan
tree, and Yarrow and Gala Water, and Leader
Haughs, no end.’</p>

<p>‘And such being the case we must not lose
time in talking, but make a start,’ said their
charming visitor.</p>

<p>‘I know all about the “lay of the country,” as
we used to say in Australia, and am considered to
be a competent cicerone. Where shall we go first?
I suppose you are all good walkers?’</p>

<p>‘Corisande can give us all points at that,’ said
Hermione, ‘though she seems to have lived in a
flat country of late years; but no doubt her
ancestors, who came from Norway a thousand
years ago, had different experiences, and tripped
up and down mountains like red deer.’</p>

<p><a name="png.407" id="png.407" href="#png.407"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>403<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘Nonsense, Hermie!’ said that young lady.
‘We did all our walking exercise, as the grooms
say, in good old Bruges, for a sufficient reason—father’s
cheque-book didn’t run to horses, or
carriages either. I daresay it was all the better
for us then. But we know our Scott fairly well:
Mr. Banneret has been putting us through, till we
know the names of Sir Walter’s horses and dogs
as well as his heroines and heroes. Suppose we go
to the top of “the range,” as Vanda says, where
he took Washington Irving?’</p>

<p>‘A very good idea,’ said Mrs. Banneret. ‘You
remember he pointed out Lammermoor and
Smailholm, Gala Water and Torwoodlee, forbye
(to be very Scotch) Teviotdale and the Braes
of Yarrow.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, delightful!’ cried Vanda. ‘We can fancy
we see the Baron of Smailholm and that poor,
dear, undecided Lucy Ashton. How she could
have given up such a man as the Master of
Ravenswood—dark, handsome, mysteriously unhappy—I
can’t think! However, girls have more
liberty nowadays, and mothers are not so despotic—not
that this dear Mum will ever interfere with
our happiness.’</p>

<p>‘All depends upon the amount of sense the
said daughters are credited with,’ said her mother,
with a meaning smile. ‘There <em>have</em> been cases
where parental rule has prevented life-long misery.
However, let us hope that no such conflicts may
arise among the members of this fair company.
And now that we have our dear Mrs. Maclean to
guide our steps, who, if she is not “to the manner
<a name="png.408" id="png.408" href="#png.408"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>404<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>born,” is much the same in local knowledge, we
must lose no more time than we can help.’</p>

<p>The ramble over the hills satisfied the most
ardent pedestrians of the party. The prospect
was wide and majestic—the heather-bloom, of
which they availed themselves liberally, was
pronounced to be equal to all the praise bestowed
upon it; the streams of Ettrick and Gala Water,
winding silverly through valley and meadow,
before losing themselves in Tweed’s fair river,
worthy of all poetic praise. But, truth to tell,
they were disappointed with the absence of
timber on the banks of the world-famous river.
The hills, too, were bare; and to eyes accustomed
to the primeval forests of giant eucalyptus which
clothe Australian mountain-sides, and overhang
the river banks, there seemed a want of adequate
shelter. However, the whole surroundings were
in keeping with ‘Caledonia, stern and wild,’ and
as the plantations around Abbotsford, so lovingly
tended by the Magician, whose art could cause
groves and fountains to appear and vanish at
command, had grown surprisingly since their
establishment in 1812, it was decided finally not
to give utterance to a syllable of disparagement.
The landscape had sufficed for the home and
happiness of the immortal possessor. On this
occasion a wide expanse of the Border country lay
spread out before them. They were thus enabled
to verify the scenes of those ‘poems and romances
which had bewitched the world.’</p>

<p>‘Kaeside,’ where ‘Willie Laidlaw,’ Sir Walter’s
friend and amanuensis, dwelt, was also visited.
<a name="png.409" id="png.409" href="#png.409"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>405<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Traditionary legends tell of the curse of chronic
poverty, supposed to have been laid on the race by
a malign ancestress. The name was familiar to
Arnold Banneret, who had known in his youth a
family of the same name in Australia. They were
related to the man of whom Sir Walter had so
high an opinion, and whom he honoured with his
friendship. But the voyage across the wide Pacific,
or the influence of a new country, had apparently
neutralised the malediction, for the Australian
Laidlaws, now a fairly numerous clan, are in all
cases held in respect, as well for their high character
as their large landed possessions.</p>

<p>And thus, the weather being gracious, and all
accessories befitting, they rambled through and
around the haunted regions, upon which, though
familiar with the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">dramatis personæ</i> from childhood’s
hour, they had never before set foot, or
gazed with admiring eye.</p>

<p>They did not depart without ocular experience
of the Trossachs, or of</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i4"><span class="ns">        </span>Ancient Riddel’s fair domain,</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>Where Aill, from mountains freed,</div>
<div>Down from the lakes did raving come;</div>
<div>Each wave was crested with tawny foam,</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>Like the mane of a chestnut steed.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>They stood more than once on Turnagain on
Tweedside, where</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>Home and Douglas, in the van,</div>
<div>Bore down Buccleuch’s retiring clan,</div>
<div>Till gallant Cessford’s heart-blood dear</div>
<div>Reek’d on dark Elliot’s Border spear.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p><a name="png.410" id="png.410" href="#png.410"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>406<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>Under the guidance of their accomplished compatriot,
the Banneret family with their visitors
were conducted successfully through scenes world-known
and historical, which they had never dreamed
of exploring.</p>

<p>With such a chaperon they were received everywhere
with the most cordial hospitality—not only
as dwellers in a far land, but as natives of the
dim and distant Australian waste (as their entertainers
had been contented to regard their country),
and their hosts’ curiosity was stimulated as keenly
as it was pleasantly allayed by the refined manners
and cultured intelligence of the strangers. This
familiarity with Scottish scenery and character,
albeit at second hand, surprised as much as it
gratified their entertainers. And indeed an offer
was made to Reggie, if he would consent to stand
for a certain seat in the Liberal interest, to ensure
him a controlling vote, and in all probability to
return him for the locality specified. That rising
politician, in a neat speech, which showed that he
had not been a foremost member of the ‘Union’
for nothing, assured them that he felt the compliment
intensely, but would not, until he had completed
his <i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Wanderjahre</i>, be in a position to comply
with their request. In the meantime, let him
assure them that he would never forget this mark
of their confidence.</p>

<p>After this memorable incident the pilgrims were
reminded by the president that, although they felt
so charmed with the scenery and inhabitants of
this delightful region, time was flying, and if they
desired to form a true estimate of Scotland and
<a name="png.411" id="png.411" href="#png.411"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>407<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the Isles, hardly less historically important, they
must not linger, however entrancing the locality.
The logic was unanswerable, so, with many a sigh
and groan, even a few tears from Hermione and
Vanda, they tore themselves away. One more
evening was, however, granted to Mrs. Maclean’s
entreaties, by whom it was suggested that it should
be distinguished as a Sir Walter Scott symposium,
making it compulsory for each one of the party
to recite a favourite passage, either prose or poetry,
from the works of the Magician—a prize to be
given for the best selection, as also for the quality
of elocution. This was assented to, and great
researches were instituted in the library, where,
fortunately, there were editions of all dates and
sizes. The order of precedence was decided by vote,
and resulted in favour of Mr. Banneret, who, without
loss of time, began at the first canto of <cite>Marmion</cite>.</p>

<p>‘I have always thought <cite>Marmion</cite> to be in all
respects the finest of his, of any man’s, descriptive
poems. The author commands the attention and
excites the admiration of readers of all ages, ranks,
and conditions, from the “dear school-boy, cheated of
his holiday,” to personages eminent in war or peace,
patriots or peasants. Nothing in the language
rivals that of the battle of Flodden Field—the
clash of the sword-blades, the shock of the coursers.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,</div>
<div>Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>Unbroken was the ring;</div>
<div>The stubborn spear-men still made good</div>
<div>Their dark impenetrable wood,</div>
<div>Each stepping where his comrade stood,</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>The instant that he fell.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent"><a name="png.412" id="png.412" href="#png.412"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>408<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>Where was ever such a picture of a battle in actual
engagement?</p>

<div class="poetry-container" id="chieftans">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘Then marked they, dashing broad and far,</div>
<div>The broken billows of the war,</div>
<div>And plumed crests of chieftains brave,</div>
<div>Floating like foam upon the wave;</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>But nought distinct they see:</div>
<div>Wide raged the battle on the plain;</div>
<div>Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;</div>
<div>Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain;</div>
<div>Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>Wild and disorderly.</div>
<div>Amid the scene of tumult, high</div>
<div>They saw Lord Marmion’s falcon fly:</div>
<div>And stainless Tunstall’s banner white,</div>
<div>And Edmund Howard’s lion bright,</div>
<div>Still bear them bravely in the fight:</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>Although against them come,</div>
<div>Of gallant Gordons many a one,</div>
<div>And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,</div>
<div>And many a rugged Border clan,</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>With Huntly, and with Home.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">Then the ghastly picture of the fallen knight,
mortally wounded,</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘Dragged from among the horses’ feet,</div>
<div>With dinted shield, and helmet beat,</div>
<div>The falcon-crest and plumage gone,</div>
<div>Can that be haughty Marmion!</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>‘Passing from the fire and dash of the battle-piece,
we have the warrior’s despairing <span class="nw">appeal—</span></p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘And half he murmured,—“Is there none,</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>  Of all my halls have nursed,</div>
<div>Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring</div>
<div>Of blessed water from the spring,</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>  To slake my dying thirst!”<!-- TN: original has single closing quote --></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">Here occurs the immortal tribute to the higher
<a name="png.413" id="png.413" href="#png.413"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>409<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>qualities of the sex, nowhere seen to such advantage
as in the dark hour of helpless <span class="nw">suffering:—</span></p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘O, Woman! in our hours of ease,</div>
<div>Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,</div>
<div>And variable as the shade</div>
<div>By the light quivering aspen made;</div>
<div>When pain and anguish wring the brow,</div>
<div>A ministering angel thou!</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>‘In “L’Envoy” Sir Walter’s boundless benevolence,
after wishing all desirable gifts to statesmen
and heroes, and of course to</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i5"><span class="ns">          </span>‘Lovely lady bright,</div>
<div>What can I wish but faithful knight?</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">even includes that occasionally troublesome personage
not often honoured with poet’s <span class="nw">notice—</span></p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay</div>
<div>Has cheated of thy hour of play,</div>
<div>Light task, and merry holiday!</div>
<div>To all, to each, a fair good-night,</div>
<div>And pleasing dreams and slumbers light!</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>‘I was a small school-boy,’ said Mr. Banneret,
‘when I knew by heart a large portion of <cite>Marmion</cite>;
and at not particularly protracted intervals I seem
to have been enjoying Sir Walter’s works, prose,
poetry, and even the records of his noble life, ever
since. Marmion, with the glamour of valour
blinding the reader to his vices, is a boy’s hero—brave,
unscrupulous, successful, until</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i3"><span class="ns">      </span>‘The Fiend, to whom belongs</div>
<div>The vengeance due to all her wrongs</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">appears at life’s close with tragic and dramatic
effect. And what in all poetry is more thrilling,
<a name="png.414" id="png.414" href="#png.414"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>410<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>more absorbing, than the closing scene of “injured
Constance’s” wasted career; what more dignified
than her invocation; more terrible, more piteous
than that dread indictment which will ring throughout
the ages, than the lingering death under the conventual
law of a merciless age?—the gloomy rock-hewn
vault that “was to the sounding surge so near”</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘You seem’d to hear a distant rill—</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>’Twas ocean’s swells and falls;</div>
<div>A tempest there you scarce could hear</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>So massive were the walls.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>‘Distant as is the period, fictitious the personages,
dimly historical the action, the magic of
genius invests them with an actuality which causes
mental, almost physical pain to the sympathetic
reader. Surely the Muse can desire no more
transcendent tribute.’</p>

<p>A chorus of congratulations followed the conclusion
of Mr. Banneret’s reminiscent adoration
of his favourite author. His wife thought that a
passage from one of the novels would be a fitting
diversion from perhaps the too melancholy episode
to which they had been listening. <cite>Rob Roy</cite> had
been an early favourite. The character of Diana
Vernon had always represented to her mind the
attributes of the noblest type of womanhood—presenting
high courage, passionate personal attachment,
combined with deep devotion to parental duty,
never suffered to be in abeyance for a moment.</p>

<p>‘The highest personal courage combined with
the loftiest sense of self-sacrifice was hers, the
whole illumined in befitting time and place with
<a name="png.415" id="png.415" href="#png.415"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>411<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>gleams of humour and sportive playfulness, betokening
how, under happier circumstances, she
could adapt herself to the joyous <em>abandon</em> of the
hour. With all a man’s courage and steadfastness
in the hour of danger, she exhibited the fascination
of her sex undiminished, indeed heightened by the
daily dangers amid which she trod so warily and
securely. Then she rode so well. I think she
is one among the few heroines that Sir Walter
exhibits to his readers on horseback. The ill-fated
Clara Mowbray, poor girl! rode recklessly;
but she was half-crazed through treachery and evil
fortune.’</p>

<p>‘How about Rebecca of York?’ said Reggie
Banneret. ‘She rode to Ashby-de-la-Zouche with
her father, on a memorable occasion, though when
carried off and lodged in Front de Bœuf’s castle,
together with the wounded Ivanhoe, she seems to
have been travelling in a litter.’</p>

