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Title: The Last Chance
       A tale of the Golden West

Author: Rolf Boldrewood

Release Date: February 12, 2020 [EBook #61385]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

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                    THE LAST CHANCE

               A TALE OF THE GOLDEN WEST




[Publisher’s Device: MM & Co]




                    THE LAST CHANCE
               A Tale of the Golden West

                           BY
                    ROLF BOLDREWOOD

                       AUTHOR OF
      ‘ROBBERY UNDER ARMS,’ ‘THE MINER’S RIGHT,’
  ‘THE SQUATTER’S DREAM.’ ‘A COLONIAL REFORMER,’ ETC.


                         London
               MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
            NEW YORK : THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
                          1905

                 _All rights reserved_




_Copyright in the United States of America._




CHAPTER I


As 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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 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?’

‘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?’

‘Certainly I have; I never thought anything 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.’

‘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
_is_ business, my word! You don’t hear the like every day.’

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.

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.

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.’

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 Puddler, ‘if there was any one in the inner parlour?’

‘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. _Why_,
what’s the matter with _you_, Jack?’ he continued, looking with sudden
interest at the worn limbs and sunken features of the digger.

‘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.’

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.

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.’

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.

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 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.’

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.

‘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.’

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.

The Commissioner’s experienced eye gleamed, and even the sunken orbs
of the miner showed a fresh, though faint glimmer, as the pale stones
‘strung together with gold,’ in miner’s parlance, lay heaped together.

‘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.’

‘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!’

‘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?’

‘You’ll find me five hundred pound, 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 _if_ 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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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 living man can say that Jack
Waters told a lie, or hid the truth. When I say I _saw_ and _touched_,
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.’

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.’

‘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 _now_ 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.’

‘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?’

‘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.’

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

‘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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

The Commissioner proceeded to his office, where he carefully locked up
the precious stones—precious in every sense of the word—in the
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.

‘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?’

‘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.’

‘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?’

‘Out and out; never saw anything like it.’

‘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?’

‘Thanks very much. I must go home’; and they parted—the banker to dine
at the hotel 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
_never again_ 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.




CHAPTER II


‘What’s 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.’

‘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.

Mrs. Banneret was a woman of exceptional courage, and capacity in
business matters—such as few men are privileged to win and wear in
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.

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.

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.

There were very few residents in any class, caste, or occupation in
Barrawong who had not 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.

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 _rusé_ 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.

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
with wifely sympathy, as well as anxiety for the safety of the family
ark, that she began her inquiry.

‘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 _pour tout potage_ besides. You put full
faith in old Jack Waters; I have heard you speak of him.’

‘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.’

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

‘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.’

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

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

‘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?’

Mr. Banneret was a reasonable, though not an 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.

‘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.

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.

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 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, _not_ 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.

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.

‘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!’

‘Yes, my dear,’ said the lady, looking softly in 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 _again_, it seems to
me—poor Hector and Paris too! It’s a plunge, isn’t it?’

‘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.’

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 _Western Watchman_, 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.

‘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.’

‘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
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 _you_, 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 _will_ matter to the last day
of your lives. You believe me, it’s God’s truth, as I’m a living man
this day.’

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.

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

‘I _was_ 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?’

‘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.

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.’

‘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.’

‘How did you come to know of it?’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

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

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 gurgled and bubbled beneath
the horses’ feet, Mrs. Banneret thus addressed her husband:

‘Had a good day, my dear?’

‘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.’

‘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 _my_
report, which is urgent—immediate, and can’t “wait a week,” whatever
else can.’

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

‘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
_him_. 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.’

‘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.’

‘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?’

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

‘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—_if_ 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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘I know that, my dear. Pluck enough for half-a-dozen men—let alone
women. What about this leave? Do you mean——?’

‘Of course I do; apply _at once_ for three months’ leave. Pressure of
work, and so on. I’ve noticed you _do_ look rather fagged now and
then—though I never said so. Urgent private affairs also. Then _go
with him_. 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.’

‘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
_you_ get on?’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

The Commissioner got his leave of absence on the ground of ‘urgent
private affairs’—which was 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 _tons_, 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 _quantité négligeable_.
Excitable public meetings were common, and, as an outlet for
smouldering popular feeling, answered a good purpose.

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

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 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.

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!

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.

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 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.

‘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 _this_ 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
_their_ 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.’

‘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.’

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 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.

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.

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.

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 was carried out—after a week’s voyage, they duly arrived at
their distant stage.

‘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.

On the morrow Waters proceeded to explain his plan of action.

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.

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. ‘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 _start_. It’s mostly plain sailing afterwards.’

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.

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.

The ‘township,’ when they got there, was such a one as the
Commissioner had never before seen 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.

Here there was none, absolutely _none_. 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 _none_ 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, _charged for
separately_ in the bars when supplied with alcohol!

‘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.

‘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 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.’

‘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.’

‘Well, sir, this is the richest goldfield in Australia, just now, and
likely to be the biggest. _You_ 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 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 (_Schinus molle_), friend of the
pioneer horticulturist, had already made a lodgment, as well as the
Kurrajong or Cooramin (_Sterculia_), the slow growth of which,
however, few of the present population would remain to witness.

All purchases made, the team fed and rested, the loading arranged as
only the experienced overlander knows how, and supper over, a start
was made by the light of a rising moon.

‘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.’

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

‘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.’

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.

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,
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.

‘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. 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 _did_ 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.

‘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.’

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.

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.

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

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.

‘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?’

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

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

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.

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.’

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 man in front of them, who was keeping closely to their
track, as in the outward run.

‘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.’

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.

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.

Many days and nights were passed in desert travelling, in more or less
monotonous fashion. 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, _he_ 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 _was_ 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.

‘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 _but_ the right
’un, and almost break their shins over the real thing without ever
knowin’ it.’

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,
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 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 _not_ played him false—there _is_ 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.




CHAPTER III


Apparently 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.

‘What the deuce is that? Who do you think they are?’

‘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.’

‘We ought to go over to them?’

‘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 _were_ headin’ for the hill, anyway, and
it won’t bluff ’em if we turn round, besides losin’ time.’

‘I agree with you,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Put the saddle on the
leader; I’ll ride over and talk to them.’

‘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.’

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.

‘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.’

‘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.’

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

‘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
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.’

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.’

‘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?’

‘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.’

‘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
on ahead and speak to my mate.’ And he cantered off.

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.

‘This _is_ 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.’

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

‘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. _Cantabit vacuus_—eh?’

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.

‘This is John Waters, my partner, gentlemen,’ 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.’

‘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.’

‘Fellows grumble at a tough steak at home,’ said Southwater; ‘talk
about having no appetite till 8 P.M. 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.’

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.’

‘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?’

‘That is the precise state of the case. Here is the prospector who
discovered our bonanza, and will explain.’

‘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.’

‘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 _must_ 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.’

‘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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

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 _haute volée_ of English
society.

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.

‘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.’

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.

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 after a bit of breakfast we can open up the reef,
and you’ll see what sort of a show it is.’

       *       *       *       *       *

‘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 _is_ a wilderness, and no mistake. I used to
wonder what one was like when I was at school. Now I know.’

‘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 _Elegy_ hath it. But _gold_
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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

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.

‘I’d been in an’ out them upper gulches,’ said 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.

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.’

‘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.’

‘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?’

‘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.’

The adjournment was carried _nem. con._ 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.

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 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.

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, 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:

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘There isn’t a man as was on the field when I 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’.’

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.

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

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

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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?’

‘It is that, sir. I suppose you couldn’t lay us on to the spot where
that show come from?’

‘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.

‘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.’




CHAPTER IV


‘Thanks 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.’

‘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 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.

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.

For rain _does_ 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 the
teamsters, terrifying to their horses—and all others.

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.’

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 observable any objectionable roughness of tone or manner, in a
company formed of such heterogeneous elements.

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.

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.

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, 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.

‘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 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.

‘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, _before_ 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 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.

‘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.’

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.

‘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
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?’

‘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.’

‘How long do we stay here?’

‘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).’

‘And you told him all about it?’

‘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.’

‘What a rush there’ll be, directly it gets wind! No doubt about that.
When does the _Miner’s Friend_ come out?’

‘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.’

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

They had not been successful, so far, and so 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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

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

‘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.’

‘Well, if you do that, it’s all right, of course.’

‘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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

‘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.

‘Doubtless there is, but delays occur, protracted 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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

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 time.
True, at times his position had been one of great, even painful
responsibility.

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.

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 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.

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.

But more matter-of-fact mundane considerations had to be considered,
and primarily dealt with. Three months’ further leave had to be
applied for ‘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.

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 _Western Watchman_ 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 had cash enough to take him there, would be on
the road within forty-eight hours.

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.

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 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?’

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.

‘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?’

‘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.’

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

‘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.’

‘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 anything else—what is
the use of losing all this time?’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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!’

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 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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

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 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 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.

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, _blasées_ with
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.

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.

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.

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
gold-bearing district, had exceeded the usual term, and the
manifestations of public sympathy were therefore more general and
pronounced.

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.

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.’

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, many the professions of regret, when the news of resignation
was confirmed. Where were they to get another man versed in their
mining laws?

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 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
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 _élite_ 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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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, 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.

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!” 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
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.

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 so-called prosperity, for which I have been longing, consciously
or otherwise, all my life; and now that it _has_ 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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

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.

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 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.

‘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.’

‘Yes, we know, mother,’ said the eldest girl. ‘But there is only _one_
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.’

‘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.’

‘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 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.’

‘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.’

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

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

‘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.’

‘I shall never feel like _that_, mother!’ said the boy feelingly.
‘Don’t make any mistake.’

       *       *       *       *       *

The eventful step was fully carried out; 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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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 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.

The breakfast hour permitted a free and full 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.

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.

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.

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 the
drainage from a ‘soak’ would fill a bucket in a day; ‘dry-blowing
claims,’ wherever 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.

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. _They_ 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!

At first, in the inevitable turmoil, the rush and hurry of a big and
daily-growing field, but 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.