<p>‘I always place Rebecca in the front rank
of Sir Walter’s heroines,’ said Corisande. ‘Her
beauty, her charity, even to the men of the race
that ill-used, despised, and plundered her nation,
should gain her a prize at any show of fair women
in or out of Novel Land. But except when she
was carried off, and mounted before one of Brian
de Bois-Guilbert’s Eastern mutes, after the siege
of Torquilstone Castle, she hadn’t much chance
of displaying her accomplishments in that line.
She was a dear creature, and any one who can
read the ending of the chapter, where she is
sentenced to the stake, and Wilfred comes to the
rescue, hardly able to sit on his horse, and that
<a name="png.416" id="png.416" href="#png.416"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>412<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>wicked, fascinating Templar dies of heart failure
at the right time, without feeling the tears in their
eyes, has no sense, no feeling, no brains, and no
heart—that’s my opinion.’</p>

<p>‘What a gallery of beauties Sir Walter’s heroines
would furnish!’ said Eric. ‘Indeed, I do remember
seeing one in school-boy days, but I am
afraid they were guilty of ringlets, and so would
be voted unfashionable by the latter-day Johnnies—Edith
Bellenden, Flora MacIvor, Rose Bradwardine,
Julia Mannering, Amy Robsart, and a
host of others—among them one Vanda! but I
have less pity for any of their woes and misfortunes
than for those of Clara Mowbray in <cite>St. Ronan’s
Well</cite>. Nothing finer in romantic tragedy can be
found than her meeting with Francis Tyrrel on
the road to Shaw’s Castle.</p>

<!-- TN: this is an extended block quote but without the font change -->
<p class="extraspace">‘“‘And what good purpose can your remaining
here serve?’ [she said]. ‘Surely you need not
come either to renew your own unhappiness or to
augment mine?’</p>

<p>‘“‘To augment yours—God forbid!’ answered
Tyrrel. ‘No; I came hither only because, after
so many years of wandering, I longed to revisit
the spot where all my hopes lay buried.’</p>

<p>‘“‘Ay, buried is the word,’ she replied—‘crushed
down and buried when they budded
fairest. I often think of it, Tyrrel; and there are
times when, Heaven help me! I can think of little
else. Look at me; you remember what I was—see
what grief and solitude have made me.’</p>

<p>‘“She flung back the veil which surrounded her
<a name="png.417" id="png.417" href="#png.417"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>413<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>riding-hat, and which had hitherto hid her face.
It was the same countenance which he had formerly
known in all the bloom of early beauty; but
though the beauty remained, the bloom was fled
for ever. Not the agitation of exercise—not that
which arose from the pain and confusion of this
unexpected interview, had called to poor Clara’s
cheek even the semblance of colour. Her complexion
was marble-white, like that of the finest
piece of statuary.</p>

<p>‘“‘Is it possible?’ said Tyrrel; ‘can grief have
made such ravages?’</p>

<p>‘“‘Grief,’ replied Clara, ‘is the sickness of the
mind, and its sister is the sickness of the body;
they are twin-sisters, Tyrrel, and are seldom long
separate. Sometimes the body’s disease comes
first, and dims our eyes and palsies our hands
before the fire of our mind and of our intellect
is quenched. But mark me—soon after comes
her cruel sister with her urn, and sprinkles cold
dew on our hopes and loves, our memory, our
recollections, and our feelings, and shows us that
they cannot survive the decay of our bodily
powers.’</p>

<p>‘“‘Alas!’ said Tyrrel, ‘is it come to this?’</p>

<p>‘“‘To this,’ she replied, speaking from the
rapid and irregular train of her own ideas, rather
than comprehending the purport of his sorrowful
exclamation—‘it must ever come, while immortal
souls are wedded to the perishable substance of
which our bodies are composed. There is another
state, Tyrrel, in which it will be otherwise; God
grant our time of enjoying it were come!’”</p>
<!-- TN: end of extended blockquote -->

<p class="extraspace"><a name="png.418" id="png.418" href="#png.418"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>414<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘I cannot imagine anything more exquisite,’
said Mrs. Banneret, ‘than the portraiture of the
ill-fated lovers, whose lives the arts of an unscrupulous
villain had ruined, almost at their
entrance into the paradise of wedded love. But
the characters depicted throughout the novel are
masterpieces of humour and descriptive accuracy.
Lord Etherington, the fashionable, dissipated nobleman
of the period, might have issued from a
London Club. Touchwood, egotistical, kind-hearted,
interfering, is the nabob, common enough
in old-fashioned fiction. Lady Binks, John Mowbray,
Sir Bingo, the choleric Highland half-pay
Captain MacTurk, Winterblossom, the dilettante
art critic, and the man of law, are exactly the
denizens of a fourth-rate Spa; not to mention
Meg Dods, the very flower and crown of Scottish
provincial landladies. Then the dramatic incidents
of the climax: Clara fleeing through storm
and snow, from her brother’s house in the night,
to escape the forced and hateful marriage; the
duel; the late appearance of Touchwood on the
scene.’</p>

<!-- TN: another extended blockquote -->
<p class="extraspace">‘“He was stopped by Touchwood, who had
just alighted from a carriage, with an air of stern
anxiety on his features very different from their
usual expression. ‘Whither would ye?’—stopping
him by force.</p>

<p>‘“‘For revenge—for revenge!’ said Tyrrel.
‘Give way, I charge you, on your peril!’</p>

<p>‘“‘Vengeance belongs to God,’ replied the old
man, ‘and His bolt has fallen. This way—this
<a name="png.419" id="png.419" href="#png.419"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>415<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>way,’ he continued, dragging Tyrrel into the
house. ‘Know,’ he said, ‘that Mowbray of
St. Ronan’s has met Bulmer within this half-hour,
and killed him on the spot.’</p>

<p>‘“‘Killed!—whom?’ answered the bewildered
Tyrrel.</p>

<p>‘“‘Valentine Bulmer, the titular Earl of Etherington.’</p>

<p>‘“‘You bring tidings of death to the house of
death,’ answered Tyrrel; ‘and there is nothing
in this world left that I should live for!’”’<!-- TN: original has just one single closing quote here --></p>
<!-- TN: extended blockquote ends -->

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter XIX"><a name="png.420" id="png.420" href="#png.420"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>416<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XIX</h2>


<p>‘<span class="smc">No</span> one can have a higher admiration for dear
Sir Walter than I have,’ said Vanda, ‘and I agree
with Eric that this is one of the most pathetic
scenes in the whole series of the novels. I have
wept over Clara Mowbray myself, “full many a
time and oft,” as people used to say. Still, how
many in number <em>are</em> the Waverley Novels?’</p>

<p>‘I know,’ answered Hermione, ‘for I counted
them last week. There are twenty-five, besides the
poetical works. What a miracle of industry he
was! A genuinely hospitable country gentleman—in
earlier life a hard-working Clerk of Session,
or whatever it was; while in his leisure hours
he dashed off such trifles as <cite>Waverley</cite>, <cite>Ivanhoe</cite>,
<cite>Marmion</cite>, <cite>The Lady of the Lake</cite>, and the rest. So
if we set to work to discuss all the heroines in all
the novels, with the pathetic and tragic incidents
of their lives, it will take us years to “do” Scotland,
and we shall never get back to England
at all.’</p>

<p>Every one laughed at this summary of the
situation. Mrs. Banneret thought Hermione’s
view correct in the main. ‘Suppose,’ she continued,
‘that we coax our dear Mrs. Maclean to
<a name="png.421" id="png.421" href="#png.421"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>417<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>join us in a farewell ramble, and devote the
evening to a final discussion of Sir Walter’s
works, each pilgrim to produce a favourite
passage, scene, ballad, or incident. To-morrow
a start to be made south, and <em>no deviation</em> allowed
on any pretence whatever.’</p>

<p>‘Hear! hear!’ cried Reggie and Corisande;
while the others voted ‘Ay’ unanimously, and
Mr. Banneret, with an affectation of despair,
expressed himself as powerless to resist his fate.</p>

<p>The supper was a joyous meal, in spite of forebodings
of what the morrow might bring, and
the parting of those whom ironic fate might
never permit to reassemble in the same pleasant
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">camaraderie</i>.</p>

<p>There was great hunting up of old editions and
copyings of passages, stimulated by the promise
of prizes to be given for the rendering of the
happiest selections in prose and poetry. Mrs. Maclean left early in the evening, but promised
to spend the whole following day with the
pilgrims, and to furnish her quota to the competition.
The programme for the next day’s
march was then completed with her aid and
advice, and amid sincere regrets that this should
be almost the last time they should meet in
Britain, the symposium came to an end; the
ladies of the party, after Mrs. Maclean’s carriage
had been driven off, declaring that they had little
enough time to pack and arrange for departure.</p>

<p>‘This is a “day to be marked with a white
stone,”’ said Corisande, after the travellers had
come back in the late afternoon, reasonably tired,
<a name="png.422" id="png.422" href="#png.422"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>418<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>but in high spirits, and overflowing with gratitude
to Mrs. Maclean, whose local knowledge and
unfailing desire to explain all things difficult to
the southern comprehension, rendered her companionship
inestimable.</p>

<p>Supper was a meal for the gods, abounding as
it did with sportive criticism of the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">personnel</i> and
adventures of the day. Of the Highland shepherd,
who ‘had no English,’ and could not
therefore inform two of the party, half-way up
a mountain, where he had seen the main body
of the pilgrims, though obviously desirous of
making the important statement, until Mrs. Maclean, arriving, put an end to the difficulty
by half-a-dozen words in Gaelic, to Hermione’s
surprise and admiration; of the collie dogs,
who understood only Lowland Scotch, and
resented being told to ‘come behind,’ or ‘fetch
’em back,’ in plain English, or even unadulterated
Australian.</p>

<p>The next day passed dreamily, all things
wearing a subdued, if not sad expression, as of
farewells in the air, sighs also and regrets,
doubts as to meeting again, the uncertainties of
life, ironies of fate, and so on.</p>

<p>Supper being over, Mrs. Banneret, foreseeing
that the frolicsome chatter of the young folks
would not lead to anything practical, called upon
Reggie to make a commencement. That young
gentleman, who was methodical of habit, had
taken the trouble to look through the library,
and being thus prepared, had chosen the description
of the ‘Abbotsford Hunt,’ as, though neither
<a name="png.423" id="png.423" href="#png.423"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>419<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>poetical nor romantic, delightfully descriptive of
the hospitable, humorous, sport-loving side of Sir
Walter’s character.</p>

<!-- TN: extended blockquote begins -->
<p class="extraspace">‘About the middle of August’<!-- TN: closing quote invisible --> (writes his son-in-law,
Lockhart, in 1820), ‘my wife and I
went to Abbotsford. We remained there for
several weeks, during which time I became
familiarised with Sir Walter Scott’s mode of
existence in the country. It was necessary to
observe it, day after day, for a considerable period,
before one could believe that such was, during
nearly half the year, the routine of life with the
most productive author of his age. The humblest
person who stayed merely for a short visit must
have departed with the impression that what he
witnessed was an occasional variety; that Scott’s
courtesy prompted him to break in upon his
habits when he had a stranger to amuse; but that
it was physically impossible that the man who
was writing the Waverley romances at the rate
of nearly <em>twelve volumes</em> in the year, could continue,
week after week, and month after month, to
devote all but a hardly perceptible fraction of his
mornings to out-of-doors occupations, and the
whole of his evenings to the entertainment of a
constantly varying circle of guests.</p>

<p>‘The hospitality of his afternoons must alone
have been enough to exhaust the energies of
almost any man; for his visitors did not mean,
like those of country houses in general, to enjoy
the landlord’s good cheer and amuse each other;
the far greater proportion arrived from a distance,
<a name="png.424" id="png.424" href="#png.424"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>420<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>for the sole sake of the Poet and Novelist <em>himself</em>,
whose person they had never before seen, and
whose voice they might never again have any
opportunity of hearing. No other villa in Europe
was ever resorted to from the same motives, and
to anything like the same extent, except Ferney;
and Voltaire never dreamt of being visible to his
<em>hunters</em>, as he called them, except for a brief space
of the day. Few of them even dined with him,
and none of them seem to have slept under
his roof. Scott’s establishment, on the contrary,
resembled in every particular that of the affluent
idler, who, because he has inherited, or would fain
transmit, political influence, keeps open house,
receives as many as he has room for, and sees
their apartments occupied, as soon as they vacate
them, by another troop of the same description.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>‘But with few exceptions Scott was the sole
object of the Abbotsford pilgrims; and evening
followed evening only to show him exerting for
their amusement more of animal spirits, to say
nothing of intellectual vigour, than would have
been considered by any other man in the company
as sufficient for the whole expenditure of a week’s
existence. Yet this was not the chief marvel:
he talked of things that interested himself, because
he knew that by doing so he should give
most pleasure to his guests. It is needless to add
that Sir Walter was familiarly known, long before
these days, to almost all the nobility and higher
gentry of Scotland; and consequently there seldom
wanted a fair proportion of them to assist him in
<a name="png.425" id="png.425" href="#png.425"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>421<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>doing the honours of his country. It is still more
superfluous to say so respecting the heads of his
own profession in Edinburgh; Abbotsford was
their villa, whenever they pleased to resort to it,
and few of them were absent from it long.</p>

<p>‘As to the composition of the guests. Some
were near relations who, except when they visited
him, rarely, if ever, found admittance to what the
dialect of the upper world is pleased to designate
as “society.” These were welcome guests, let
who might be under that roof. It was the same
with many a worthy citizen of Edinburgh, habitually
moving in the obscurest of circles, who had
been in the same class as Scott at the High School.
To dwell on nothing else, it was surely the perfection
of real universal humanity and politeness
that could enable this great and good man to
blend guests so multifarious in one group, and
contrive to make all equally happy with him, with
themselves, and with each another.</p>