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 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.

It was just as well that Mr. Banneret made himself acquainted with the
hospital and the _personnel_ 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.

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 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 _Miner’s Mentor_ 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 _dream_ 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 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.

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

‘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 _your_ turn,
Mrs. Lilburne.’

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

‘I know, I know,’ replied the man of life and death. ‘But don’t _you_
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.

‘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 _really_ 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 _past_,
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.’

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.

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 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 _must_ 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.

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 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
_Kashmir_, bound for Europe _via_ 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.

Shipwreck rarely occurs among first-class liners like the _Kashmir_,
P. & O., but there _is_ 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 _Kashmir_ arrived at Adelaide.

She was met at the landing by a friend of the family, who handed her a
telegram:—

  On board P. & O. steamer _Kashmir_.—Mr. Banneret better.
  Dr. Horton considers crisis past. No need for haste.

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.’

‘I can assure you,’ said the kindly matron, ‘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.’

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

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

‘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.’

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

‘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.’

‘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.’

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.

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.’

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

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

‘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.’

‘What was the doctor’s name?’

‘Horton. Mrs. Hampton said he was strictly reliable.’

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

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

‘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 which, as our mine, the “Golden
Helmet,” is paying well, I trust we may go to England for good.’

‘And do you like living here?’

‘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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 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 her:—

  My darling Wife—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,
                                                  Arnold Banneret.

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.

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 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.

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

‘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.’

‘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?’

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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 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.’

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.

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 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.

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.

‘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.’

‘You must endeavour _not_ to think of it, dear,’ he said softly. ‘You
will be able to take _me_ 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 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.’

‘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 the most solid and
influential components of the hastily gathered and yet firmly welded
framework of society.

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.

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

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.

There was no proof, either one way or the 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.

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 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 _en flâneur_ on the
highways and byways!

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 _might_ 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.

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 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.




CHAPTER V


There 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 _au bout des ongles_; 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 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.

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!’

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.

Mrs. Banneret was not the only person on the goldfields who was
interested in the story of 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.

He was not the only admirer—the Adonis of the field, Eachin Durward, a
tall, handsome, grand-looking Highlander, was known to be devoted to
her,—was well-off too,—would have left for Europe _via_ 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.

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

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 West—that fateful Eldorado which numbered
so many of the best and noblest of Australia’s—Britain’s—sons among
the ‘unreturning brave.’

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.

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!

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
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!’

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 general of Division and a scientific millionaire combined.

‘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.’

‘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.

Rich—beyond any of _his_ 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, 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 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.

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.

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 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.

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!

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, 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 _can_ 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!’

‘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!’

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

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 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 _la joie de vivre_,
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.

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 _too_ happy, the sky was too bright, the outlook too
fair to last—something adverse _must_ happen—it was unnatural that
this fairyland, lotos-eating state of matters should remain unchanged!

‘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”? 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.’

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. 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.

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
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.

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 _four_, who refused to
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?’

‘No; what is it?’

‘The Bank of New Holland has stopped payment.’

‘What? The Bank—_that_ Bank! Impossible! Are you sure?’

‘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.’

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.’

His countenance informed that good wife and trusty mother that
_something_ had happened out of the common track of surprises.

‘What is it? Anything the matter with Reggie and Rosamond?’ They were
on their way to England by the P. & O. boat _Ispahan_.

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

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

‘Not on Reggie’s part. Read his cable—short and strong: “_Credit
stopped. Please arrange._”’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘What—none at all? Whatever shall we do?’

‘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.’

‘But the mine hasn’t stopped?’

‘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.’

‘Poor things! It must have given them a cruel shock.’

‘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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

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, 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.

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 excessive capitalisation, of course; but nothing that
had in any way trenched upon the reputation or resources of the parent
mine.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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, 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.

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 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.

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.

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—_too_ 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.’

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 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 _that_—and see
that your people in Melbourne are not starving while you’re living
comfortably here.’

‘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.

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.

‘Now, Sailor Bill!’ said the taller man, ‘what are you a-thinkin’
of?—the clapper’s gone twice—to 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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

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 and withholding the
expression of his face from the casual observer.

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.

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.

‘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
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.

‘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 _if_ 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.’

‘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.’

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
_may_—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 month’s ‘clean up,’ chased the cloud from his brow.

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.




CHAPTER VI


An 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.
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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

This proposal, when all mining property was 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.

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 offer of the Syndicate referred to, that it was
respectfully declined.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 _was_ 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 literally _out of the earth_—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!

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

‘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 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.’

‘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.’

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.

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
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.

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.

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 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 _you_ 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?’

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.’

Minniekins growled in a low, menacing manner. Then suddenly dashing
forward, she 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.

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.

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 forward,
firing two shots with lightning quickness.

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; Minniekins, broken fore-leg; while the man
called ‘Dick,’ shot through the lungs, was in a serious, if not
dangerous condition.

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!

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 papers:—

               ‘The Last Chance Mine.’
        Attempt to carry off the Escort Gold!
           Five-and-twenty thousand ounces!
         Desperate encounter. Two men killed:
            Mr. Banneret and ‘Long Jack.’
            Several of the Escort wounded.
           Immense excitement on the Field.

                  *       *       *

              Special Evening Edition of
                    The _Clarion_.

            Our Contemporary misinformed:
               Mr. Banneret not killed.
      He and Dick Andrews, the well-known Miner,
        dangerously wounded—the latter, while
    defending the Escort heroically, shot through
   the body. ‘The Gipsy’ captured by the Honourable
  Denzil Southwater, a Shareholder, who was unarmed.
      Lord Newstead suffering from a broken arm.
        Full particulars in our morning issue.

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 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
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.’

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.

‘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.’

They complied with the sufferer’s request. Great drops of blood welled
up from the shattered lung, as between gasps he laboriously formed
the 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.

‘Poor Dick! poor chap!’ said Banneret; ‘there goes a man’s life made
for better things. I suppose he _did_ 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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 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
song and shout—the ‘Last Chance’ escort must have appeared to the
ordinary wayfarer.

  O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

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.’

He promised himself the satisfaction, however, 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. & O. liner _Baghdad_, 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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

The return voyage in the _Baghdad_ was pure unmixed delight. Very
rarely is it otherwise in the ‘floating clubs’ of the P. & 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.

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,’ as an American ‘shift boss,’
travelling east from ‘Great Holder,’ entitled the incident.

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
_Baghdad’s_ 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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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
_might_ have happened. The ‘if’ had remained undeveloped, so there was
no use speculating on grisly possibilities.

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.

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 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.

And now, having passed through the _Sturm und Drang_ 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?




CHAPTER VII


What 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?

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!

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!

But the haughty Spaniard—in the sixteenth century—who had planned to
humble, to discrown, 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.

Have we such sailors, such soldiers still?

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!

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, 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.

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.

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 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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

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
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.

‘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.

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. & O. liner _Aden_, 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!’ 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,” 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.’

‘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.

‘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.’

‘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?’

‘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.’

‘Where did he go?’

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

‘Any gold there?’

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

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

‘Just because it _was_ so. He had lost a friend 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.’

‘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!’

‘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 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.’

‘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?’

‘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.’

‘Where in the world is that?’

‘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 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.’

‘What did they do to that end?’

‘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 peasant in his cabin, the noble in his
castle, the king upon his throne.’

‘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.’

‘But you’ve heard of the Little Bay Leper Hospital in Sydney?’

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

‘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?’

‘Surely not! Impossible! Is your information trustworthy?’

‘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.’

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

‘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 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!’

‘And so?’

‘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 _fever_ was occasionally spoken of with bated breath by island
passengers. Captain and mate knew _nothing_—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. _Leprosy_, of course! Poor things! it was never known how
they contracted it, but the fact was indisputable.’

‘Was it known before they came on board?’

‘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 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.’

‘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?’

‘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.’

‘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.’

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

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 the fulfilment of a long-devised scheme of relief. The
‘hour had come,’ he wrote, and, what was of more importance, ‘the
man.’

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.

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.

Throughout the wide ocean world of the South Pacific there was,
however, one master mariner, owning the far-famed brig _Leonora_, 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 _Leonora_—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 _no adventure_ 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 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.

Captain William Henry Hayston, formerly of the United States Navy, but
now unattached, owner and commander of the brig _Leonora_, 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.

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 dark as to his movements, his
business, or his intentions.

       *       *       *       *       *

With a well-found steamer, hope in his heart, and joy irradiating his
every sense, Carteret on board the _Morana_ 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 _Leonora_, 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.

An unobtrusive entrance by the _Leonora_ 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.

‘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 smuggled opium—but
thar was always some game on hand afore he quit—which he did
sudden-like.’

‘Why, I thought they couldn’t bring anything agen him now?’ said one
of the _habitués_ of the bar and beach—‘anyhow he spends his money
free and pleasant—nothin’ mean ’bout _that_!’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.

‘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 _Jonathan Stubbs_
mutinied, and threw the captain overboard.’

‘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.’

‘Captain Hayston,’ said Carteret, ‘suppose we get to business. I’ve
heard many things about 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.’

‘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.’

‘And now, as to the terms?’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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 _Leonora_, we can talk everything fully over, and fix up the best
way to carry this matter out.’

‘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.’

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 _Leonora_,
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.

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.

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

‘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 _mêlée_—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 when they’re “amok,” when
a quartermaster cut him down, and the krise grazed my side.

‘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.’




CHAPTER VIII


‘Their 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.

‘They paid the penalty?’ said Carteret.

‘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 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.’

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.

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 _gourmets_ 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 _crû_, 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 noon on the
following day. Which was at once agreed to.

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 _Leonora_ 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 _Pedro Torero_—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.

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?

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

The _Leonora_, 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 _Leonora_ 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. But—

  Their’s not to make reply,
  Their’s but to do and die.

The crew of the _Leonora_ had, before now, been 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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

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 _Leonora_ 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 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.

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.

‘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.’

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.’

The strange passenger sank down as if exhausted, and made no remark or
gesture. As the boat foamed up to the _Leonora’s_ side, 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!’

‘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.’

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 _Leonora_
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.

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.

The morning breeze, the roseate dawnlight, the lapping wave which
kissed his cabin-side, the sea-birds’ cry,—all these were separate and
distinct 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.

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.

‘I have the honour to salute Don Carlos Alvarez, who has joined my
vessel at Santa Cruz and desires a passage to Norfolk Island. Is it
not so?’ said the Captain, speaking in Spanish, with formal and
impressive courtesy.

‘A vuestro disposición, 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.

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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?’

‘The power of the golden key,’ said the 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 _Leonora_
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.

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, carried him through perils and desperate
encounters, to which this last one was but child’s play.

‘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?’

‘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.’

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

‘Then he has returned? And where is he now?’

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

‘Then he knows of my having left——?’

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

‘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——?’

‘Yes! Señor Alvarez; it was he that engineered this little _coup_ of
ours. He had made a _pasear_ 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.’

‘But, Captain Hayston, it is my _right_ 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——’

‘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 _passenger_. From that time forward
we shall be friends, I trust?’

‘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.

‘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 honour and respect from the
bottom of my heart—might have been comrades to our lives’ end.’

‘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.’

‘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?

    ‘In fierce extremes—in good and ill.
  But still we love even in our rage,
  And haunted to our very age
  With the vain shadow of the past,
  As is Mazeppa to the last!’

       *       *       *       *       *

Once more the course was changed—another forty-eight hours would bring
the _Leonora_ 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.

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. In fact, the
four Rotumah men had been carefully prevented from showing themselves
on shore, and the rest of the crew had been _advised_ 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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 _Leonora_, 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.

‘Take a look at Don Carlos Alvarez here, Ben!’ said Hayston. ‘What
d’ye make of it? Any Molokai business about it?’

‘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.’

‘That will do, Ben, I am satisfied; you have been two years in the
_Leonora_, 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.’

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 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.

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 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.

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 body and soul, and preserving husband and wife for
a newer Eden, and the enjoyment of their immortal love.

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.

‘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.’

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

‘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.’

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 people of superior merit, to have
appreciated my darling during the years of exile. I feel impatient to
make their acquaintance.’

‘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.’

‘But you don’t ask me to stay there?’

‘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.’

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

‘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 _me_—I am proud to say.’

       *       *       *       *       *

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—_had_ indeed met him on the incoming _Carl Schiller_,
and was returning to resume her position at the Pilot Mount
hospital,—also, after putting everything straight, to give up her
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, _every one_, 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.

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 _he’s_
been,’ said South Sea Jack.

It had not generally transpired, nor had it been thought necessary to
advertise the fact of his 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.

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.

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.

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?

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.




CHAPTER IX


The 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.

‘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?’

‘I am afraid that all this fuss is about your wife, and no one else,
my dear Alister,’ she 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.’

‘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
_they_—well! it can’t be helped.’

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

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

‘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 _Leonora_. Now for the serious business
of the day. Mind you recognise it as such!’

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 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.

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 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 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.’

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 stood up in her place, and the Mayor
requested silence, it was wonderful how suddenly all sound and motion
ceased.

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.’

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. 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 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.

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

‘Now, my dear Alister,’ said Elinor Lilburne, when, the function being
concluded, they had been 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”?’

‘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.’

‘Now, you are _too_ penitent; I don’t want that; but you will
acknowledge that you have learned a lesson!’

‘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 _he_ is English?’

‘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.’

‘What other thing?’ asked Lilburne.

‘A death in the Waste,’ replied his wife sadly. ‘It is a gamble with
the King of Terrors. _He_ won in a late encounter. Two brothers—sons
of the soil—trained bushmen too, left their bones on the same track
last year.’

‘Killed by the blacks, I suppose?’

‘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.’

‘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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

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, 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.

‘Whom would you like, Mrs. Lilburne?’

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

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

‘You accept the responsibility, mind; I won’t interfere.’

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.

‘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.’

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

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

‘Not at all. Much more serious—the fever I 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.’

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.

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.

‘A penny for your thoughts, Jean,’ said Mrs. Lilburne. ‘And suppose we
make it binding on 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.’

‘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.

‘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—_The Yellow Slave_, or _Western Whispers_, by “Winifred.”’

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

‘My dearest Jean, you are convicting yourself out of your own mouth. I
did not say that you _had_ 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.”’

‘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.’

‘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?’

‘Quite agree with Mrs. Lilburne,’ said the young man, looking upon the
lovely _ingénue_ with such manifest admiration that she turned to
Lilburne, and playfully besought his aid against her opponents.

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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, and, I might say, the highest
endowment of all. Tempt not the jealous goddess.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

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

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.’

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

‘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:—

‘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
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.

‘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.

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

‘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.

‘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.’

‘And Lord Newstead—I suppose he recovered?’

‘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. & O.’

‘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.’

‘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 _such_ dividends too, as the ‘Last Chance, Limited,’ was even now
disbursing.

‘“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.’

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.

‘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.’

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

‘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
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——’

‘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.’

‘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!’

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 all
men covet and hanker for to their lives’ end.

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.

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.

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 _carry it away_: 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.

‘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
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.’




CHAPTER X


‘All 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
_must_ 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.’

‘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.’

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.

‘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 blazonry, weirdly gorgeous in the pageant of the fading eve.
‘How did you feel, Mr. Southwater?’

‘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 _much_ 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——’

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

‘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.’

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

‘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.’

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 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.’

‘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.’

‘Now, what was he like?’

‘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.’

‘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.’

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.

The next morning saw the departure of Alister Lilburne and his wife
from the Gold City, which 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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 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?

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.

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.

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 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?

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 years may have imprinted yet more distinctly on face or
form.

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!

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 _can_ happen. We fear lest the worst should come suddenly into
our life, like some monster of the wood, unseen, unsuspected before.
Such are, such may be, the brooding imaginings of the later life.

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?

As a corrective, he proceeded at once to the office of the P. & O.
Company, and took his passage for London. After securing the requisite
number of comfortable cabins in the _Lhassa_—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 kept.
“Fears of the brave and follies of the wise” are not far to seek in
the connection.’

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

‘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.

‘Oh, I am so delighted that you persuaded father to make the plunge,
and take us home! 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.’

‘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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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, 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
_seen_ 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 _Lhassa_ 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, 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.

This, too, came in due course. Not alone were the immortal memories of
the _Arabian Nights_ recalled before their wondering eyes, with
water-carriers, black slaves, veiled women, pacha and dragoman, camels
and Arab horses, with gems 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.

‘What a glorious experience this is for the children—for all of us,
indeed!’ she exclaimed 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.’

‘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.’

‘What a dreadful thing to do! He must have been insane.’

‘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.’

‘I cannot but think that they _are_,’ said she, ‘or they would remain
to confront the ills of life, rather 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.’

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.

‘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
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.’

‘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!’

‘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.

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

Only a short stay, limited to the time necessary for the purchase of
_articles de Paris_ and the indispensable shoes and gloves, was made
in Paris, 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.

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.

‘The governor,’ thus referred to in latter-day speech, ‘had made “pots
of money”—it had been all right for _him_ to work and slave in the
queer early times that old buffers yarned about. He was bound to do
it, of course, or go under. But they were _not_—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 _must_ 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.

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.’

Would it not be worth while to try politics for a little
excitement? was suggested. There 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.

‘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 _h_’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!’

‘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?’

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

‘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 pauper, as guarantee
for place and power! How does that strike you?’

‘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.’

‘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 _nine_ thousand male voters—whose fault is that?’

‘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.’

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.




CHAPTER XI


‘Suppose 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 _nati consumere fruges_ don’t
even do that.’

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 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.”’
_Vanitas vanitatum_ 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.

‘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!’

‘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. 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.’

‘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.’

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 _ne plus
ultra_ 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 _their_ children—thus multiplying
titles, which having little or no means 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!

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 _prima donna assoluta_ during that memorable season.

Heroes too, naval and military, passed in review, in park or street,
before these young people. They were evidently desirous to store their
minds 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!

  ‘Then we put the lances down,
   Then the bugles blew, as we rode to Kandahar,
   Marching two and two,’

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 _not_
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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

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
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.

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
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.

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.

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 _facile princeps_—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, 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.

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.’

‘Where did the students live?’ asked Hermione; ‘in the Monastery?’

‘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.’

‘So bishops used to fight in those days?’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘Let us hope that reasonable counsels will prevail,’ said
Mrs. Banneret; ‘in the meanwhile, suppose we explore this beautiful
building. What is it called?’

‘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.’

‘A princely gift. Is this the Sculpture Gallery? How superb these
marbles are, and what lovely Greek vases!’

‘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.’

‘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 see. It will take us till lunch time to look over the
Colleges.’

‘Are there many?’ asked Vanda.

‘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.”’

‘“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.’

‘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.’

‘Let me look,’ said Vanda; ‘who was she?’

‘Margaret, Countess of Richmond, and mother of Henry VII. King’s
College was endowed and founded by Henry VI. in connection with Eton.’

‘I recollect,’ continued Vanda—‘“her Henry’s holy shade.”’

‘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.’

Before the day finished they had a modest lunch, where the famous
Trumpington ale was partaken of by the whole party as _de rigueur_
and 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.

‘Lepers here!’ exclaimed Vanda; ‘I didn’t know that there ever were
lepers in England.’

‘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.’

‘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?’

‘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.’

‘Oh, how delightful! I wonder if they made his Royal Highness learn it
by heart, like all of us.

  ‘The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea, etc.

“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.

All necessary arrangements had been carefully made long before the
great day—the Carnival of the Thames. What hopes and expectations 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.

‘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——’

‘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 _Bride from the Bush_ characteristics before an English audience.’

‘Oh, that hateful novel! Thanks, sister dear! You have hit upon the
true corrective. I promise to be “splendidly, icily null,” rather
than give myself away to the sneering English of the period. Oh,
mother, _do_ you think it will rain? Whatever shall we do?’