<p>‘It was a clear, bright September morning, and
all was in readiness for a grand coursing match
on Newark Hill. Sir Walter, mounted on Sibyl
Grey, was marshalling the order of the procession
with a huge hunting-whip, and among a dozen
frolicsome youths and maidens appeared on horseback,
eager as the youngest sportsman in the troop,
Sir Humphry Davy, Dr. Wollaston, and the
patriarch of Scottish <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">belles lettres</i>, Henry Mackenzie.
The Man of Feeling, however, was
persuaded to resign his steed, and to join Lady
Scott in the sociable, until the ground of the
battue was reached. Laidlaw, on a longtailed,
<a name="png.426" id="png.426" href="#png.426"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>422<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>wiry Highlander, yclept Hoddin Grey, which
carried him nimbly and stoutly, though his feet
almost touched the ground, was the adjutant.</p>

<p>‘But the most picturesque figure was the
illustrious inventor of the safety lamp. He had
come for his favourite sport of angling, but had
not prepared for coursing fields, and his fisherman’s
costume—a brown hat with flexible brims,
surrounded with line upon line, and innumerable
fly-hooks, jack-boots worthy of a Dutch smuggler,
and a fustian coat dabbled with the blood of
salmon—made a fine contrast with the smart
jackets, white cord breeches, and well-polished
jockey boots of the less distinguished cavaliers
about him. Dr. Wollaston was in black, and
with his noble, serene dignity of countenance
might have passed for a sporting archbishop.
Mr. Mackenzie, at this time in the seventy-sixth
year of his age, with a white hat turned up with
green, green spectacles, and long brown leather
gaiters, wore a dog-whistle round his neck, and
had all over the air of as resolute a devotee as
the gay captain of Huntly Burn. Tom Purdie had
preceded us by a few hours, with all the greyhounds
that could be collected at Abbotsford,
Darnick, and Melrose; but the giant Maida had
remained as his master’s orderly, and now
gambolled about Sibyl Grey, barking for mere
joy like a spaniel puppy.</p>

<p>‘On reaching Newark Castle we found Lady
Scott, her eldest daughter, and the venerable
Mackenzie, all busily engaged in unpacking a
basket, and arranging a luncheon it contained, in
<a name="png.427" id="png.427" href="#png.427"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>423<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the mossy rocks overhanging the bed of the
Yarrow. When such of the company as chose
had partaken of the refection, the Man of Feeling
resumed his pony and all ascended, duly marshalled
in proper distances, so as to beat in a broad line
over the heather, Sir Walter directing the movement
from the right across towards Blackandro.
Davy laid his whip about the fern like an experienced
hand, and surveying the long, eager
battalion of “bushrangers” [<i>sic</i>], exclaimed, “Good
Heavens! is it thus that I visit the scenery of
the <cite>Lay of the Last Minstrel</cite>?” He kept
muttering to himself, as his glowing eye ran over
the landscape, some of those beautiful lines from
the conclusion of the <span class="nw"><cite>Lay</cite>:—</span></p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i12"><span class="ns">                        </span>But still,</div>
<div>When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill,</div>
<div>And July’s eve, with balmy breath,</div>
<div>Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath;</div>
<div>When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw,</div>
<div>And corn was green on Carterhaugh,</div>
<div>And flourished, broad, Blackandro’s oak,</div>
<div>The aged Harper’s soul awoke!</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">Mackenzie, spectacled as he was, saw the first
sitting hare, gave the word to slip the greyhounds,
and spurred after them like a boy.</p>

<p>‘Coursing on such a mountain is not like the
same sport over a bit of fine English pasture.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>‘Many a bold rider measured his length among
the peat-bogs, and another stranger to the ground
besides Davy plunged neck-deep into a treacherous
well-head, which, till they were floundering in it,
had borne all the appearance of a piece of delicate
<a name="png.428" id="png.428" href="#png.428"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>424<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>green turf. When Sir Humphry emerged from
his involuntary bath, garnished with mud, slime,
and mangled water-cresses, Sir Walter received him
with a triumphant encore. But the philosopher
had his revenge, for Scott put Sibyl Grey at a leap
beyond her powers and lay humbled in the ditch,
while Davy who was better mounted cleared it
and him at a bound. Happily there was little
damage done, but no one was sorry that the
sociable had been detained at the foot of the hill.</p>

<p>‘I have seen Sir Humphry on other occasions,
and in company of many different descriptions,
but never to such advantage as at Abbotsford.
His host and he delighted in each other, and the
modesty of their mutual admiration was a memorable
spectacle. Davy was by nature a poet, and
Scott, though anything but a philosopher, might
have pursued the study of physical science with
success, had he happened to fall in with Sir
Humphry in early life. Each strove to make
the other talk, and they did so in turn most
charmingly. Scott in his romantic narratives
touched a deeper chord of feeling than usual
when he had such a listener as Davy; and Davy,
when induced to open his views upon any question
of scientific interest in Scott’s presence, did
so with a clear, energetic eloquence and a flow
of imagery and illustration of which neither his
habitual tone of table-talk nor any of his prose
writings (except, indeed, the <cite>Consolations in Travel</cite>)
could suggest an adequate notion.</p>

<p>‘One night, when their “rapt talk” had kept
the circle round the fire long after the usual
<a name="png.429" id="png.429" href="#png.429"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>425<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>bedtime at Abbotsford, I remember Laidlaw whispering
to me, “Gude preserve us! this is a very
superior occasion! Eh, sirs!” he added, cocking
his eye like a bird, “I wonder if Shakespeare and
Bacon ever met to screw ilk other up?”</p>

<p>‘The other “superior occasion” came later in
the season: the 28th of October, the birthday of
Sir Walter’s eldest son, was that usually selected
for the Abbotsford Hunt. This was a coursing
match on a large scale, including as many of the
younger gentry as pleased to attend, as well as all
Scott’s personal favourites among the yeomen and
farmers of the surrounding country. The Sheriff
nearly always took the field, but latterly devolved
the command upon his good friend Mr. John
Usher, the ex-laird of Toftfield. The hunt took
place on the moors above Cauld-Shiels Loch, or
over some of the hills on the estate of Gala, and
we had commonly, ere we returned, hares enough
to supply the wife of every farmer that attended,
with soup for a week following. The whole party
then dined at Abbotsford: the Sheriff in the chair;
Adam Fergusson, croupier; and Dominie Thomson,
of course, chaplain. The company whose
onset had been thus deferred, were seldom under
thirty and sometimes exceeded forty. The feast
suited the occasion. A baron of beef, roasted, at
the foot of the table, a salted round at the head,
while tureens of hare soup, hotch-potch, and cock-a-leekie
extended down the centre, with such light
articles as geese, turkeys, sucking pigs, singed
sheep’s head, and the unfailing haggis, set forth by
way of side dishes. Black cock and moorfowl,
<a name="png.430" id="png.430" href="#png.430"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>426<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>bushels of snipe, black puddings, white puddings,
and pyramids of pancakes, formed the second
course. Ale was the favourite beverage during
dinner, but there was plenty of port and sherry for
those who preferred wine. The quaighs of Glenlivet
were filled to the brim, and tossed off as if
they held water. The wine decanters made a few
rounds of the table, but the hints for hot punch
and toddy soon became clamorous. Two or three
bowls were introduced; then the business of the
evening commenced in good earnest. The faces
shone and glowed like those at Camacho’s wedding;
the chairman told the richest stones of old rural
life; the stalwart Dandie Dinmonts lugged out their
last winter’s snowstorm, the parish scandal, perhaps,
or the dexterous bargain of the Northumberland
Tryst; Sheriff-substitute Shortreed gave us
“Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid.” His son,
Sir Walter’s most assiduous disciple and assistant
in Border Heraldry and genealogy, shone without
a rival in “Twa Corbies.” Captain Ormistoun
gave the primitive pastoral of “Cowdenknowes”
in sweet perfection; other ballads succeeded, until
the gallant croupier crowned the last bowl with
“Ale, good ale; thou art my darling!” Imagine
some smart Parisian <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">savant</i>, some dreamy pedant
of Halle or Heidelberg, a brace of stray young
lords from Oxford or Cambridge, with perhaps
their college tutors, planted here and there among
these rustic wassailers, this being their first vision
of the author of <cite>Marmion</cite> and <cite>Ivanhoe</cite>, and he
appearing as much at home in the scene as if he
had been a veritable “Dandie” himself, his face
<a name="png.431" id="png.431" href="#png.431"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>427<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>radiant, his laugh gay as childhood, his chorus
always ready. And so it proceeded until some
worthy, who had fifteen or twenty miles to ride
home, began to insinuate that his wife would be
getting anxious about the fords, and the Dumples
and Hoddins were at last heard neighing at the
gate. It was voted that the hour had come for
“Doch an dorrach,” the stirrup-cup—to wit, a
bumper all round of the unmitigated mountain
dew. How they all contrived to get home in
safety Heaven only knows, but I never heard of
any serious accident. One comely gude-wife
amused Sir Walter, far off among the hills, the
next time he passed her homestead, by repeating
her husband’s first words when he alighted at his
own door: “Ailie, my woman, I’m ready for my
bed—and, oh! lass, I wish I could sleep for a
towmont, for there’s only ae thing in this warld
worth living for, and that’s the Abbotsford Hunt.”’<!-- TN: closing single quote invisible --></p>
<!-- TN: extended blockquote ends -->

<p class="extraspace">There was a considerable amount of laudatory
remark when the reading of the ‘Abbotsford
Hunt’ was concluded.</p>

<p>‘What a charming, delightful creature Sir
Walter must have been!’ said Hermione. ‘What
a pity he should ever have been hampered by
debt and business worries. Such a model country
gentleman, and, oh! as a companion, what an
honour to have known him; to have watched
his eye brighten and glow as some deed of valour
or generous action came before him! Then his
tenderness to children. Think of “Pet Marjorie”!
Vanda and I cried our eyes out at her
<a name="png.432" id="png.432" href="#png.432"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>428<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>death. And to know of her dying of measles,
like any other child—with her wonderful intellect!
It seems as if Providence should have intervened.’</p>

<p>‘We must get on with our work, my dear
children,’ said Mrs. Banneret warningly. ‘Our
time is short. We are all with you, I am sure!
Vanda, haven’t you any pathetic fragment? I
saw you reading <cite>A Legend of Montrose</cite> yesterday.’</p>

<p>‘I think that novel contains some of Sir
Walter’s best examples of comic humour as well
as of his deepest pathos. Captain Dalgetty on
the one hand, with his memories of the immortal
Gustavus and Marischal College, and, oh! while
they are escaping from Inveraray Castle, the old
Highlander, Ranald MacEagh, seeing his sons hanging
on the gibbet, makes “a gesture of unutterable
anguish.” Nothing is finer, stronger, more
deeply tragical in the whole series of the writer’s
prose and poetry.’</p>

<p>‘My husband will always regret,’ said Mrs. Maclean, ‘that he was away when you visited
our sacred shrine. He is a devoted worshipper;
nothing would have given him greater pleasure
than to have gone round all the haunts and homes
of the Bard. He would have been so pleased to
know that in my country—<em>my</em> country,’ she repeated
with a charming air of defiance, ‘the seer of
Abbotsford is as fully appreciated, and perhaps even
more widely venerated than in the land of his birth.’</p>

<p>‘I can confirm that statement,’ said Mr. Banneret, ‘for wherever you go in Australia and
New Zealand, the Scots, “lowland or highland, far
or near,” appear to predominate. And in energy,
<a name="png.433" id="png.433" href="#png.433"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>429<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>industry, and material success they invariably
excel the Saxon and the Irish Celt.’</p>

<p>‘To be sure, whateffer—I wass telling you so,’
said Mrs. Maclean, with a pretty reproduction of
the Highland accent of “Sheila,” ‘but you must
not be too appreciative of the Australian Highlander,
or you will make me conceited. Who is to
follow on? It is your turn, I am sure, Mr. Eric.’</p>

<p>‘I thought I was to be let off,’ pleaded that
young gentleman; ‘but how about a trifle of
poetry as a change?’</p>

<p>‘I vote for “Bonnie Dundee,”’ said Corisande.
‘There is such a “lilt” about it, and it is above
all such a record of dear Sir Walter’s undying
pluck and energy, as he wrote it with the expectation
of ruin, soon to be converted into certainty,
hanging over his head. You see he writes on
the 22nd December—December of all months in
the year! in Scotland, too!—“The air of ‘Bonnie
Dundee’ running in my head to-day, I wrote a
few verses to it before dinner. I wonder if they
are good. Ah, poor Will Erskine, thou couldst
and would have told me.” Fancy writing a noble
ballad like that when he was in a sense “expecting
the bailiffs.” How few men in his circumstances
could have done it—fewer still could have
produced work with the lifelike spirit of the great
ballad, the clash of the kettle—drums, and the
pathetic <span class="nw">ending—</span></p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘Till on Ravelston’s cliffs and on Clermiston’s lea</div>
<div>Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p>‘“On December 25 arrived here, Abbotsford,
last night, at seven. Our halls are silent now,
<a name="png.434" id="png.434" href="#png.434"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>430<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>compared to last year, but let us be thankful.
But come; let us see. I shall write out ‘The
Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee,’ sketch a preface to
La Roche—Jacquelin, for <cite>Constable’s Miscellany</cite>—and
try sketch notes for the Waverley Novels.
Together with letters and by-business it will be a
good day’s work.” One would think so indeed.’</p>