‘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——’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘I second the motion,’ said Mr. Banneret, who at that moment entered
the room with the _Times_ 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 _didn’t rain_. 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.’

‘Then I will promise and vow to be good for 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.’

‘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.’

‘And so will I,’ said Reggie, ‘as soon as I get my double first. I’m
going in for Australian politics.’

‘What good will it be to you out there?’ said Eric.

‘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 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.’

The day before the great boat-race of the year was doubtful. _The_ 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, 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 _might_ 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
called ‘their hard-earned savings,’ put together in shillings,
sixpences, and even threepenny bits—was on Toreador.

This malign stroke of fortune they had borne and survived. But the
personal element was so intermingled with _this_ event that if it did
not come off, the future was dark indeed.

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.

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, _their_ native
land: to show, as they have done in other 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.

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—_off_! The race has begun. So has
the true excitement, the desperate struggle of the swarming crowds on
the swaying steamers and the towing path.

‘Oh! which is in front?’ cries Vanda. ‘Don’t say it is Oxford, or I
can never survive this day.’

‘Don’t be a goose,’ says Reggie magisterially. ‘Watch Hammersmith
Bridge. There—I thought as much—Cambridge is ahead.’

‘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
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!’

‘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 _retenue_.’

‘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!’

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 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.

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 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 finer every day, _almost_ 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.




CHAPTER XII


‘I see 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 _ride_ 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!’

‘How delightful!’ said Vanda. ‘What was the name of the dear horse?’

‘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.

‘“You have my best wishes, Mr. Bournefield, 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.’

‘What! the one with all the medals and clasps—such a handsome,
soldierly-looking man. Why, his hair is grey!’

‘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.’

‘Was he handsome, mother?’

‘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!’

‘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?’

‘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?’

‘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
amount of speed. They were going to back him for a moderate amount.’

‘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?’

‘Do you agree, mother?’

‘We must see what your father says—I daresay he and Eric will look him
well over. Then we may invest with confidence.’

‘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!’

‘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!’

‘That’s what makes him hated abroad, I suppose?’

‘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 quite the reverse, and, as I have more than
once warned you, my dear girls, not always free from disagreeable
developments.’

‘Yes, indeed!’ said Vanda; ‘you remember that delightful Sicilian
Count, who turned out to be a cardsharper, or something worse?’

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?’

‘Very nearly!’ said Vanda, who was eagerly taking in every detail of
this truly astonishing performance. ‘Do you think he will win?’

‘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. There is a bit of a row about
it. That gives the Maori horse a better chance.’

‘Why?’

‘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.’

‘But didn’t some gentleman say he considered the course absolutely
unfair?’

‘Very likely; but others who had ridden and trained horses at Aintree
saw nothing to complain of.’

‘How many starters are there?’

‘Twenty-six. What a splendid-looking lot they are!’

‘Oh! here comes Reggie! Who is that with him, Eric? He looks nice.’

‘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.’

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 _abandon_ so characteristic of every man of every
class hailing from the Green Isle—when out for a holiday.

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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, _not_ quite so honest owners,
enables me to give, I shall be proud to offer.’

‘You and Eric have been round the horses, Mr. Blake, I gather,’ said
Hermione. ‘What do you think of our champion, the New Zealander?’

‘Moorfowl, is it? for that’s what I heard a bookmaker call him. A fine
horse, there’s no denying it, but I hardly think—I doubt, that is,
whether he’s thorough-bred.’

‘Oh, of course,’ broke in Vanda, ‘he’s a colonial horse, and therefore
_can’t_ 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.

‘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?’

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.

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.

‘My dear young lady, I’ll overlook _anything_ 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?’

‘Oh, by all means!’

‘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.’

‘Oh, here comes my father! He was detained in London about matters of
business.’

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.

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 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.

‘I suppose this is an interesting race to you, Maclean?’

‘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.’

‘I heard that you backed him heavily.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘If the old horse stands up. It’s rather a big “_if_,” 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, 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 _will_ 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.’

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.

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!

‘Oh, look!’ cries Vanda, ‘at Moifaa. How he is coming up! Well done
the Maori! 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!’

‘Becker’s Brook—doesn’t Nimrod mention it somewhere?’ said Hermione.
‘Oh, poor Deerslayer is down!—the slayer among the slain. Fortune of
war.’

‘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” (_pace_
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
_eight_ lengths; The Gunner a neck behind _him_.’

‘Who was fourth horse?’

‘Shaun Aboo—Robin Hood fifth. Poor dear old Manifesto last!’ concluded
Vanda. ‘“And that’s how the favourite was beat,” as Gordon sings.’

       *       *       *       *       *

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 lost
upon him, but a British crowd is chiefly just, and upholds a fair
field and no favour.

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.’

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.

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
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.




CHAPTER XIII


Mrs. Banneret, 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.

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.

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 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.’

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.

‘Not quite so easy a game as that,’ said his Lordship—‘eh,
Mr. Banneret? Little accidents like fever, “robbery under arms,”
hunger and thirst, intervene sometimes _before_ 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 _you_
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 _one night_ on which I never thought to see England again, I
assure you.’

‘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. Mr. Lilburne is wondering where _he_ comes in. I
see we must make common cause. I am anxious to hear some of _your_
adventures, which I am told are too thrilling.’

‘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.’

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.

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.

‘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 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.’

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.

‘Tena koe, Captain, haere mai.’

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.

‘Glad to see you again,’ said the host. ‘Waiter, bring
Captain—Captain——’

‘Bucklaw,’ interposed the stranger guest—‘been back to the old place.’

‘Of course, of course, quite natural!’ continued his entertainer;
‘bring Captain Bucklaw champagne.’

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 _Haitchi
Maru_, 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 _Leonora_ 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.’

‘And so you came to England to see a steeplechase?’

‘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, 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 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.’

‘But, Captain, how is it that we see you here, or indeed anywhere
else, in _the flesh_? We heard that——’

‘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.’

‘That part is true, then?’

‘Yes, I _was_ 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.

‘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 _Leonora_
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?’

‘His wife—the celebrated Nurse Lilburne, of Pilot Mount, Kalgoorlie,
West Australia, who saved more lives in the typhoid fever epidemic
than all the doctors on the field.’

‘Is that so? Then I’m proud of having been the means of bringing her
best patient back to her. Hope he’ll stay _put_. The buccaneer has
more than one good deed to his account; maybe the recording angel
won’t forget to post that one up!’

‘Oh, Captain, is that you? We heard you were dead—how grieved Alister
and I were after parting with you.’

‘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!’

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!

‘Such a handsome man!’ said Hermione. ‘It’s not that alone—though, of
course, he _is_ 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 _must_ be obeyed; that no one would
_dare_ 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.’

‘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; and——’

‘Don’t tell me any more,’ pleaded Hermione. ‘I can’t bear it.’

‘And they say that if he was arrested he could be thrown into prison
for offences against maritime law—whatever that may be. He _was_
arrested at Honolulu, and was a prisoner upon a British man-of-war.’

‘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!’

‘Mrs. Lilburne says she will _never_ forget his kindness to her
husband. He got him away from that dreadful island, where he would
have died. 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.’




CHAPTER XIV


‘Really,’ 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.’

‘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?’

‘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
_Haitchi Maru_ only waiting for her commander.’

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.

‘_We_ shall never forget you,’ said Mrs. Lilburne; ‘you saved two
lives when you rescued Alister from that inferno.’

‘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.’

  ‘It was time for us to go, my lads;
               It was time for us to go,’

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.

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 that she could hardly hope
to know ‘a real pirate’ again.

‘Do you think he really _was_ engaged in the Black Flag
business—death’s head and crossbones, and so on?’ queried Eric.

‘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 _was_ 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 _Leonora_.’

‘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.’

‘She is a descendant of Lieutenant Fletcher Christian, the leader of
the mutineers of the _Bounty_, 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 _Topaz_, 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 Christian, and the first man born
on the island.” H.M.S. the _Briton_ and the _Tagus_—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.’

‘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 _on their heads_ 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 _Bounty_.’

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 _Blossom_, on a voyage of
discovery, 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.

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
_Bounty_. 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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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, 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.’

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.

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.

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 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.

Lord Salisbury was known to have lived in a tent, with a friend or
two, _more Australico_, 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, _respice finem_, 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 and earls, having ‘come into their kingdoms,’ so to speak.

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.

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 _dry_ 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.

  ‘Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,
     And Phœbus ’gins arise,
   His steeds to water at those springs
     On chaliced flowers that lies;
   And winking Mary-buds begin
     To ope their golden eyes:
   With everything that pretty is,
     My lady sweet, arise!’

quoted Hermione.

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 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.’

‘But _we_ 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.’

This colloquy took place one morning before breakfast, at which
unusual time, about 5 A.M., 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.

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 buds, and every variety of leafage which goes to
furbish up the glorious green garb of an English spring.

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.

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 _pied à terre_ which would
give them standing in the county superior to that of mere birds of
passage.

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,
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.

There was then no difficulty about invitations 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.

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.

Still, Arnold Banneret and his wife disliked hotel life _en
permanence_. 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 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.

To this end it was decided to _buy_ 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.

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
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.

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.

‘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 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.’

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.

‘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 be—is finally decided upon. It can’t be so very dreadful after
all.’

‘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.’

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.

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 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.

‘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.

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 _somewhere_, 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.

At length, after tedious delays and disappointing inspections of every
kind of country house—mansion, 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 _coup d’œil_.

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

The purchase of the baronial residence of Hexham Hall had been carried
to completion with marvellous ease and celerity.

The Bannerets’ legal representative had met the family lawyer of the
Hexham properties, and after certain conferences, with more or less
courteous 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.

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.

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 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!’

‘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?’

‘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 _has_ gone that way. You smile!
It’s the “frozen truth,” as our friend Lady Neuchatel says.’

‘Of course you’re joking; your family succession——’

‘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 _Omar Khayyám_, she said. Clever girl, Corisande! “Broken gods no
use any more, in modern times, without the money. 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.’

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 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.

‘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 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 _know_ you’ll do yours.’

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 _was_ 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.

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.

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
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.




CHAPTER XV


By 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 _gêne_
and awkwardness, no matter to what country they belong.

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
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.

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.

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.

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
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.

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 _à
merveille_, unapproachable, unequalled in Christendom, or elsewhere.

‘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.’

‘All the same,’ contended paterfamilias, ‘they 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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

It was agreed, _nem. con._, 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.

‘There can’t be anything finer under the sun, for form and finish,’
declared Reggie, ‘but the 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.’

‘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.’

‘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 _have_ 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
from some one else. You never will from himself.’

‘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.’

‘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!’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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 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.’

‘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!’

‘But what would England’s Navy be doing all the time?’ demanded Vanda.

‘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.’

‘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——’

‘New Zealand too—that makes a respectable number of Allied Forces,’
said her father, smiling at the girl’s eagerness.

‘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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

The business of the installation of the new family was not completed
without a fair allowance of work and labour, even excitement.

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.

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.

Then the first step, an important one in county neighbourhoods at home
or abroad, was taken—the Bannerets went to church _en famille_. 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.

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 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.

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.

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 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 _him_ to reduce a
rent on cottage or holding, however small.

‘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—_most_ happy to contribute. As a private
individual you are welcome to my guinea annually, as usual.’

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 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
_more majorum_ 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.

The girls at once rushed up to their rooms, where, as their own maid
and some other house 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.

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

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,
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.

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 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?

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.’

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 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 _nouveaux riches_ 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.

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.

‘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.’

‘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? That’s what _you_ mean by
crediting them with all the virtues.’

‘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.’

‘Oh, there are sons, then?’

‘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.’

‘Well, I can’t be jealous of _them_, can I?’

‘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?’

‘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?’

‘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!’

‘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.’

‘Don’t be reckless, dear! That’s not your line, but _if_ you could
manage it, some day, when the girls are at their pensions, I
guarantee that you’d enjoy it. It would please them awfully—and _me_,
if that counts.’

‘Well, perhaps I’ll see about it—but don’t be sure just yet.’




CHAPTER XVI


Among 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.

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.

The girls were wildly interested, having seen Captain Neil Haig (who
put in the first big hit) play in Melbourne.

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.

It was stubbornly contested, but ended in a draw; Colonel St. Quintin,
who happened to be in Australia at the time, acted as umpire.

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.

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!’

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 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.’

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.

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.

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 _one_ 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 _grass_, with
ease to himself and comfort to his rider. Besides, he did _not_
believe in hackney blood. They were very sweet to look at—perfect
almost in shape, carriage, and other requisites for ornamental
equitation.

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
_rough_—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.

‘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.’

‘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 _that_. 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.’

‘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?’

‘Yes, indeed! she was a bold horsewoman, a good whip too. Absolutely
fearless—so much so that I often anticipated her coming to grief.
However, she never did. So she must have been clever or lucky, above
the average.’

‘Now then, sir, about the horses? How were they bred, and what could
they do?’

‘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.’

‘Is that why all Walers buck-jump, as people say?’ suggested Eric.

‘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.’

‘What sort were they?’

‘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 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.’

‘How long did the “breaking” and “making” business take?’ demanded
Eric.

‘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.’

  ‘Wild as the wild deer, and untamed;
   By spur and saddle undefiled,’

quoted Reggie. ‘You must have had an exciting time, sir.’

‘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.’

‘But your groom helped you, and the stabling counts for something?’

‘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 _à discrétion_.’

‘And what was the outcome of this cow-boy treatment?’

‘They turned out accomplished hackneys. Quiet in saddle and harness,
and carried a lady—as per advertisement.’

‘Oh, how nice!’ said Vanda; ‘what colour?’

‘Bright bay, with black points. Graysteel excepted.’

‘What about paces?’

‘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.’

‘Think they’d do in the Market Harborough country?’ queried Reggie
doubtfully.

‘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
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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

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,
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. 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 _de te fabula narratur_ at some
member of the Banneret family, now so high above the arrows of fate!’

       *       *       *       *       *

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
planted by her hand, and, except by their own act and deed, secure of
that priceless heritage for all time.

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!’

       *       *       *       *       *

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 again, and Lord
Hexham would remain in charge of the family while she was absent.

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.

‘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!’

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.

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

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.

The drive, short though it might be, was still impressive, and
doubtless awakened older memories as they passed underneath the
shadowy oaks, and 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.

‘Banneret had ridden over to a neighbouring estate, but would join
them at dinner,’ his wife said.

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.

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, I’m sure,’ said Vanda. ‘I know we shall be
great friends directly. Are you fond of riding? We’ve got a few
decent horses together, and hope to have more.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

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 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.

‘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.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘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.’

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
_entente cordiale_ 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 _used to_ reward those who dared
the dangers of the sea, the hazards of fever and war, in some far
eastern kingdom, where grew the pagoda tree.

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.

However, the three girls were up early, and, after a stroll through
the shrubberies, quite ready for breakfast.

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 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.




CHAPTER XVII


However, 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.

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?

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.

But to Corisande, retaining only a dim, 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!

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

  The Knight looked down from the Paynim Tower,
  As a Christian Host, in its pride and power,
    Through the pass beneath him wound,

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.’

  Sound again, clarion! clarion, pour thy blast!
  Sound! for the captive’s dream of hope is past.

‘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.

‘I think Sterne’s prisoner is a close parallel,’ argued Eric. ‘What a
picture it is!’

‘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?’

‘Rather hard to say. Who is the true heroine of that delightful novel
_Ivanhoe_?—as the lists of Ashby-de-la-Zouche are referred to.’

‘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.’

‘_Now_, 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 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 _us_.’

‘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.’

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, the while Lord Roberts
looked on approvingly. The sailor brother, Lieutenant the Honourable
Falkland Aylmer, whose ship the _Palmyra_ 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.

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.

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.

Every kind of game, with due forethought, had been arranged for, and
prizes made ready for 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.

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 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.

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.

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 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.

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.

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 _al fresco_ 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:

  The self-same shadows flecked the sward
  In the days of good Queen Anne;

while within the enormous canvas walls, genuine 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.

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.

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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 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 trade and commerce, so world-wide and
far-stretching, the foundation on which so much of England’s “might,
majesty, and dominion” rested.

‘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.’

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.

‘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, paid me by his Grace and this distinguished
and representative assemblage.

‘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 _not_ 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 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.)

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.

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 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.

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 _rapprochement_ 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
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.

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 spot, but the proposal lapsed in default of
a seconder, or general moral support.

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

‘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 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.

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.

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. 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.

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.

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.

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, Grasmere, the Wordsworth
country, Rydal Mount, and so on. Yes, decidedly.

They were fortunate in finding a decent hostelry near Grasmere, which
served as a _pied à terre_, 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
bride—

  The perfect woman, nobly planned
  To warn, to comfort, and command,

with whom he lived, in purest love and unclouded happiness, even unto
his life’s end.

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.

‘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?’

‘Walk? Why, of course!’ said Eric. ‘You don’t suppose we’ve come to
this jolly Lake country, with views, and sunrises, and suchlike
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.’

‘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?’

‘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 _were_ 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.’

‘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 independence. Being compelled to
work certainly brings out the best fruit of a man’s intellect.’

‘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!’

‘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 _quality_, the enforced abstinence and lack of
material comfort were distinctly favourable to the “divine afflatus.”’

‘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
scholar of the party? and what does the lady assert to be one of the
Poet’s lyric triumphs?’

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.’

‘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

                            ‘The gleam,
  The light that never was, on sea or land,
  The consecration, and the Poet’s dream—

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

  ‘THE FOUNTAIN

  ‘We talked with open heart, and tongue
   Affectionate and true,
   A pair of friends, though I was young,
   And Matthew seventy-two.

  ‘We lay beneath a spreading oak,
   Beside a mossy seat;
   And from the turf a fountain broke,
   And gurgled at our feet.

  ‘“Now, Matthew,” said I, “let us match
   The water’s pleasant tune
   With some old Border song, or catch
   Which suits a summer noon;

  ‘“Or of the church-clock and the chimes
   Sing here beneath the shade,
   That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
   Which you last April made!”

  ‘In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
   The spring beneath the tree;
   And thus the dear old man replied—
   The grey-haired man of glee:

  ‘“No check, no stay, this streamlet fears;
   How merrily it goes!
   ’Twill murmur on a thousand years,
   And flow as now it flows.

  ‘“And here, on this delightful day,
   I cannot choose but think
   How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
   Beside this fountain’s brink.

  ‘“My eyes are dim with childish tears,
   My heart is idly stirred,
   For the same sound is in my ears
   Which in those years I heard.

  ‘“Thus fares it still in our decay:
   And yet the wiser mind
   Mourns less for what Age takes away
   Than what it leaves behind.”’

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.’

Much applause was evoked by the recitation, given with taste and
feeling.

‘Why, mother, I had no idea you had such 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!’

‘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.’

‘But we were so terribly fond of books,’ argued Vanda; ‘it ran in the
blood. Why, father used to read on _horseback_, when he took those
journeys to other goldfields and places—when he was driving, too—by
himself; you know he did!’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

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

  ‘THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN

  ‘At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
   Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
   Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
   In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

  ‘’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
   A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
   Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
   And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

  ‘Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
   Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
   And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s,
   The only one dwelling on earth that she loves.

  ‘She looks, and her heart is in Heaven: but they fade,
   The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
   The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
   And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!’

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. Vanda, dear child, lead off! I know
you have a choice.’

‘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

  ‘THE DAFFODILS

  ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud
   Which floats on high o’er vales and hills,
   When all at once I saw a crowd,
   A host, of golden daffodils;
   Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
   Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

  ‘Continuous as the stars that shine
   And twinkle on the milky way,
   They stretched in never-ending line
   Along the margin of a bay:
   Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
   Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

  ‘The waves beside them danced; but they
   Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
   A poet could not but be gay
   In such a jocund company:
   I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
   What wealth the show to me had brought:

  ‘For oft, when on my couch I lie
   In vacant or in pensive mood,
   They flash upon the inward eye
   Which is the bliss of solitude;
   And then my heart with pleasure fills,
   And dances with the daffodils.’