<p>Eric Banneret had a fresh voice with a fairly
good ear, and his unaffected, hearty way of trolling
out his favourite ditties, sea-songs, camp ‘chanties,’
and such, was effective. When he came <span class="nw">to—</span></p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,</div>
<div>Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;</div>
<div>Come open the West Port, and let me gang free,</div>
<div>And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">the chorus included the full strength of the
orchestra, and was enthusiastically supported. It
was an undoubted success, and established Eric
as an amateur of promise, who might have gone
far, with the aid of scientific culture in early youth.</p>

<p>‘That is what his father took special care he
should never obtain,’ said Mrs. Banneret, with an
arch look. ‘My husband has a fixed idea that a
young man with an exceptional voice and a taste for
music always comes to grief in Australia. Society,
temptation, and flattery mostly accomplish his
downfall. There are exceptions probably, but I
have known, in my experience, strangely few.’</p>

<p>Here there were strong protests against the
illogical position. ‘Why should proficiency in the
gentle and joyous science,’ it was asked, ‘incapacitate
a man for the practical duties of life?’</p>

<p><a name="png.435" id="png.435" href="#png.435"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>431<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘It ought not to do so,’ conceded paterfamilias,
‘but that it does I have observed in scores of
instances, while the exceptions may be counted
on the fingers of one hand. The possession of a
fine voice, with skill in instrumental music, has a
tendency to develop the romantic, emotional side
of character, as also to weaken the practical qualities
necessary for success in life. I don’t speak as to
other nations, but for British-born people and
Australians it is a gift that spells ruin.’</p>

<p>‘It is of no use arguing with my husband on
that point,’ said Mrs. Banneret, ‘and I must
confess that I have seen his theory strongly
supported by facts; but, to vary the entertainment,
suppose we persuade Mrs. Maclean to give us
“Rothesay Bay.” It is a sweet, plaintive ballad,
and she will make the third Australian-born lady
of Scottish extraction that I have heard sing it.
They all had the very slightest tinge of the Highland
accent, which, of course, made it all the more
fascinating.’</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>All forebodings were justified by the next
morning’s post. It brought a letter from Australia,
which contained such important news that all
arrangements for the present were altered. The
expedition, indeed, was brought to an abrupt and
untimely end. The letter was from Pilot Mount,
Kalgoorlie, West Australia, and had followed, as
directed by Mr. Banneret, the movements of the
party. The news was important. It came from
the Metallurgist of the mine, who by virtue of his
office was the Acting Manager, and announced
<a name="png.436" id="png.436" href="#png.436"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>432<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the death of Mr. John Waters, popularly known
as old Jack. There had been some difference of
opinion lately (the writer said) between him and
other officials concerning the working of the
mine. Matters were not perfectly satisfactory, in
his opinion. There had been an argument about
wages, and a demand by the men for a rise. A
‘strike’ had been mentioned, but that was arranged
for the present. Old Mr. John Waters had retired
on the preceding night, apparently in his usual
health, which was excellent, but had been found
dead in his bed on the following morning. An
inquest had been held before the Coroner of the
district, and the medical evidence pronounced the
case to be one of heart disease. In accordance
with which a verdict of ‘death from natural causes’
was returned. He forwarded copies of the local
papers, which contained full accounts of the proceedings.</p>

<p>It was his opinion, and also that of the principal
officials and shareholders of the mine, that either
Mr. Banneret in person, or some one fully
empowered to act on his behalf, should visit the
mine without delay. In the meantime, the working
of the property and all other matters would
go on as usual. He remained, faithfully yours,
<span class="smc">Malcolm MacDonald</span>.</p>

<!-- thoughtbreak without dots -->
<p class="extraspace">Thus recalled abruptly from the realm of
romance, of fiction and song, Arnold Banneret felt,
as had happened to himself many times in his
adventurous life, the need of prompt decision and
vigorous action. ‘Poor old Jack!’ He was sorry
<a name="png.437" id="png.437" href="#png.437"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>433<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>for the veteran whose closing years apparently of
comfort, even luxury, had been cut short by the
stroke of fate. Perhaps it was a merciful dispensation.
He himself, without doubt, would have so
considered it. Fearless, even reckless, as miners
are in the pursuit of their dangerous and at all
times laborious calling, he had often spoken with
dread of a lingering illness, of the pain and tedium
of a wasting disorder, not seldom declaring that
a sudden, a swift seizure would be his choice if
granted one. Now he had his desire. His life,
as all men knew, had been free from notorious evil-doing,
and if occasional lapses from sobriety—the
almost inevitable reaction of the uneducated
labourer against monotonous toil and severe privation—had
occurred, what wonder? These deviations
from the strict line of duty had, however, been
more rare in latter years, and, since the departure
of the Banneret family for England, had almost
ceased. Now the veteran who had toiled in so
many lands, in so varied a range of climate, from
the snows of Hokitiki to the torrid wastes of the
Golden Belt, where camels and turbaned Afghan
drivers now stood around his grave, had found his
rest. Uneducated, untaught, unversed in the lore
of civilisation, ancient or modern, his simple creed
had been to ‘go straight,’ as he would have
expressed it, to stand by a ‘mate’ to the death, to
owe no man a shilling when his mining ventures
paid, and to work for more when they failed.
Hardy, strong, enduring, resourceful, he was a
true type of those Britons who have carried Old
England’s flag victoriously over so many seas and
<a name="png.438" id="png.438" href="#png.438"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>434<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>lands, and whether in peace or war earned the
respect of friend and foe.</p>

<p>Regrets of varying depth of sadness were
expressed by all the members of the pilgrim band.
Due acknowledgments were made to Mrs. Maclean,
with assurances that her cordial hospitality and
invaluable guidance would never be forgotten.
But the route was given, the camp broken up, and
by an early train on the following morning the
whole party set out for Hexham Hall, where by
ordinary course of transit they arrived with but
little delay.</p>

<p>Although a sense of disappointment at the
unexpected and, so to speak, untoward conclusion
of their pleasant rambles had communicated a
serious expression to the countenances of the
younger members of the party, it was explained
by their leader that there was no cause for depression,
or more than natural regret at the occurrence.
Poor old Jack Waters had fallen in the ranks of
that great Battle of Life which was each day,
though unheard, unseen, in ceaseless conflict
around them all. He had died in the performance
of his duty, full of years, and honoured of all
men. No doubt he would be borne to his grave
with all befitting ceremony, and followed by a
great concourse of miners and fellow-citizens.
For the rest, as from the commencement of the
partnership which had terminated so fortunately
for the Banneret family, he had freely acknowledged
his indebtedness to ‘the Commissioner’—as
he could not get out of the habit of designating
Mr. Banneret, and also to Mrs. Banneret, whom he
<a name="png.439" id="png.439" href="#png.439"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>435<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>loyally reverenced. By his will, made at the time,
and which had never been altered, the moiety of the
great mine reverted to Mr. Banneret, as also the
large savings from income which he had enjoyed
for many years. This was only decreased by
donations to churches, charities, and benevolent
associations on the Field, to which he had been in
the habit of subscribing liberally, indeed lavishly,
for years past. And the great concourse of his
fellow-miners who followed their old comrade
to the cemetery was considerably augmented by
the recipients of private benefactions, known only
to themselves and a few old friends.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>Hexham again! The old house, the aged
oaks and elms, the shadowy woodlands; the
peerless turf, in its velvet brilliancy and smoothness,
so different from much of the Border
country sward in which, with all its irregularity,
they had so lately revelled. However, ‘Home is
home, be it ever so “splendid,”’ if a variation be
permitted from the original version, and the
Bannerets, though taking kindly to their improved
circumstances and more or less aristocratic surroundings,
were not likely to sacrifice family comfort
to any presumed mandate of fashion. Thus
the young people were left free, even enjoined to
amuse themselves in their own way, with rides and
drives, and short excursions among the more intimate
of their neighbours, until the decision of the
family council was declared. This High Court
and Council of the Elders consisted of Mr. and
Mrs. Banneret, with the sole addition of Reginald
<a name="png.440" id="png.440" href="#png.440"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>436<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>of that Ilk, as the eldest son and heir-apparent.
It was duly constituted therefore on the day after
arrival, and a first sitting was held after breakfast,
while the young ladies and their attendant cavaliers
strolled round the gardens, visited the stables,
and afterwards attended to their correspondence
until lunch time.</p>

<p>Mr. Banneret having visited his office, produced
a collection of business papers, including one from
poor old Jack Waters, of strange-appearing caligraphy,
but intelligible and clear in meaning as the
writer’s own speech. ‘You see, he says here (in a
letter to me, dated shortly before the end) that he
doesn’t feel so well as usual; has, indeed, a sort of
giddy feeling that he doesn’t fancy. The doctor
tells him that his heart is affected, and that he
must be careful—might drop any <span class="nw">time—</span></p>

<blockquote>
<p>‘Not a bad thing either! (he goes on to say—poor old
chap!). Hope the Lord will take me that way when my time’s
up. I don’t want no hospital business; a short call and a-done
with it. That’s my notion. I don’t call myself an
extra religious cove, but I’ve wronged no man—not wilful,
that is—and, barrin’ an extra glass or two, I’ve no call to
think that God Almighty’ll be hard on a poor old chap that’s
had no book larnin’ and tried to do the fair thing between
man and man as far as he know’d how. My respects to
the family, and to Mrs. Banneret above all. She helped
me more than once, or twice either, when I was low down.
It’s my wish, though I’m not going to alter my will, that
she shall have a trifle, separate and privit for herself, say ten
thousand pound—and the young gentlemen and young
ladies, five thousand a-piece to remember pore old Jack by.</p>

<p>‘You’ll find the accounts right. I’ve had ’em ordited
reg’lar by a gentleman as we both know and trust. It’s
the best way. I will now say good-bye, sir! Life’s
<a name="png.441" id="png.441" href="#png.441"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>437<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>uncertain. God bless you and yours, as has allwaies been
good to me, rich or poor; and I’m glad the mine’s turned
out a blessin’ to all concerned, as I sed it would.—I
remaine, Yours true &amp; faithful,
<span class="signature">John Waters</span>.’</p>

<p>‘One thing I forgot to menshun. There’s Docter
Barnarder’s Home for pore little boys and gals. It’s been
in my mind a goodish while. It’s about the best thing
in that line as I ever herd tell of. I hadn’t much more
chance than them children. I was turned out to get my
livin’ preshus early—only it was in the country, not the
town, lucky for me, where I growed up strong and hardy,
thank the Lord! I want that docter to have a thousand
down and a hundred a year afterwards. Lord Brassey’s
the President I am told. I seen him in Melbourne when
he was guv’nor there. He’ll take care things goes right,
I’ll be bound. So no more from old Jack.’</p>
</blockquote>

<p>There were tears in Mrs. Banneret’s eyes when
the letter, longer than his ordinary literary efforts,
was concluded. ‘Poor old fellow!’ she said.
‘How well I remember the morning you drove
me into Barrawong to hear his story and give
my casting vote. How weak and ill he looked!
But I felt sure he was speaking the truth. And
so we accepted the “Last Chance,” luckily for
us all!’</p>

<p>‘Yes, indeed. I believe your vote turned the
scale. A little thing would have prevented me
taking the risk. So many golden hopes had
proved failures. There was Annandale-Wilson,
such a fine fellow—clever, experienced, high up in
the Civil Service—lost all his savings in just such
another tempting investment. Indirectly it caused
his death, I believe, from work and worry.’</p>

<p>‘How sorry we both were, I remember. Well
<a name="png.442" id="png.442" href="#png.442"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>438<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>we must be grateful that our lot in life is different.
But I don’t like this new departure. Shall you
have to go out again? Remember we are not
so young as we were. Can’t you send any
one?’</p>

<p>‘It is so difficult to find any one with full
knowledge of mining who, at the same time, can
be absolutely trusted. Reggie, of course, is too
young, and has not been in the way of mining
matters lately.’</p>

<p>‘If you will allow me to give an opinion, I fail
to see your point, sir. Who was it as to age that
began life at seventeen on his own account, and
made rather a success of it, as I’ve heard tell?
As to mining, you must have forgotten that Eric
and I made a “cradle,” and went into the alluvial
till we nearly washed out gold to the value of one
pound sterling. Besides, at Barrawong, near a
mining township with twenty thousand miners, we
heard nothing <em>but</em> of mines and technical terms,
block and frontage—quartz and alluvial—half-ounce
dirt and payable stone. Why, we have all
the lore and science of gold extraction at our
fingers’ ends!’</p>

<p>‘I see,’ said his father with a quiet smile, ‘that
I have been making the ordinary parental mistake
of not seeing that my children have really grown
up. What do you propose then? Are you prepared
with a suggestion?’</p>

<p>‘Of course I am,’ said the youngster confidently.
‘The solution is easy. Old Jack Waters being
dead—dear old fellow that he was—there appears
a chance of the Pilot Mount community becoming
<a name="png.443" id="png.443" href="#png.443"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>439<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>disorganised, unless a person with recognised
authority takes command. The appointment of
a stranger would be risky, or perhaps ineffectual.
You must go out and take me with you as lieutenant
and adjutant. I shall soon pick up the
necessary “colonial experience.” Eric is to stay
at Hexham to look after mother and the girls, as
well as to see that no one gets the weather-gauge
of me with Corisande in my absence. And, I
think, that’s about all, sir.’</p>

<p>‘All, indeed!’ said his mother, looking at her
first-born with a mixture of surprise and admiration.
‘You seem to have summed up the situation
with what looks like completeness, and certainly
the idea seems feasible. We shall be “Marianas
in our moated grange,” of course, in your absence,
but under more favourable social conditions. What
does your father say?’</p>

<p>‘Really, my dear, he seems to be cast for the part
of “Brer Rabbit,” and to have nothing left but to
“go on sayin’ nothin’.” With the aid and counsel
of the eldest son, and your not less original aid,
you have quite disposed of all difficulties. When
do we start, my dear? To-morrow morning?’</p>