‘Next girl in,’ said Eric. ‘Hermie dear, don’t block the procession;
consider all the pretty things 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.’

‘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.

  ‘THE SOLITARY REAPER

  ‘Behold her, single in the field,
   Yon solitary Highland lass!
   Reaping and singing by herself;
   Stop here, or gently pass!
   Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
   And sings a melancholy strain;
   O listen! for the vale profound
   Is overflowing with the sound.

  ‘No nightingale did ever chaunt
   More welcome notes to weary bands
   Of travellers in some shady haunt,
   Among Arabian sands:
   Such thrilling voice was never heard
   In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
   Breaking the silence of the seas
   Among the farthest Hebrides.

  ‘Will no one tell me what she sings?—
   Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
   For old, unhappy, far-off things,
   And battles long ago:
   Or is it some more humble lay,
   Familiar matter of to-day?
   Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
   That has been, and may be again?

  ‘Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang
   As if her song could have no ending;
   I saw her singing at her work,
   And o’er the sickle bending;—
   I listened, motionless and still;
   And, as I mounted up the hill,
   The music in my heart I bore,
   Long after it was heard no more.’

‘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.’

‘Oh, of course, certainly!’ said Hermione. ‘I know I’m only “a
despisable colonist” (as the author of _Sam Slick_ said), but mother
and father are rather purists, and we fancied that we spoke tolerable
English.’

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
hint——’

‘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?’

By this time the rest of the family had gathered round, amused and
expectant.

‘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.

‘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.”’

‘Of course I do,’ replied the girl, who could not help smiling, as
indeed did all the spectators.

‘But you shouldn’t—oh, really, you shouldn’t, dear lady! You said
“bending,” and “reaping,” and “singing.” We heard you distinctly
“thrilling” also.’

‘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.”’

‘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.’

‘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.”’

‘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.’

‘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 _are_ English, which would be
affectation indeed, and very properly expose us to ridicule.’

‘_Nothing_ 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?’

‘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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

But the route was given; the leaders decreed the hour; and protests
were unavailing.

  But, hark! the summons—down the placid lake
  Floats the soft cadence of the church-tower bells.

       *       *       *       *       *

Northward, ever northward, was now the appointed course of the
wanderers: across moor 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.

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 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.

‘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.’

‘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!’

‘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.’

‘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 woe. I vote we
leave for Scotland by the early train to-morrow.’

‘By the very earliest,’ Eric agreed. ‘Another day here would send us
back to Hexham—despairing of life, and fit for nothing but suicide.’

‘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”?’

‘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.’

‘And so say all of us,’ chorused the rest of the party.




CHAPTER XVIII


The 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.

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, kings and queens, lovely
heroines, and all the _dramatis personæ_ of historical romance. They
therefore, without delay, conceived and carried out the project of
‘viewing fair Melrose aright.’

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.

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.

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘I believe Dad knows all the Walter Scott 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.

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 lines:—

  ‘If thou wouldst view fair Melrose aright,
   Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
   For the gay beams of lightsome day
   Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey.
   When the broken arches are black in night,
   And each shafted oriel glimmers white;
   When the cold light’s uncertain shower
   Streams on the ruin’d central tower;
   When buttress and buttress, alternately,
   Seem framed of ebon and ivory;
   When silver edges the imagery,
   And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;
   When distant Tweed is heard to rave,
   And the owlet to hoot o’er the dead man’s grave,
   Then go—but go alone the while—
   Then view St. David’s ruin’d pile;
   And, home returning, soothly swear,
   Was never scene so sad and fair!’

‘Bravo, Eric!’ said Hermione. ‘I had no idea you had such poetical
leanings. Do they examine in modern verse and elocution at Cambridge?
I didn’t know they taught anything but Greek and Latin.’

‘Didn’t you?’ replied her brother. ‘Perhaps you would like to enter
next term?’

‘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.’

The night was free from slightest breeze; no sound broke the air but
the weird, occasional cry of the night bird.

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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 wise in time, and neither over-build nor over-speculate until
they have provided for the rising generation.’

‘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?’

‘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.”’

       *       *       *       *       *

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.

Here, again, fortune favoured them, and a delightful surprise was
sprung upon the leaders of the party.

To their great joy Mrs. Banneret received a note from an Australian
compatriot (whom they 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.

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.

‘We are being watched over by the _genius loci_, 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?’

‘She is one of the sweetest, prettiest, most charming young women I
ever encountered,’ declared Mrs. Banneret.

‘And Dad met her on board ship, I think I gathered?’

‘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.’

‘H—m, ha! There seems a certain uniformity in the pleasant
acquaintances Dad meets with 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.’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘I saw her,’ said Hermione, ‘just before the Melbourne Cup. Corisande
and I are trembling in our shoes.’

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:

‘And so these are the young people I remember in Sydney, after we
landed from the _Hauroto_? 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 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!’

‘And of course it was _The Marstons_,’ 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.’

‘And such being the case we must not lose time in talking, but make a
start,’ said their charming visitor.

‘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?’

‘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.’

‘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?’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘All depends upon the amount of sense the said daughters are credited
with,’ said her mother, with a meaning smile. ‘There _have_ 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 born,” is much the same in
local knowledge, we must lose no more time than we can help.’

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.’

‘Kaeside,’ where ‘Willie Laidlaw,’ Sir Walter’s friend and amanuensis,
dwelt, was also visited. 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.

And thus, the weather being gracious, and all accessories befitting,
they rambled through and around the haunted regions, upon which,
though familiar with the _dramatis personæ_ from childhood’s hour,
they had never before set foot, or gazed with admiring eye.

They did not depart without ocular experience of the Trossachs, or of

          Ancient Riddel’s fair domain,
    Where Aill, from mountains freed,
  Down from the lakes did raving come;
  Each wave was crested with tawny foam,
    Like the mane of a chestnut steed.

They stood more than once on Turnagain on Tweedside, where

  Home and Douglas, in the van,
  Bore down Buccleuch’s retiring clan,
  Till gallant Cessford’s heart-blood dear
  Reek’d on dark Elliot’s Border spear.

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.

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
_Wanderjahre_, 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.

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 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 _Marmion_.

‘I have always thought _Marmion_ 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.

  ‘Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,
   Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,
     Unbroken was the ring;
   The stubborn spear-men still made good
   Their dark impenetrable wood,
   Each stepping where his comrade stood,
     The instant that he fell.

Where was ever such a picture of a battle in actual engagement?

  ‘Then marked they, dashing broad and far,
   The broken billows of the war,
   And plumed crests of chieftains brave,
   Floating like foam upon the wave;
     But nought distinct they see:
   Wide raged the battle on the plain;
   Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain;
   Fell England’s arrow-flight like rain;
   Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,
     Wild and disorderly.
   Amid the scene of tumult, high
   They saw Lord Marmion’s falcon fly:
   And stainless Tunstall’s banner white,
   And Edmund Howard’s lion bright,
   Still bear them bravely in the fight:
     Although against them come,
   Of gallant Gordons many a one,
   And many a stubborn Badenoch-man,
   And many a rugged Border clan,
     With Huntly, and with Home.

Then the ghastly picture of the fallen knight, mortally wounded,

  ‘Dragged from among the horses’ feet,
   With dinted shield, and helmet beat,
   The falcon-crest and plumage gone,
   Can that be haughty Marmion!

‘Passing from the fire and dash of the battle-piece, we have the
warrior’s despairing appeal—

  ‘And half he murmured,—“Is there none,
     Of all my halls have nursed,
   Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring
   Of blessed water from the spring,
     To slake my dying thirst!”

Here occurs the immortal tribute to the higher qualities of the sex,
nowhere seen to such advantage as in the dark hour of helpless
suffering:—

  ‘O, Woman! in our hours of ease,
   Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
   And variable as the shade
   By the light quivering aspen made;
   When pain and anguish wring the brow,
   A ministering angel thou!

‘In “L’Envoy” Sir Walter’s boundless benevolence, after wishing all
desirable gifts to statesmen and heroes, and of course to

             ‘Lovely lady bright,
   What can I wish but faithful knight?

even includes that occasionally troublesome personage not often
honoured with poet’s notice—

  ‘To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay
   Has cheated of thy hour of play,
   Light task, and merry holiday!
   To all, to each, a fair good-night,
   And pleasing dreams and slumbers light!

‘I was a small school-boy,’ said Mr. Banneret, ‘when I knew by heart a
large portion of _Marmion_; 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

        ‘The Fiend, to whom belongs
   The vengeance due to all her wrongs

appears at life’s close with tragic and dramatic effect. And what in
all poetry is more thrilling, 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”

  ‘You seem’d to hear a distant rill—
     ’Twas ocean’s swells and falls;
   A tempest there you scarce could hear
     So massive were the walls.

       *       *       *       *       *

‘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.’

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.
_Rob Roy_ 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.

‘The highest personal courage combined with the loftiest sense of
self-sacrifice was hers, the whole illumined in befitting time and
place with gleams of humour and sportive playfulness, betokening how,
under happier circumstances, she could adapt herself to the joyous
_abandon_ 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.’

‘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.’

‘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 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.’

‘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 _St. Ronan’s
Well_. Nothing finer in romantic tragedy can be found than her meeting
with Francis Tyrrel on the road to Shaw’s Castle.

  ‘“‘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?’

  ‘“‘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.’

  ‘“‘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.’

  ‘“She flung back the veil which surrounded her 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.

  ‘“‘Is it possible?’ said Tyrrel; ‘can grief have made such
  ravages?’

  ‘“‘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.’

  ‘“‘Alas!’ said Tyrrel, ‘is it come to this?’

  ‘“‘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!’”

‘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.’

  ‘“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.

  ‘“‘For revenge—for revenge!’ said Tyrrel. ‘Give way, I charge you,
  on your peril!’

  ‘“‘Vengeance belongs to God,’ replied the old man, ‘and His bolt
  has fallen. This way—this 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.’