<p>‘Nonsense, Arnold! You know there is something
else to be done first; and, privately, you
are thanking your stars for the chance of a little
change and travel. I have no objection—or rather,
I <em>have</em>, as I always have had; but I don’t urge
it when it is plainly a duty. So I shall “buckle
your spurs upon your heel” metaphorically, as I
used to do sometimes practically in old days.
Reggie, my boy, I trust you to look after your
<a name="png.444" id="png.444" href="#png.444"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>440<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>father and discourage unnecessary risks. Now I
must go and tell the girls.’</p>

<p>And the brave matron, certainly the virtual
head of the household, departed to make important
communications in a mood much less calm
and self-contained than her words and outward
appearance indicated.</p>

<p>‘There appears nothing else for it,’ said the
father to the son, after a few moments’ reflection.
‘It’s rather a bore, and hard on your mother, though
she won’t admit it, my having to start off for the
other end of the world at a moment’s notice. But
apart from the importance of the issue at stake, it
will do you good to see something more of the land
where your countrymen are at work, extending this
Empire of ours, or rather strengthening the foundations,
now it has been raised to such a height. Our
forefathers “builded better than they knew.”’</p>

<p>‘I am with you, sir, to the death—which is not
a figure of speech. With regard to the mining,
pure and simple, Eric and I haven’t so much to
learn, though, of course, this Pilot Mount property
is a far more extensive and scientific affair. But at
Barrawong I remember hearing you say that in
five years of your reign there, the miners won
sixteen tons of alluvial gold. Not such a trifle,
was it?’</p>

<p>‘Quite correct. Embodied in one of my
Annual Reports, with the ounces, pennyweights,
and grains added from the returns of the Mining
Registrar. It is there now for reference. However,
I daresay we can straighten up things, and
see the different colonies within six months. Four
<a name="png.445" id="png.445" href="#png.445"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>441<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>weeks to Albany, nowadays, makes short work of
the voyage to Australia.’</p>

<p>The bombshell, as exploded by Mrs. Banneret
on her return from the conference, produced much
surprise and a certain amount of consternation
among the young people. But after the smoke
cleared away, so to speak, confidence returned, as
it became gradually apparent that no harm was
likely to result. At first, Corisande was disposed
to insist upon going home, and writing to apprise
her mother. But on its being represented that her
leave extended to the end of the autumn, and that
whether she availed herself of it in travel, or by
remaining at Hexham with her friends, could make
no difference to her family, she consented to remain.
The military and the naval brother succumbed
to the same argument, perhaps the more readily
as certain county entertainments were to take place
shortly. The question was fully debated, and as,
obviously, it seemed unkind to desert Hexham on
the occasion of their host and the eldest son leaving
for foreign parts, a compromise was agreed to.</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>On the appointed day, therefore, the Peninsular
and Oriental Company’s royal mail steamer <cite>Mesopotamia</cite>,
10,500 tons, had in her passenger list the
names of Arnold and Reginald Banneret, booked
for Fremantle, West Australia. Nothing out of
the ordinary range of P. &amp; O. passengers’ mild
adventures occurred until the Red Sea was reached,
the historic waters of which were destined in their
case to furnish a truly sensational incident. At
Suez they had dined in the great quadrangle of
<a name="png.446" id="png.446" href="#png.446"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>442<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the P. &amp; O. Hotel, in the open air, where immense
tables had been set out. It was a bizarre
and dramatic scene. Above them the cloudless
blue sky; around and afar the limitless sands of
the Desert. Every variety of costume and head-dress
diversified the three hundred and fifty
passengers—Arab turbans of scarlet and yellow, or
white and pink with gold edges.</p>

<p>A few days afterwards the <cite>Mesopotamia</cite> was
slipping smoothly and pleasantly through the
calm waters of the historic sea, on which hardly a
ripple was visible. On the north-west shore were
the irregular peaks and jagged outlines of the
mountains of Palestine. It was the charming
after-breakfast interval, when there was absolutely
nothing to do but to read or frivol aimlessly. Mr. Banneret was walking up and down, his son was
applying himself to an abstruse treatise on auriferous
formations, when the Captain appeared on
deck, and after a short colloquy with a quartermaster,
joined the officer on the bridge.</p>

<p>‘What do you make of that?’ he asked, gazing
at a faint line, which gradually made itself distinct
athwart the fair blue sky.</p>

<p>‘Smoke of a steamer, sir—Russian battleship.
It’s one of those volunteer cruisers let through the
Canal, under a promise not to carry more than so
many guns.’</p>

<p>‘She is overhauling us at a great rate,’ said the
Captain. ‘I’d better prepare the passengers.’</p>

<p>This was hardly necessary, as every field-glass—and
there were some good ones on board—had
been directed at the strange vessel for the last few
<a name="png.447" id="png.447" href="#png.447"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>443<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>minutes. All now knew that she was a Russian
volunteer cruiser, which had been watching the
Red Sea for vessels carrying contraband of war,
and that they would be stopped and searched,
unless, indeed, the Russian captain decided to
sink the <cite>Mesopotamia</cite> first and explain afterwards.
This had been done before, they reflected, in the
case of the <cite>Knight Commander</cite>. It was not a
pleasant idea. Some of the lady passengers turned
pale; they all behaved with commendable self-possession.</p>

<p>There was no doubt as to the intention of the
Russian volunteer cruiser. Rapidly approaching,
she fired a shot across the bows of the <cite>Mesopotamia</cite>
and signalled to her to stop until a boat, which
promptly left the cruiser’s side, could come on
board. The boat was so crowded with armed men
that there was hardly room for the oarsmen. At
the same time the look-out man reported ‘big
steamer on the weather bow.’ All turned with
deep interest towards the strange vessel, that in
the excitement concentrated on the Russian cruiser
had approached nearer than the officers of the
<cite>Mesopotamia</cite> had remarked. Then occurred a
change of front. For some unexplained reason
the order now given to the <cite>Mesopotamia’s</cite> head
engineer was ‘Full speed ahead,’ the effect of which
moved the huge liner anew on her course, leaving
the Russian row-boat far behind. At the same
time her launch, just lowered, was hauled on
board again.</p>

<p>The excitement of the passengers became
intense. The stranger steamer, which was coming
<a name="png.448" id="png.448" href="#png.448"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>444<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>up at a high rate of speed, altered her course a
couple of points and steered straight for the
P. &amp; O. liner, when she suddenly hoisted the
Japanese flag. Then it was seen that this vessel,
much larger, carrying more guns and apparently
a greater number of men than the Russian cruiser,
was the new Japanese battleship the <cite>Hatsuce</cite>.</p>

<p>The Russian cruiser apparently recognised this
fact, for she changed her course, and after taking
her boat on board went the way she came. The
Japanese man-of-war came up and signalled the
<cite>Mesopotamia</cite> to heave-to. Presently a boat with
eight oars came alongside. It was not an ordinary
ship’s boat, but, to every one’s wild astonishment, a
‘whaleboat,’ and the tall man with the heavy white
moustache, who had the steer oar in his hand, was
no other than our old friend Captain Bucklaw
(otherwise Hayston), who had volunteered for
service with Japan at the beginning of the
war, and characteristically risen to his present
position.</p>

<p>What a joyful recognition and interchange of
greetings was there, and how grateful were all the
lady passengers who crowded round him, as he
stepped on the deck with his old air of conquest
and authority, as of a Viking on a conquered
galley.</p>

<p>‘How in the world did you come here?’ asked
Mr. Banneret; ‘you are always turning up in the
nick of time. In the service of the Mikado, too?’</p>

<p>‘There are few services in which I have not
sailed or fought,’ said the Captain. ‘And many
a year ago I fought side by side with a crew of
<a name="png.449" id="png.449" href="#png.449"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>445<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>Japanese sailors. In old South Sea Island days
Captain Peese and I were trading in a small
brigantine which we owned at the time, when we
had to fight for our lives.’</p>

<p>‘Oh, do tell us!’ pleaded the wife of a colonial
governor as the passengers crowded round.</p>

<p>‘It was my first visit,’ said he, ‘to the Pelew
Islands, whence a young chief, known as Prince
Lee Boo, had been taken to England and had
there died, to the great grief of all who knew him.
An enthusiastic writer had described his countrymen
as “delicate in their sentiments, friendly in
their dispositions,” and, in short, a people who
do honour to the human race.’ The Captain’s
description of the undaunted manner in which fifty
of these noble islanders, who tried to cut them off,
climbed up the side of the brigantine and slashed
away at the boarding nettings with their heavy
swords, was truly graphic. Stripped to the waist,
they fought gallantly and unflinchingly, though
twelve of their number had been killed by the
fire of musketry from the brigantine. One of
them had seized Captain Peese, and, dragging him
to the side, stabbed him in the neck, and threw him
into the prahu alongside, where his head would
soon have left his body, when Hayston and a
Japanese sailor dashed over after him and killed
the two natives that were holding him down, while
another was about to decapitate him. At this
stage, three of the brigantine’s crew lay dead and
nearly all were wounded. There were twenty-two
islanders killed and as many more badly wounded
before they gave up the attempt to cut off the
<a name="png.450" id="png.450" href="#png.450"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>446<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>vessel. ‘Since then,’ remarked the Captain, as he
concluded his narrative, ‘I have had my own
opinion about Japanese on sea and on land.’</p>

<p>‘But how did you happen to get a naval command?’</p>

<p>‘Well, I knew, of course, that they had Britishers
in their employ, both officers and men. So I
applied for the first vacant berth. It wasn’t long
before I was put into commission with the <cite>Hatsuce</cite>
here. Isn’t she a beauty? One of the two boats
bought from the republic of Chile. She has a
torpedo delivery, too, and ten 4-inch quick-firers,
besides three Maxims, carries heavier metal than
any ship of her size, and can work up to twenty-five
knots. But I’m disappointed that Russian
fellow wouldn’t stop. Our little engagement
would have interested the ladies.’</p>

<p>Years had, of course, told upon the bold
buccaneer. Silvered were the hair and moustache,
but the grand form, the stately bearing, were
unaltered. The bold blue eyes had lost nothing
of their fire or fascination. He was, as ever, a
general favourite and <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">succès de salon</i>, in spite of
rumours of wild deeds in other days. On leaving,
he carried with him the good wishes of the lady
passengers and nearly all those of the opposite sex,
especially when he professed his intention of escorting
them to within neutral waters.</p>

<p>Colombo, with its brilliant leafage and gorgeous
colour-scheme, seemed to be quite a short sea-trip
after their sensational adventure. It was familiar
to Arnold Banneret, but to his son Reginald the
erstwhile Dutch fortresses had all the effect and
<a name="png.451" id="png.451" href="#png.451"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>447<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>excitement of novelty. The half-European, half-Oriental
flavour of all things, the luxurious habits
of the residents, the population—various of colour,
race, and religion, the paradisial forest surroundings,
the wondrous temples, lakes, ruins, relics of a
perished civilisation, came with unexpected freshness
to the younger man, who on his first journey
to England had been too young to appreciate the
wonders and glories of this, one of the latest and
richest of England’s Crown Colonies.</p>

<p>‘What a wonderful outlook!’ said Reginald, as
they sat at breakfast in a lofty cool room at the
G.F.H. (as the Galle Face Hotel is irreverently
and familiarly known). ‘It is good to travel. How
it broadens one’s views! What a change from
that pestilential Port Said and the Red Sea! By
the way, I hope the <cite>Times</cite> is making a row about
our threatened capture. These blundering Russians
<em>did</em> take the <cite>Malacca</cite> a month since, and put an
armed crew on board. What a bore if we had
met with the adventure! Captain Bucklaw and
his Japanese cruiser saved us from that fate. What
a magnificent fellow the Captain is! I never saw
a finer man in my life, although he is growing old.
What adventures he has had! You knew him
years ago, didn’t you, sir?’</p>

<p>‘Yes, many years ago. He <em>is</em> a most remarkable
man, as you say; but that he is the right man in
the right place occasionally, and was so when we
met him, no one can doubt for a moment. I will
tell you more about him another time.’</p>

<p>Albany—Fremantle—Perth—all outposts of
the ‘Briton’s far-flung line’ of conquest and
<a name="png.452" id="png.452" href="#png.452"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>448<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>colonisation, the latter the more important operation
of the two, were successively reached, and now,
in Reggie Banneret’s eyes, far their most exciting
and interesting objective came within the range of
vision. That Aladdin’s cave, Pilot Mount, was at
length reached, and the great desert-seeming
panorama, strange and unfamiliar as it was to the
graduate of Cambridge, did not fail to impress him
on that account.</p>

<p>‘This is something like!’ he exclaimed. ‘It is
so delightfully un-English, except in results. Such
a true, unadulterated bit of Africa, Australia,
America, all in one. Don’t let any one say it’s
unconventional, uncomfortable, disagreeable. Why,
that’s the beauty of it all. It’s what I came out
to see; what makes one proud of being an Englishman,
that is, an Australian, which is all the same,
of course. I must say I like to belong to people
that have <em>done</em> things.’</p>

<p>‘And suffered too,’ said his father. ‘You must
not forget that side of the adventure; it is, or rather
was, very essential.’</p>

<p>‘I suppose there was a good deal of that ingredient
mixed up with the gold and glory of the
earlier days of the Field.’</p>

<p>‘Field is a very apposite expression as applied
to gold areas—battlefield almost more appropriate,
when typhoid fever decimated the men
in every camp; hunger, thirst, and privation
of every kind took toll; when water was dearer
than wine or spirits on many goldfields. And now,
what a transformation!’</p>

<p>‘Transformation indeed!’ said the younger
<a name="png.453" id="png.453" href="#png.453"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>449<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>man; ‘it appears to me like the work of an enchanter
who has waved his wand, and lo, behold!
what has arisen? Spouting fountains where the
famished horses and camels scraped the barren
sand; the green growth of gardens, irrigated and
fertilised; fruit and vegetables, and this’—looking
round the lofty, spacious room in which they had
been dining. ‘Waiter, bring more ice. This
Chasselas will be none the worse for cooling.’</p>

<p>The formal reception of the mining magnate of
Pilot Mount was much like any other function of
the sort, and was transacted with the usual, or,
perhaps, slightly unusual formalities. Once the
principal shareholder and part owner of a very
valuable mining property, Arnold Banneret was
now almost the sole owner. Old Jack Waters’s
will had been proved, probate had been granted,
and all necessary forms complied with. The erst
ex-Commissioner of Goldfields at Barrawong, in
New South Wales, found himself one of the richest
men in Australia. The mine was a ‘going concern’
in every sense of the word, but after a month’s
sojourn, a steadily increasing desire to see once
more the higher aspects of civilisation commenced
to assert itself, though there was a club well-conducted
and most comfortable, and also polo—a
game of which Reggie was passionately fond, with
ponies which were excellent, the members practised
and well-mannered. The working of the great
mine, with all the latest appliances for the extraction
of the precious metal, and 2000 men on the payroll,
was in itself an interesting, even exciting,
spectacle—a triumph of mechanism to watch; all
<a name="png.454" id="png.454" href="#png.454"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>450<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>but human in so much of its automatic action.
But even this source of interest and occupation
came to an end, and one day Reggie confessed to
his father that after, of course, a look-in at Sydney
and Melbourne, he should not be sorry to be on
board a P. &amp; O. liner once more.</p>

<p>‘If I did not feel,’ said his father, ‘that I was
quitting Australia for the last time, which is for
me a mournful reflection, I should welcome the
idea; but I cannot regard the desertion of one’s
native land, in my case and yours, as merely a
matter of practical convenience.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="ineg">‘The land which knew my life’s best hours,</div>
<div>Ere Fate had gloomed youth’s vernal bowers,</div>
<div class="i1"><span class="ns">  </span>And Hope’s bright blossoms marred,</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">as some boyish rhymer has it.’</p>

<p>‘Australia has done well for us, sir,’ said the
young fellow, ‘and you have done something for
her, permit me to say, in rearing a family true to
the best traditions of the dear old land, our Mother
England, God bless her! It remains with them to
carry out your policy, and as your heir and eldest
son I dedicate myself to the task.’</p>

<p>‘God bless you, my boy!’ said Arnold Banneret,
grasping his hand. ‘You have spoken like the
son of your father, and <em>his</em> father, who was strong
on the point of the loyalty of Australia to the
Crown. How often have I heard him condemn
the self-indulgent, luxurious lives spent by the
sons of wealthy colonists. Only, what about this
P. &amp; O. arrangement?’</p>

<p>‘I have thought of that, sir. Pilot Mount will
<a name="png.455" id="png.455" href="#png.455"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>451<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>run alone, and keep straight by itself for a year.
Within that time I propose to return, if I can get
the permission of a certain young lady—I may as
well say <em>the</em> young lady—to help in the colonisation
scheme.’</p>

<p>‘I understand, my dear boy. I trust the affair
may come off. You have my best wishes. But
consider the climate, the—I don’t say rougher, but
the untried social conditions of colonial life. Take
thought ere it be too late, I beg of you.’</p>

<p>‘I <em>have</em> considered that side of the matter well,
my dear Dad; and if Corisande be the girl I take
her to be, she will like the life all the better for the
opportunity of watching the development of a
great British community from its initial stages.’</p>

<p>‘Possibly, possibly, my dear boy; knowing
what I do of life and feminine characteristics I dare
not say probably. That will be for you to discover
by experience. Everything, that is, everything
connected with the success, the happiness,
even the comfort of your after life, depends upon
the result of that experiment.’</p>

</div>


<div class="chap">
<h2 title="Chapter XX"><a name="png.456" id="png.456" href="#png.456"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>452<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>CHAPTER XX</h2>


<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>
<p><span class="smc">Again</span> the train, the monotonous stretches of
level waste, unbroken save here and there by
straggling villages, or prosperous farm-holdings;
rich and populous goldfields, or, as occasionally
happened, ill-fated and deserted mines, with
melancholy machinery, all rusted and abandoned.
On these and other landmarks was writ large
the tale of hope and enterprise, success, decay,
despair. All were heedfully observed and noted
by the younger traveller; as regularly explained
and classified by the less impulsive senior. Then
darkness, a cooler atmosphere, lights, sea strand,
city and hotel—goal of the weary traveller!</p>

<div class="tb"><b>.       .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .</b></div>

<p>England again! Hexham Hall. Again the
aged woods, the peerless turf, the murmuring
brook, the delicious, settled comfort of English
country life. Then such rides and drives, such
traps and drags, broughams and landaus!—all the
component parts of fully appointed coach-houses
and stables, where expense was not too closely
regarded; such, and all other matters of
<a name="png.457" id="png.457" href="#png.457"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>453<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>comparative luxury, seemed to be forthcoming with a
sort of Arabian Nights profusion.</p>

<p>Then, to crown all, they had left West Australia
in its autumnal month of March, and were here
in April.</p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div>Oh, to be in England, now that April’s here!</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">sang Browning from Italy, and it seemed as if
every thrush and blackbird in Hexham woods had
echoed the aspiration. It was a season of hope
and joy, if ever such a halcyon time occurred on
this occasionally untoward-seeming planet. Mrs. Banneret was serenely, though secretly, exultant,
because her husband and first-born had safely returned,
having successfully carried out the object
of their mission. Hermione and Vanda, passionately
fond of their brothers, and much petted by their
father, were charmed with the state of matters
generally, and looked forward to even more important
developments when Lord and Lady
Hexham, with ‘darling Corisande,’ after which
fashion that young lady was generally alluded to,
should arrive in a week’s time. Eric had taken
his degree creditably at Cambridge, if not brilliantly.
If he had not won the triumph of a ‘double first’
like Reggie, he had done enough for honour.</p>

<p>There were, of course, the hunting fixtures to
be arranged for. The Hexham stud was in great
form and buckle. The Banneret girls, who had
ridden all sorts of horses over all sorts of fences
and roads since earliest childhood, were finished
performers across country. Truth to tell, unless
they came to grief through ‘trappy’ hedge and
<a name="png.458" id="png.458" href="#png.458"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>454<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>ditch obstacles, there was no danger of their being
stopped by English fences after the stiff posts and
rails of their native land. They looked forward to
glorious performances when Reggie would be able
to escort them.</p>

<p>‘Don’t expect too much, my good Vanda,’
said Hermione; ‘he’ll be too nervous about
Corisande’s getting hurt, to trouble about you
and me. A <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fiancée</i> counts for ever so much
more than the dearest sisters.’</p>

<p>‘I can hardly believe that; but we must make
allowances. If Corisande accepts him, we may be
thankful. He might have been caught by some
smart colonial girl. Some of them are very good-looking.’</p>

<p>‘Are they, indeed? Who is a snob now? as
you sometimes say to me. And what are we but
colonial?’</p>

<p>‘Oh, but we’re different!’</p>

<p>‘I can’t see it. Dad has been lucky, and we
are ever so rich—of course “in the swim,” and
so on; but as for being anything that entitles us
to look down on our countrywomen, the idea is
ludicrous. Don’t let people say we can’t stand
our oats.’</p>

<p>‘I apologise, and promise not to offend again.
Of course it’s absurd to talk as if we were anything
but middle-class people, though of course
the Banneret family is as old as the Heptarchy.’</p>

<p>‘That’s very well to know; but the less we
bother about family descent, the more people will
think of us. The Honourable Corisande is a
good sort, and an Earl’s daughter. Rank, when
<a name="png.459" id="png.459" href="#png.459"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>455<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>there’s money to back it up, <em>is</em> a good thing
socially. No sensible person denies it. But the
<em>woman</em>, the real woman, apart from all other
considerations, is what makes for happiness in
marriage, or otherwise. <em>We</em> know this one to be
a straight, plucky, good-tempered girl, with no
nonsense about her; fond too of Reggie, which
is everything. So if the high contracting parties
agree about settlements and things, it will be all
plain sailing.’</p>

<p>‘It’s a big <em>if</em>; but Reggie’s good-looking,
clever, and presentable—well off too. He’s a
catch as men go. I daresay it will come off.
But will she go to West Australia?’</p>

<p>‘If she cares about him, she’ll go <em>anywhere</em>,
and be happy if he is with her; if she only cares
about herself, she’ll be miserable everywhere,
and it won’t matter where she goes.’</p>

<p>Not many days after this important colloquy,
the arrival was announced in the society papers
of the Earl and Countess of Hexham and their
daughters at Hexham Hall, which they were
revisiting on the invitation of the owner. Mr. Banneret and his eldest son, lately returned from
West Australia, had been on a tour of inspection
over their extensive mining and other properties.
This information was followed by notices of
various hunting fixtures, at which the Misses
Banneret and their brother, accompanied by the
Earl of Hexham and the Honourable Corisande
Aylmer, took leading positions. They were admirably
mounted, and, like all Australian colonists,
rode fearlessly yet with judgment. Lady Hexham,
<a name="png.460" id="png.460" href="#png.460"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>456<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>with Mrs. Banneret and the Honourable Adeline
Aylmer, drove to the meet in the Hexham landau.
There were other functions and festivities, few
of which the young people missed; as, indeed,
why should they? Youth is the time for enjoyment,
and being all of the right age, healthy,
happy, and hopeful, they enjoyed the pleasures
suitable to the season, to their age and position,
with all the ardour of early youth. They went
everywhere and did everything,—hunting, polo,
balls, garden parties. It did not pass without
notice that the young people of the new and the
old Hexham families were constantly together,
and that at all social gatherings and entertainments
Reggie Banneret was never very far from
the Honourable Corisande’s vicinity. Of course
the heads of departments, not to mention the
juniors of both families, were not unobservant of
these coincidences, but like wise parents and
relations ‘went on sayin’ nothin’’ until events
should shape themselves definitely.</p>

<p>So it came to pass, after one of the great
functions of the period—to be precise, it was the
annual county ball—that Corisande came to her
mother with her confession. Reggie Banneret had
spoken out—said, in fact, that he had felt from
the first moment he saw her that there was no
other woman in the world for him, and so on,
and so on. ‘I won’t bore you, mother,’ said
the girl, ‘but he said all the usual things men say
at such times, I suppose, and a few more. He <em>is</em>
clever, though a trifle too romantic—isn’t he?
and—<em>I love him</em>.’</p>

<p><a name="png.461" id="png.461" href="#png.461"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>457<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘My dear child,’ said the matron, stroking
her hair tenderly as she knelt before her with her
head on her mother’s lap, ‘you could not bore
me on such an occasion as this, involving indeed
your future happiness as well as that of all related
to you. It is not a matter to be treated lightly,
whatever the people composing “the smart set”
may say.’</p>

<p>‘And what do <em>you</em> say, my darling mother?’
said Corisande, raising her head, while her eyes
shone the more brightly, as the tear-drops fell
slowly, when she made her appeal.</p>

<p>‘My dear, dear Corisande,’ said the elder
woman, as she half-rose and drew the sobbing girl
more closely to her, ‘you have no reason to be
in doubt as to our reply—your father’s and mine—to
Reginald’s offer. We have noticed his attentions.
They were open and straightforward.
Had we disapproved, we should have returned to
Bruges, and so withdrawn from the hazard of an
unsuitable marriage. But so far from disapproval,
you can tell your Reginald and our new relations
that we have no hesitation in giving our unqualified
consent. We have had abundant opportunities of
knowing the family characteristics, and have come
to the conclusion that we like and respect <span class="allsc">ALL</span>
the members of the Banneret family, and have
reason to bless the day when we made their
acquaintance.’</p>

<p>Lord Hexham was absent in London, having
retreated to his club, as he commonly did when
there was any function on hand which did not
specially demand his attendance.</p>

<!-- TN: blockquote with no font change -->
<p class="extraspace"><a name="png.462" id="png.462" href="#png.462"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>458<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>‘I’m getting too old (he wrote) for these late-at-night
racketings and standings about. I know
where I am at afternoon whist in the Senior
United and the Travellers’, but I don’t dance now,
and balls bore me. You and the girls, my Lady,
can manage these minor matters a deal better than
I can. There’s no objection that I can see to
Corisande’s marriage, if they’ve made up their
minds to tackle the Great Experiment. Who is
it says that—Thackeray, or some other fellow? I
never was good at quotations. What I mean is,
that he is a presentable, steady young fellow, with
brains—done well at Cambridge, hasn’t he?—good-looking—that
is, looks like a gentleman,
which is the main thing. The betting’s six to
four on, with such a good start. He’s got the
wherewithal—can’t do without that. So clap ’em
on the back, my Lady—you know what I mean—and
tell ’em I’ll sign, seal, and deliver when the
settlements are ready. Corisande’s a good girl;
hope she won’t go too far away—rough place West
Australia—but I daresay they’ll fit in. I knew
Jerry Taylour, K.C.B.; we were “subs” together
in old army days. They tell me he’s Governor out
there. Daresay he’ll ask ’em to dinner. Expect
me a day or two before <em>the</em> day.