  ‘“‘Killed!—whom?’ answered the bewildered Tyrrel.

  ‘“‘Valentine Bulmer, the titular Earl of Etherington.’

  ‘“‘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!’”’




CHAPTER XIX


‘No 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 _are_ the Waverley Novels?’

‘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 _Waverley_, _Ivanhoe_,
_Marmion_, _The Lady of the Lake_, 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.’

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 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 _no deviation_
allowed on any pretence whatever.’

‘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.

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 _camaraderie_.

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.

‘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, 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.

Supper was a meal for the gods, abounding as it did with sportive
criticism of the _personnel_ 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.

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.

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 poetical nor romantic,
delightfully descriptive of the hospitable, humorous, sport-loving
side of Sir Walter’s character.

  ‘About the middle of August’ (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 _twelve volumes_ 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.

  ‘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, for the sole sake of the Poet
  and Novelist _himself_, 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 _hunters_, 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.

         *       *       *       *       *

  ‘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 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.

  ‘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.

  ‘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 _belles lettres_, 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, wiry Highlander, yclept Hoddin Grey,
  which carried him nimbly and stoutly, though his feet almost
  touched the ground, was the adjutant.

  ‘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.

  ‘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 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”
  [_sic_], exclaimed, “Good Heavens! is it thus that I visit the
  scenery of the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_?” He kept muttering to
  himself, as his glowing eye ran over the landscape, some of those
  beautiful lines from the conclusion of the _Lay_:—

                              But still,
    When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill,
    And July’s eve, with balmy breath,
    Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath;
    When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw,
    And corn was green on Carterhaugh,
    And flourished, broad, Blackandro’s oak,
    The aged Harper’s soul awoke!

  Mackenzie, spectacled as he was, saw the first sitting hare, gave
  the word to slip the greyhounds, and spurred after them like a
  boy.

  ‘Coursing on such a mountain is not like the same sport over a bit
  of fine English pasture.

         *       *       *       *       *

  ‘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 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.

  ‘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 _Consolations in Travel_) could
  suggest an adequate notion.

  ‘One night, when their “rapt talk” had kept the circle round the
  fire long after the usual 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?”

  ‘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, 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 _savant_, 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 _Marmion_ and _Ivanhoe_, and he appearing as much
  at home in the scene as if he had been a veritable “Dandie”
  himself, his face 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.”’

There was a considerable amount of laudatory remark when the reading
of the ‘Abbotsford Hunt’ was concluded.

‘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 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.’

‘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 _A Legend of
Montrose_ yesterday.’

‘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.’

‘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—_my_ 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.’

‘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, industry, and
material success they invariably excel the Saxon and the Irish Celt.’

‘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.’

‘I thought I was to be let off,’ pleaded that young gentleman; ‘but
how about a trifle of poetry as a change?’

‘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 ending—

  ‘Till on Ravelston’s cliffs and on Clermiston’s lea
   Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee.

‘“On December 25 arrived here, Abbotsford, last night, at seven. Our
halls are silent now, 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 _Constable’s
Miscellany_—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.’

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 to—

  ‘Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
   Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;
   Come open the West Port, and let me gang free,
   And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’

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.

‘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.’

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?’

‘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.’

‘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.’

       *       *       *       *       *

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 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.

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,
Malcolm MacDonald.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 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
lands, and whether in peace or war earned the respect of friend and
foe.

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.

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 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.

       *       *       *       *       *

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 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.

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 time—

  ‘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.

  ‘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 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 & faithful,
                                                  John Waters.’

  ‘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.’

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!’

‘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.’

‘How sorry we both were, I remember. Well 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?’

‘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.’

‘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 _but_ 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!’

‘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?’

‘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 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.’

‘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?’

‘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?’

‘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 _have_, 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 father and discourage unnecessary risks. Now I must
go and tell the girls.’

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.

‘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.”’

‘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?’

‘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 weeks to Albany, nowadays, makes short work of the
voyage to Australia.’

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.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the appointed day, therefore, the Peninsular and Oriental Company’s
royal mail steamer _Mesopotamia_, 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. & 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 the P. & 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.

A few days afterwards the _Mesopotamia_ 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.

‘What do you make of that?’ he asked, gazing at a faint line, which
gradually made itself distinct athwart the fair blue sky.

‘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.’

‘She is overhauling us at a great rate,’ said the Captain. ‘I’d better
prepare the passengers.’

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 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 _Mesopotamia_
first and explain afterwards. This had been done before, they
reflected, in the case of the _Knight Commander_. It was not a
pleasant idea. Some of the lady passengers turned pale; they all
behaved with commendable self-possession.

There was no doubt as to the intention of the Russian volunteer
cruiser. Rapidly approaching, she fired a shot across the bows of the
_Mesopotamia_ 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 _Mesopotamia_ had remarked. Then
occurred a change of front. For some unexplained reason the order now
given to the _Mesopotamia’s_ 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.

The excitement of the passengers became intense. The stranger steamer,
which was coming up at a high rate of speed, altered her course a
couple of points and steered straight for the P. & 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
_Hatsuce_.

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 _Mesopotamia_ 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.

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.

‘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?’

‘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 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.’

‘Oh, do tell us!’ pleaded the wife of a colonial governor as the
passengers crowded round.

‘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 vessel.
‘Since then,’ remarked the Captain, as he concluded his narrative, ‘I
have had my own opinion about Japanese on sea and on land.’

‘But how did you happen to get a naval command?’

‘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 _Hatsuce_ 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.’

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 _succès de
salon_, 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.

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 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.

‘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 _Times_ is making a row about
our threatened capture. These blundering Russians _did_ take the
_Malacca_ 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?’

‘Yes, many years ago. He _is_ 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.’

Albany—Fremantle—Perth—all outposts of the ‘Briton’s far-flung line’
of conquest and 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.

‘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 _done_ things.’

‘And suffered too,’ said his father. ‘You must not forget that side of
the adventure; it is, or rather was, very essential.’

‘I suppose there was a good deal of that ingredient mixed up with the
gold and glory of the earlier days of the Field.’

‘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!’

‘Transformation indeed!’ said the younger 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.’

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 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. & O. liner once
more.

‘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.

  ‘The land which knew my life’s best hours,
   Ere Fate had gloomed youth’s vernal bowers,
     And Hope’s bright blossoms marred,

as some boyish rhymer has it.’

‘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.’

‘God bless you, my boy!’ said Arnold Banneret, grasping his hand. ‘You
have spoken like the son of your father, and _his_ 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. & O.
arrangement?’

‘I have thought of that, sir. Pilot Mount will 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
_the_ young lady—to help in the colonisation scheme.’

‘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.’

‘I _have_ 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.’

‘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.’




CHAPTER XX


Again 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!

       *       *       *       *       *

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 comparative luxury, seemed to be forthcoming with a
sort of Arabian Nights profusion.

Then, to crown all, they had left West Australia in its autumnal month
of March, and were here in April.

  Oh, to be in England, now that April’s here!

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.

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 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.

‘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
_fiancée_ counts for ever so much more than the dearest sisters.’

‘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.’

‘Are they, indeed? Who is a snob now? as you sometimes say to me. And
what are we but colonial?’

‘Oh, but we’re different!’

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘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 there’s money to back
it up, _is_ a good thing socially. No sensible person denies it. But
the _woman_, the real woman, apart from all other considerations, is
what makes for happiness in marriage, or otherwise. _We_ 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.’

‘It’s a big _if_; 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?’

‘If she cares about him, she’ll go _anywhere_, 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.’

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, 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.

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 _is_ clever,
though a trifle too romantic—isn’t he? and—_I love him_.’

‘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.’

‘And what do _you_ 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.

‘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 ALL the members of the
Banneret family, and have reason to bless the day when we made their
acquaintance.’

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.

  ‘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 _the_ day.

                                                  Hexham.’

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 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.

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
_aux bouts des ongles_—they would all have been stuck at Bruges for
years to come. The Hexham family, at any rate, had no right to
grumble.

All in good time the more important function connected with Hexham
Hall was concluded to 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
die—

            Till the sun grows cold,
            And the stars are old,
  And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold—

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.

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
_Moldavia_, P. & 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, 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.


THE END




_Printed by_ R. & R. Clark, Limited, _Edinburgh_.




THE NOVELS OF ROLF BOLDREWOOD.


  THE GHOST CAMP; or, The Avengers. Crown 8vo. 6s.

_Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. each._

  ROBBERY UNDER ARMS.
   A STORY OF LIFE AND ADVENTURE IN THE BUSH AND IN THE GOLD-FIELDS
   OF AUSTRALIA.
    _GUARDIAN._—“A singularly spirited and stirring tale of
    Australian life, chiefly in the remoter settlements.”

  A MODERN BUCCANEER.
    _DAILY CHRONICLE._—“We do not forget _Robbery under Arms_, or any
    of its various successors, when we say that Rolf Boldrewood has
    never done anything so good as _A Modern Buccaneer_. It is good,
    too, in a manner which is for the author a new one.”

  THE MINER’S RIGHT.
   A TALE OF THE AUSTRALIAN GOLD-FIELDS.
    _WORLD._—“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 humours of the
    gold-fields—tragic humours enough they are, too, here and again.”

  THE SQUATTER’S DREAM.
    _FIELD._—“The details are filled in by a hand evidently well
    conversant with his subject, and everything is _ben trovato_, if
    not actually true. A perusal of these cheerfully written pages
    will probably give a better idea of realities of Australian life
    than could be obtained from many more pretentious works.”

  A SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON.
    _GLASGOW HERALD._—“The interest never flags, and altogether _A
    Sydney-Side Saxon_ is a really refreshing book.”

  A COLONIAL REFORMER.
    _ATHENÆUM._—“A series of natural and entertaining pictures of
    Australian life, which are, above all things, readable.”

  NEVERMORE.
    _OBSERVER._—“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 previous novels.”

  PLAIN LIVING. A Bush Idyll.
    _ACADEMY._—“A hearty story, deriving charm from the odours of the
    bush and the bleating of incalculable sheep.”