<span class="signature">Hexham.</span>’</p>
<!-- TN: end blockquote -->

<p class="extraspace">His Lordship, as he freely owned, was not
good at letter-writing; but this was much from
him, and to the point. It conveyed more than
many carefully composed epistles. He meant
what he said, and once his word was given never
departed from it. Lady Hexham knew he would
<a name="png.463" id="png.463" href="#png.463"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>459<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>arrive punctually. She was wise in not requiring
him to stay at Hexham too long at one time.
He had never, he said, ‘cared much for country
life.’ He was a man of town habitudes and
occupations. At Bruges, of course, he compelled
himself to conform to the altered circumstances of
the family. And this, to his credit be it spoken,
he managed to do, without loss of cash or self-respect.</p>

<p>However, since the sale of the old Hall and
estate, matters had changed wonderfully for the
better. With his sons doing well in the Army
and Navy, his eldest daughter engaged to a
young fellow who was likely to make a figure in
the world, and was, moreover, a man of fortune,
things were looking up. Why he wanted to go
back to Australia, he couldn’t understand. Were
not England and the Continent good enough for
him—for any man? Corisande would have
to go too, he supposed. Well, she was a good
girl; her place, with her ideas, was with her
husband. He didn’t approve of wives being in
one hemisphere and husbands in another. Didn’t
work well—not in his experience at any rate.
Colonies weren’t such bad places either—come
to think: the money came from there; and but
for it and the man who made it—a gentleman
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">aux bouts des ongles</i>—they would all have
been stuck at Bruges for years to come. The
Hexham family, at any rate, had no right to
grumble.</p>

<p>All in good time the more important function
connected with Hexham Hall was concluded to
<a name="png.464" id="png.464" href="#png.464"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>460<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>the satisfaction of all concerned. The settlements
were even more liberal than the hereditary family
solicitor of the Aylmers had suggested, or than
Lady Hexham, who had an unseen but controlling
influence in such matters, had hoped for. As
for the young people, according to their age and
unwisdom they pooh-poohed such trivialities,
holding that the love that never shall <span class="nw">die—</span></p>

<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="i5"><span class="ns">          </span>Till the sun grows cold,</div>
<div class="i5"><span class="ns">          </span>And the stars are old,</div>
<div>And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold—</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>

<p class="noindent">would be amply sufficient in its tenderness and
truth to guard their future lives from all ‘ills that
flesh is heir to,’ and more besides. But their
elders knew better. So everything was done with
due legal form and security: trustees appointed,
and all the rest of it.</p>

<p>The wedding came off triumphantly at St. James’s,
Hanover Square. The day, wonderful to relate,
was fine; all the surroundings seemed sympathetic.
Two tall, handsome Australian cousins came home
by the <cite>Moldavia</cite>, P. &amp; O., just in time to
make up the proper number of bridesmaids who
walked up the aisle with the impressive dignity
proper to the occasion. Half London was there,
of course. Every one wanted to see the bridegroom,
erroneously reported to have twenty
thousand a year, and to have worked as a digger
on the field before he ‘made his pile.’ And when
Lord Hexham led the Honourable Corisande to
the altar, the stately peer and his lovely daughter
evoked audible exclamations of approval. Finally,
<a name="png.465" id="png.465" href="#png.465"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>461<span class="ns">]
 </span></span></a>as amid the melodious crash of the ‘Wedding
March,’ Reggie Banneret and she walked out
as wedded pair, the friends of both families, and
even mere acquaintances, seemed infected with
that mysterious feminine sympathy which at all
weddings finds relief in tears.</p>


<p class="fin">THE END</p>


<p class="printedby"><small><i>Printed by</i> <span class="smc">R. &amp; R. Clark, Limited</span>, <i>Edinburgh</i>.</small></p>

</div>

<h2 id="adverts" title="Advertisements"> </h2>

<div class="adverts">
<h3 title="The Novels of Rolf Boldrewood"><a name="png.467" id="png.467" href="#png.467"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>463<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a><span class="sans">THE NOVELS OF ROLF BOLDREWOOD.</span></h3>


<p class="noindent"><b>THE GHOST CAMP; or, The Avengers.</b> <small>Crown 8vo. 6s.</small></p>

<h4 title=""><i>Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. each.</i></h4>


<p class="noindent"><b>ROBBERY UNDER ARMS.</b></p>
<p class="ctr">A STORY OF LIFE AND ADVENTURE IN THE BUSH AND IN THE
GOLD-FIELDS OF AUSTRALIA.</p>

<p><cite>GUARDIAN.</cite>—“A singularly spirited and stirring tale of Australian life, chiefly
in the remoter settlements.”</p>


<p class="noindent"><b>A MODERN BUCCANEER.</b></p>

<p><cite>DAILY CHRONICLE.</cite>—“We do not forget <cite>Robbery under Arms</cite>, or any of its
various successors, when we say that Rolf Boldrewood has never done anything so good as
<cite>A Modern Buccaneer</cite>. It is good, too, in a manner which is for the author a new one.”</p>


<p class="noindent"><b>THE MINER’S RIGHT.</b></p>
<p class="ctr">A TALE OF THE AUSTRALIAN GOLD-FIELDS.</p>

<p><cite>WORLD.</cite>—“Full of good passages, passages abounding in vivacity, in the colour and
play of life.... The pith of the book lies in its singularly fresh and vivid pictures of the
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<p class="noindent"><b>THE SQUATTER’S DREAM.</b></p>

<p><cite>FIELD.</cite>—“The details are filled in by a hand evidently well conversant with his subject,
and everything is <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">ben trovato</i>, if not actually true. A perusal of these cheerfully written
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from many more pretentious works.”</p>


<p class="noindent"><b>A SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON.</b></p>

<p><cite>GLASGOW HERALD.</cite>—“The interest never flags, and altogether <cite>A Sydney-Side
Saxon</cite> is a really refreshing book.”</p>


<p class="noindent"><b>A COLONIAL REFORMER.</b></p>

<p><cite>ATHENÆUM.</cite>—“A series of natural and entertaining pictures of Australian life,
which are, above all things, readable.”</p>


<p class="noindent"><b>NEVERMORE.</b></p>

<p><cite>OBSERVER.</cite>—“An exciting story of Ballarat in the ’fifties. Its hero, Lance
Trevanion, is a character which for force of delineation has no equal in Rolf Boldrewood’s
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<p class="noindent"><b>PLAIN LIVING.</b> A Bush Idyll.</p>

<p><cite>ACADEMY.</cite>—“A hearty story, deriving charm from the odours of the bush and the
bleating of incalculable sheep.”</p>


<p class="noindent"><b>MY RUN HOME.</b></p>

<p><cite>ATHENÆUM.</cite>—“Rolf Boldrewood’s last story is a racy volume. It has many of the
best qualities of Whyte-Melville, the breezy freshness and vigour of Frank Smedley, with
the dash and something of the abandon of Lever.... His last volume is one of his best.”</p>


<p class="noindent"><b>THE SEALSKIN CLOAK.</b></p>

<p><cite>TIMES.</cite>—“A well-written story.”</p>


<p class="noindent"><b>THE CROOKED STICK; or, Pollie’s Probation.</b></p>

<p><cite>ACADEMY.</cite>—“A charming picture of Australian station life.”</p>


<p class="noindent"><b>OLD MELBOURNE MEMORIES.</b></p>

<p><cite>NATIONAL OBSERVER.</cite>—“His book deserves to be read in England with as
much appreciation as it has already gained in the country of its birth.”</p>


<p class="noindent"><b>A ROMANCE OF CANVAS TOWN</b>, and other Stories.</p>

<p><cite>ATHENÆUM.</cite>—“The book is interesting for its obvious insight into life in the
Australian bush.”<!-- TN: original has single closing quote --></p>


<p class="noindent"><b>WAR TO THE KNIFE; or, Tangata Maori.</b></p>

<p><cite>ACADEMY.</cite>—“A stirring romance.”</p>


<p class="noindent"><b>BABES IN THE BUSH.</b></p>

<p><cite>OUTLOOK.</cite>—“A lively and picturesque story.”</p>

<p><cite>DAILY TELEGRAPH.</cite>—“Bristles with thrilling incident.”</p>


<p class="noindent"><b>IN BAD COMPANY</b>, and other Stories.</p>

<p><cite>OUTLOOK.</cite>—“Very good reading.”</p>

<p><cite>DAILY NEWS.</cite>—“The best work this popular author has done for some time.”<!-- TN: original has single closing quote --></p>


<h4 title=""><i>Fcap. 8vo. 2s.</i></h4>


<p class="noindent"><b>THE SPHINX OF EAGLEHAWK.</b></p>

<p>A TALE OF OLD BENDIGO.

<small class="fltrt">[<i>Macmillan’s Pocket Novels.</i></small></p>

<p><cite>QUEEN.</cite>—“There is the usual mystery, the usual admirable gold-fields’ local colour,
which we expect from our favourite Rolf Boldrewood.”</p>

<h4 title="" class="smc"><big>MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd., LONDON.</big></h4>

</div>


<div class="adverts" id="kipling">
<h3 title="Uniform Edition of the Works of Rudyard Kipling"><a name="png.468" id="png.468" href="#png.468"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>464<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>UNIFORM EDITION OF<br
 /><big>THE WORKS OF RUDYARD KIPLING.</big></h3>

<h4 title=""><i>Extra Crown 8vo. Red cloth, gilt tops. 6s. each.</i></h4>
<hr class="twentyfivepct" />

<p class="noindent"><b>TRAFFICS AND DISCOVERIES.</b></p>

<h5 title=""><i>45th Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>JUST SO STORIES FOR LITTLE CHILDREN.</b><br
 /><small>With Illustrations by the Author.</small></p>

<h5 title=""><i>65th Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>KIM.</b> With Illustrations by <span class="smc">J. Lockwood Kipling</span>.</p>

<h5 title=""><i>38th Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>STALKY &amp; CO.</b></p>

<h5 title=""><i>62nd Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>THE DAY’S WORK.</b></p>

<h5 title=""><i>53rd Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>PLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS.</b></p>

<h5 title=""><i>44th Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>LIFE’S HANDICAP.</b> <span class="smc">Being Stories of Mine Own People.</span></p>

<h5 title=""><i>41st Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>MANY INVENTIONS.</b></p>

<h5 title=""><i>50th Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>THE LIGHT THAT FAILED.</b> Rewritten and considerably
enlarged.</p>

<h5 title=""><i>21st Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>WEE WILLIE WINKIE,</b> and other Stories.</p>

<h5 title=""><i>25th Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>SOLDIERS THREE,</b> and other Stories.</p>

<h5 title=""><i>67th Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>THE JUNGLE BOOK.</b> With Illustrations by <span class="smc">J. L. Kipling</span>,
<span class="smc">W. H. Drake</span>, and <span class="smc">P. Frenzeny</span>.</p>

<h5 title=""><i>46th Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>THE SECOND JUNGLE BOOK.</b> With Illustrations by
<span class="smc">J. Lockwood Kipling</span>.</p>

<h5 title=""><i>30th Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>“CAPTAINS COURAGEOUS.”</b> <span class="smc">A Story of the Grand
Banks.</span> Illustrated by <span class="smc">I. W. Taber</span>.</p>

<h5 title=""><i>17th Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>FROM SEA TO SEA.</b> <span class="smc">Letters of Travel.</span> In Two Vols.</p>

<p class="noindent"><b>THE NAULAHKA.</b> <span class="smc">A Story of West and East.</span> By
<span class="smc">Rudyard Kipling</span> and <span class="smc">Wolcott Balestier</span>.</p>

<h4 title=""><i>Also issued in Special Binding for Presentation.<br
 />Cloth extra, with gilt edges. Price 6s. each.</i></h4>

<h5 title=""><i>11th Thousand.</i></h5>

<p class="noindent"><b>SOLDIER TALES.</b> With Illustrations by <span class="smc">A. S. Hartrick</span>.</p>

<p class="noindent"><b>THE JUNGLE BOOK.</b> Illustrated.</p>

<p class="noindent"><b>THE SECOND JUNGLE BOOK.</b> Illustrated.</p>

<p class="noindent"><b>“CAPTAINS COURAGEOUS.”</b> Illustrated.</p>

<h4 title="" class="smc"><big>MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd., LONDON.</big></h4>

</div>

<div class="badvert">
<a name="png.469" id="png.469" href="#png.469"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>1<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a><p class="dropcap"><big class="dropcap">MESSRS. MACMILLAN <small><small>&amp;</small></small> CO.</big> have pleasure in announcing that
their list of Novels for publication during
the Autumn of <span class="oldstyle">1905</span> includes Works by</p>

<p class="authors">F. MARION CRAWFORD<br
 />WINSTON CHURCHILL<br
 />EDITH WHARTON<br
 />H. G. WELLS<br
 />OWEN WISTER<br
 />OUIDA<br
 />RHODA BROUGHTON<br
 />W. E. NORRIS<br
 />CHARLES MAJOR<br
 />ROLF BOLDREWOOD<br
 />WILLIAM SATCHELL<br
 />ROSA N. CAREY<br
 />BEULAH MARIE DIX<br
 />EMERSON HOUGH<br
 />SAMUEL MERWIN</p>


<p class="printedby"><span class="smc">LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited</span></p>
</div>



<div class="coladverts">
<h3 title="New &amp; Notable Novels"><a name="png.470" id="png.470" href="#png.470"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>2<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a><big>NEW &amp; NOTABLE NOVELS</big></h3>

<div class="leftcol"><div class="newnovel">
Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel"><big>SOPRANO</big><br
 />A PORTRAIT</p>

By<br
/>F. M. CRAWFORD

<p class="newnovel"><small><small>A story of modern operatic life in Paris
with an English heroine who possesses a
marvellous soprano voice.</small></small></p>
</div><div class="newnovel">
Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel"><big>THE<br
 />HOUSE OF MIRTH</big></p>

By<br
 />EDITH WHARTON

<p class="newnovel"><small><small>The first long novel by this author since
the publication of that remarkable book
“The Valley of Decision.”</small></small></p>
</div></div><div class="rightcol"><div class="newnovel">
Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel2"><big>CONISTON</big></p>

By<br
 />WINSTON CHURCHILL

<p class="newnovel"><small><small>An addition to the series of novels
dealing with American history which have
made this author famous.</small></small></p>
</div><div class="newnovel">
Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel2"><big>KIPPS</big></p>

By<br
 />H. G. WELLS

<p class="newnovel"><small><small>Kipps is a draper’s apprentice who comes
early into a fortune. The book describes
his struggles to realise a fuller, wider life.</small></small></p>
</div></div><div class="leftcol"><div class="newnovel">
<a name="png.471" id="png.471" href="#png.471"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>3<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel"><big>LADY<br
 />BALTIMORE</big></p>

By<br
 />OWEN WISTER

<p class="newnovel"><small><small>For his hero Mr. Wister has again
chosen an attractive young Southerner, but
not this time a Virginian.</small></small></p>
</div><div class="newnovel">
Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel"><big>A<br
 />WAIF’S PROGRESS</big></p>

By<br
 />RHODA BROUGHTON

<p class="newnovel"><small><small>Describes the struggles of a girl, reared
amid vicious surroundings, to secure a
footing in respectable society.</small></small></p>
</div></div><div class="rightcol"><div class="newnovel">
Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel3"><big>HELIANTHUS</big></p>

By<br
 />OUIDA
</div><div class="newnovel">
Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel3"><big>LONE<br
 />MARIE</big></p>

By<br
 />W. E. NORRIS
</div></div><div class="leftcol"><div class="newnovel">
<a name="png.472" id="png.472" href="#png.472"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>4<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel2"><big>YOLANDA</big></p>

By<br
 />CHARLES MAJOR

<p class="newnovel"><small><small>Resembles “When Knighthood was in
Flower” (of which 500,000 were sold)
more than any other of Mr. Major’s books.</small></small></p>
</div><div class="newnovel">
Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel"><big>THE TOLL<br
 />OF THE BUSH</big></p>

By<br
 />WILLIAM SATCHELL

<p class="newnovel"><small><small>A fresh and vigorous story of the early
settlements in a remote district of New
Zealand.</small></small></p>
</div></div><div class="rightcol"><div class="newnovel">
Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel"><big>THE<br
 />LAST CHANCE</big><br
 />A Tale of the Golden West</p>

By<br
 />ROLF BOLDREWOOD

<p class="newnovel"><small><small>A tale of the Goldfields of Western
Australia, and of a mining speculation
that was a triumphant success.</small></small></p>
</div><div class="newnovel">
Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel2"><big>THE<br
 />HOUSEHOLD<br
 />OF PETER</big></p>

By<br
 />ROSA N. CAREY

</div></div><div class="leftcol"><div class="newnovel"><a name="png.473" id="png.473" href="#png.473"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>5<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel"><big>THE<br
 />FAIR MAID<br
 />OF GRAYSTONES</big></p>

By<br
 />BEULAH MARIE DIX

<p class="newnovel"><small><small>The scenes of this story take place in
Suffolk in 1648, after the surrender of
Colchester to the Parliamentary forces.</small></small></p>
</div><div class="newnovel">
Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel"><big>A LINK<br
 />IN THE GIRDLE</big></p>

By<br
 />SAMUEL MERWIN

<p class="newnovel"><small><small>The main theme of this exciting story is
the construction of a railway in Texas in
the face of great difficulties.</small></small></p>
</div></div><div class="rightcol"><div class="newnovel">
Crown 8vo.<br
 />Gilt top. Price 6s.

<p class="novel2"><big>HEART’S DESIRE</big></p>

By<br
 />EMERSON HOUGH

<p class="newnovel"><small><small>A romantic story of the Western States
of America, giving delightful pictures of
country life and scenes.</small></small></p>
</div><div class="newnovel">
Crown 8vo.<br
 />Cloth extra, Gilt edges. 6s.

<p class="novel"><big>HENRY ESMOND</big></p>

By<br
 />W. M. THACKERAY<br
 /> <br
 />With Illustrations<br
 />by<br
 />HUGH THOMSON
</div></div>
</div>


<div class="coladverts">
<h3 title="Notable Six-shilling Novels"><a name="png.474" id="png.474" href="#png.474"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>6<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a><big>NOTABLE SIX-SHILLING<br
 />NOVELS</big></h3>

<div class="leftcol"><div class="newnovel">
<p class="novel">By<br
 /><big>WINSTON<br
 />CHURCHILL</big></p>

<p class="novels">Richard Carvel.</p>
<p class="novels">The Crisis.</p>
<p class="novels">The Crossing.</p>
<p class="novels">Coniston.</p>
<p class="novels">The Celebrity.</p>
</div><div class="newnovel">
<p class="novel">By<br
 /><big>MAURICE<br
 />HEWLETT</big></p>

<p class="novels">The Forest Lovers.</p>

<p class="novels">Richard Yea-and-Nay.</p>

<p class="novels">Little Novels of Italy.</p>

<p class="novels">The Queen’s Quair; or,
The Six Years’ Tragedy.</p>

<p class="novels">Fond Adventures; Tales
of the Youth of the
World.</p>
</div></div><div class="rightcol"><div class="newnovel">

<p class="novel">By<br
/><big>F. MARION<br
/>CRAWFORD</big></p>

<p class="novels">Marietta: A Maid of
Venice.</p>

<p class="novels">Cecilia: A Story of Modern
Rome.</p>

<p class="novels">The Heart of Rome.</p>

<p class="novels">Whosoever shall offend....</p>

<p class="novels">Soprano: A Portrait.</p>

</div><div class="newnovel">
<p class="novel">By<br
/><big>JAMES LANE<br
/>ALLEN</big></p>

<p class="novels">The Choir Invisible.</p>

<p class="novels">The Increasing Purpose.</p>

<p class="novels">The Mettle of the Pasture.</p>

<p class="novels">A Kentucky Cardinal and
Aftermath. Illustrated
by H. Thomson.</p>

<p class="novels">Flute and Violin.</p>

</div></div><div class="leftcol"><div class="newnovel">
<p class="novel"><a name="png.475" id="png.475" href="#png.475"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>7<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a>By<br
 /><big>GERTRUDE<br
 />ATHERTON</big></p>

<p class="novels">Rulers of Kings.</p>

<p class="novels">The Splendid Idle Forties.</p>

<p class="novels">Bell in the Fog.</p>

</div><div class="newnovel">
<p class="novel">By<br
 /><big>ALFRED<br
 />TRESIDDER<br
 />SHEPPARD</big></p>

<p class="novels">The Red Cravat.</p>

</div><div class="newnovel">
<p class="novel">By<br
 /><big>ROSA<br
 />NOUCHETTE<br
 />CAREY</big></p>

<p class="novels">A Passage Perilous.</p>

<p class="novels">At the Moorings.</p>

<p class="novels">Household of Peter.</p>

</div></div><div class="rightcol"><div class="newnovel">
<p class="novel">By<br
 /><big>EDITH<br
 />WHARTON</big></p>

<p class="novels">The Descent of Man, and
other Stories.</p>

</div><div class="newnovel">
<p class="novel">By<br
 /><big>CUTCLIFFE HYNE</big></p>

<p class="novels">Atoms of Empire.</p>

<p class="novels">McTodd.</p>

</div><div class="newnovel">
<p class="novel">By<br
 /><big>CHARLES MAJOR</big></p>

<p class="novels">Dorothy Vernon of Haddon
Hall.</p>

<p class="novels">A Forest Hearth.</p>

</div><div class="newnovel">
<p class="novel">By<br
 /><big>OWEN WISTER</big></p>

<p class="novels">The Virginian: A Horseman
of the Plains.</p>

</div></div>
</div>


<div class="coladverts" id="lastad">
<h3 title="Uniform Edition of the Works of Rudyard Kipling"><a name="png.476" id="png.476" href="#png.476"><span class="pagenum"><span
 class="ns">[</span>8<span class="ns">]<br
 /></span></span></a><small>UNIFORM EDITION OF THE</small><br
 />WORKS OF RUDYARD KIPLING<br
 /><small><small><i>Extra Crown 8vo.   Scarlet Cloth.   Gilt Tops.   <b class="rom">6s.</b> each</i></small></small></h3><div
 class="leftcol">
<h5 title="">32nd Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>Traffics and Discoveries</big></p>


<h5 title="">45th Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>Just So Stories for Little
Children</big><br
 />With Illustrations by the Author<br
 />Also 4to Edition. 6s.</p>


<h5 title="">65th Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>Kim</big><br
 />Illustrated by <span class="smc">J. L. Kipling</span></p>


<h5 title="">38th Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>Stalky &amp; Co.</big></p>

<p class="blurb"><small><cite>PALL MALL GAZETTE.</cite>—“If ‘Stalky &amp; Co.’ does not become as classic as the greatest
favourites among Mr.<!-- TN: period invisible --> Kipling’s previous volumes of
stories, write us down false prophets. He has
never written with more rapturously swinging zest,
or bubbled over with more rollicking fun.”</small></p>


<h5 title="">62nd Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>The Day’s Work</big></p>

<p class="blurb"><small><cite>MORNING POST.</cite>—“The book is so varied,
so full of colour and life from end to end, that few
who read the first two or three stories will lay it
down till they have read the last.”</small></p>


<h5 title="">53rd Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>Plain Tales from the Hills</big></p>

<p class="blurb"><small><cite>SATURDAY REVIEW.</cite>—“Mr. Kipling
knows and appreciates the English in India, and
is a born story teller and a man of humour into the
bargain.... It would be hard to find better
reading.”</small></p>


<h5 title="">44th Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>Life’s Handicap</big><br
 />Being Stories of Mine Own People</p>

<p class="blurb"><small><cite>BLACK AND WHITE.</cite>—“‘Life’s Handicap’
contains much of the best work hitherto accomplished
by the author, and, taken as a whole, is a
complete advance upon its predecessors.”</small></p>


<h5 title="">41st Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>Many Inventions</big></p>

<p class="blurb"><small><cite>PALL MALL GAZETTE.</cite>—“The completest
book that Mr. Kipling has yet given us in workmanship,
the weightiest and most humane in
breadth of view.... It can only be regarded as
a fresh landmark in the progression of his
genius.”</small></p>


<h5 title="">21st Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>Wee Willie Winkie</big><br
 />and other Stories</p>
</div><div class="rightcol">

<h5 title="">25th Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>Soldiers Three</big><br
 />and other Stories</p>

<p class="blurb"><small><cite>GLOBE.</cite>—“Containing some of the best of his
highly vivid work.”</small></p>


<h5 title="">67th Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>The Jungle Book</big><br
 />With Illustrations by <span class="smc">J. L. Kipling</span>
and W. H. Drake</p>

<p class="blurb"><small><cite>PUNCH.</cite>—“‘Æsop’s Fables and dear old Brer
Fox and Co,’ observes the Baron<!-- TN: inferred; original unclear --> sagely, ‘may
have suggested to the fanciful genius of Rudyard
Kipling the delightful idea, carried out in the
most fascinating style, of “The Jungle Book.”’”</small></p>


<h5 title="">46th Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>The Second Jungle Book</big><br
 />With Illustrations by <span class="smc">J. Lockwood
Kipling</span></p>

<p class="blurb"><small><cite>DAILY TELEGRAPH.</cite>—“The appearance
of ‘The Second Jungle Book’ is a literary event
of which no one will mistake the importance. Unlike
most sequels, the various stories comprised in
the new volume are at least equal to their predecessors.”</small></p>


<h5 title="">30th Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>“Captains Courageous”</big><br
 />A Story of the Grand Banks. Illustrated
by <span class="smc">I W. Taber</span></p>

<p class="blurb"><small><cite>ATHENÆUM.</cite>—“Never in English prose has
the sea in all its myriad aspects, with all its sounds
and sights and odours, been reproduced with such
subtle skill as in these pages.”</small></p>


<h5 title="">17th Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>From Sea to Sea</big><br
 />Letters of Travel. In Two Vols.</p>

<p class="blurb"><small><cite>DAILY TELEGRAPH.</cite>—“‘From Sea to
Sea’ is delightful reading throughout. ‘Good
things’ sparkle in its every page, and inimitable
descriptive matter abounds.... A charming
book.”</small></p>


<h5 title="">50th Thousand</h5>

<p class="ctr"><big>The Light that Failed</big><br
 />Re-written and considerably enlarged</p>

<p class="blurb"><small><cite>ACADEMY.</cite>—“Whatever else be true of Mr. Kipling, it is the first truth about him that he has
power, real intrinsic power.... Mr. Kipling’s
work has innumerable good qualities.”</small></p>


<p class="ctr"><big>The Naulahka</big><br
 />A Story of West and East<br
 /><span class="allsc">BY</span><br
 /><big>RUDYARD KIPLING</big><br
 /><span class="allsc">AND</span><br
 /><big>WOLCOTT BALESTIER</big></p>
</div>
</div>


<p class="ctr"><small><small class="allsc">R. CLAY AND SONS, LTD., BREAD ST. HILL E.C., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.<br
 /><span class="fltrt"><span class="oldstyle">40,000 16.8.’05</span></span></small></small></p>



<div class="tnote">
<h2>Transcriber’s Note</h2>

<p>A small number of clear typographical errors (mostly quote marks) have been corrected.</p>

</div>

<hr class="ww" />

<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 61385 ***</div>
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