  MY RUN HOME.
    _ATHENÆUM._—“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.”

  THE SEALSKIN CLOAK.
    _TIMES._—“A well-written story.”

  THE CROOKED STICK; or, Pollie’s Probation.
    _ACADEMY._—“A charming picture of Australian station life.”

  OLD MELBOURNE MEMORIES.
    _NATIONAL OBSERVER._—“His book deserves to be read in England
    with as much appreciation as it has already gained in the country
    of its birth.”

  A ROMANCE OF CANVAS TOWN, and other Stories.
    _ATHENÆUM._—“The book is interesting for its obvious insight into
    life in the Australian bush.”

  WAR TO THE KNIFE; or, Tangata Maori.
    _ACADEMY._—“A stirring romance.”

  BABES IN THE BUSH.
    _OUTLOOK._—“A lively and picturesque story.”
    _DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“Bristles with thrilling incident.”

  IN BAD COMPANY, and other Stories.
    _OUTLOOK._—“Very good reading.”
    _DAILY NEWS._—“The best work this popular author has done for
    some time.”


_Fcap. 8vo. 2s._

  THE SPHINX OF EAGLEHAWK.

  A TALE OF OLD BENDIGO.                  [_Macmillan’s Pocket Novels._
    _QUEEN._—“There is the usual mystery, the usual admirable
    gold-fields’ local colour, which we expect from our favourite
    Rolf Boldrewood.”


MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd., LONDON.




UNIFORM EDITION OF THE WORKS OF RUDYARD KIPLING.

_Extra Crown 8vo. Red cloth, gilt tops. 6s. each._


    TRAFFICS AND DISCOVERIES.

  _45th Thousand._
    JUST SO STORIES FOR LITTLE CHILDREN.
      With Illustrations by the Author.

  _65th Thousand._
    KIM. With Illustrations by J. Lockwood Kipling.

  _38th Thousand._
    STALKY & CO.

  _62nd Thousand._
    THE DAY’S WORK.

  _53rd Thousand._
    PLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS.

  _44th Thousand._
    LIFE’S HANDICAP. Being Stories of Mine Own People.

  _41st Thousand._
    MANY INVENTIONS.

  _50th Thousand._
    THE LIGHT THAT FAILED. Rewritten and considerably enlarged.

  _21st Thousand._
    WEE WILLIE WINKIE, and other Stories.

  _25th Thousand._
    SOLDIERS THREE, and other Stories.

  _67th Thousand._
    THE JUNGLE BOOK. With Illustrations by J. L. Kipling,
      W. H. Drake, and P. Frenzeny.

  _46th Thousand._
    THE SECOND JUNGLE BOOK. With Illustrations by J. Lockwood Kipling.

  _30th Thousand._
    “CAPTAINS COURAGEOUS.” A Story of the Grand Banks.
      Illustrated by I. W. Taber.

  _17th Thousand._
    FROM SEA TO SEA. Letters of Travel. In Two Vols.
    THE NAULAHKA. A Story of West and East. By Rudyard Kipling and
      Wolcott Balestier.

_Also issued in Special Binding for Presentation. Cloth extra, with
gilt edges. Price 6s. each._

  _11th Thousand._
    SOLDIER TALES. With Illustrations by A. S. Hartrick.
    THE JUNGLE BOOK. Illustrated.
    THE SECOND JUNGLE BOOK. Illustrated.
    “CAPTAINS COURAGEOUS.” Illustrated.


MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd., LONDON.




MESSRS. MACMILLAN & CO. have pleasure in announcing that their list of
Novels for publication during the Autumn of 1905 includes Works by

  F. MARION CRAWFORD
   WINSTON CHURCHILL
     EDITH WHARTON
      H. G. WELLS
      OWEN WISTER
         OUIDA
    RHODA BROUGHTON
     W. E. NORRIS
     CHARLES MAJOR
    ROLF BOLDREWOOD
   WILLIAM SATCHELL
     ROSA N. CAREY
   BEULAH MARIE DIX
     EMERSON HOUGH
     SAMUEL MERWIN


LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited




NEW & NOTABLE NOVELS


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  SOPRANO
  A PORTRAIT

  By F. M. CRAWFORD

  A story of modern operatic life in Paris with an English heroine
  who possesses a marvellous soprano voice.


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  THE HOUSE OF MIRTH

  By EDITH WHARTON

  The first long novel by this author since the publication of that
  remarkable book “The Valley of Decision.”


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  CONISTON

  By WINSTON CHURCHILL

  An addition to the series of novels dealing with American history
  which have made this author famous.


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  KIPPS

  By H. G. WELLS

  Kipps is a draper’s apprentice who comes early into a fortune.
  The book describes his struggles to realise a fuller, wider life.


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  LADY BALTIMORE

  By OWEN WISTER

  For his hero Mr. Wister has again chosen an attractive young
  Southerner, but not this time a Virginian.


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  A WAIF’S PROGRESS

  By RHODA BROUGHTON

  Describes the struggles of a girl, reared amid vicious
  surroundings, to secure a footing in respectable society.


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  HELIANTHUS

  By OUIDA


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  LONE MARIE

  By W. E. NORRIS


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  YOLANDA

  By CHARLES MAJOR

  Resembles “When Knighthood was in Flower” (of which 500,000 were
  sold) more than any other of Mr. Major’s books.


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  THE TOLL OF THE BUSH

  By WILLIAM SATCHELL

  A fresh and vigorous story of the early settlements in a remote
  district of New Zealand.


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  THE LAST CHANCE
  A Tale of the Golden West

  By ROLF BOLDREWOOD

  A tale of the Goldfields of Western Australia, and of a mining
  speculation that was a triumphant success.


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  THE HOUSEHOLD OF PETER

  By ROSA N. CAREY


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  THE FAIR MAID OF GRAYSTONES

  By BEULAH MARIE DIX

  The scenes of this story take place in Suffolk in 1648, after the
  surrender of Colchester to the Parliamentary forces.


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  A LINK IN THE GIRDLE

  By SAMUEL MERWIN

  The main theme of this exciting story is the construction of a
  railway in Texas in the face of great difficulties.


  Crown 8vo.
  Gilt top. Price 6s.

  HEART’S DESIRE

  By EMERSON HOUGH

  A romantic story of the Western States of America, giving
  delightful pictures of country life and scenes.


  Crown 8vo.
  Cloth extra, Gilt edges. 6s.

  HENRY ESMOND

  By W. M. THACKERAY

  With Illustrations
  by HUGH THOMSON




NOTABLE SIX-SHILLING NOVELS


  By WINSTON CHURCHILL
    Richard Carvel.
    The Crisis.
    The Crossing.
    Coniston.
    The Celebrity.

  By MAURICE HEWLETT
    The Forest Lovers.
    Richard Yea-and-Nay.
    Little Novels of Italy.
    The Queen’s Quair; or, The Six Years’ Tragedy.
    Fond Adventures; Tales of the Youth of the World.

  By F. MARION CRAWFORD
    Marietta: A Maid of Venice.
    Cecilia: A Story of Modern Rome.
    The Heart of Rome.
    Whosoever shall offend....
    Soprano: A Portrait.

  By JAMES LANE ALLEN
    The Choir Invisible.
    The Increasing Purpose.
    The Mettle of the Pasture.
    A Kentucky Cardinal and Aftermath. Illustrated by H. Thomson.
    Flute and Violin.

  By GERTRUDE ATHERTON
    Rulers of Kings.
    The Splendid Idle Forties.
    Bell in the Fog.

  By ALFRED TRESIDDER SHEPPARD
    The Red Cravat.

  By ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY
    A Passage Perilous.
    At the Moorings.
    Household of Peter.

  By EDITH WHARTON
    The Descent of Man, and other Stories.

  By CUTCLIFFE HYNE
    Atoms of Empire.
    McTodd.

  By CHARLES MAJOR
    Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall.
    A Forest Hearth.

  By OWEN WISTER
    The Virginian: A Horseman of the Plains.




UNIFORM EDITION OF THE WORKS OF RUDYARD KIPLING

_Extra Crown 8vo. Scarlet Cloth. Gilt Tops. 6s. each_


  32nd Thousand
  Traffics and Discoveries

  45th Thousand
  Just So Stories for Little Children
   With Illustrations by the Author
    Also 4to Edition. 6s.

  65th Thousand
  Kim
    Illustrated by J. L. Kipling

  38th Thousand
  Stalky & Co.
    _PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“If ‘Stalky & Co.’ does not become as
    classic as the greatest favourites among Mr. 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.”

  62nd Thousand
  The Day’s Work
    _MORNING POST._—“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.”

  53rd Thousand
  Plain Tales from the Hills
    _SATURDAY REVIEW._—“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.”

  44th Thousand
  Life’s Handicap
  Being Stories of Mine Own People
    _BLACK AND WHITE._—“‘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.”

  41st Thousand
  Many Inventions
    _PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“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.”

  21st Thousand
  Wee Willie Winkie and other Stories

  25th Thousand
  Soldiers Three and other Stories
    _GLOBE._—“Containing some of the best of his highly vivid work.”

  67th Thousand
  The Jungle Book
   With Illustrations by J. L. Kipling and W. H. Drake
    _PUNCH._—“‘Æsop’s Fables and dear old Brer Fox and Co,’
    observes the Baron 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.”’”

  46th Thousand
  The Second Jungle Book
   With Illustrations by J. Lockwood Kipling
    _DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“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.”

  30th Thousand
  “Captains Courageous”
  A Story of the Grand Banks. Illustrated by I W. Taber
    _ATHENÆUM._—“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.”

  17th Thousand
  From Sea to Sea
  Letters of Travel. In Two Vols.
    _DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“‘From Sea to Sea’ is delightful reading
    throughout. ‘Good things’ sparkle in its every page, and
    inimitable descriptive matter abounds.... A charming book.”

  50th Thousand
  The Light that Failed
   Re-written and considerably enlarged
    _ACADEMY._—“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.”

  The Naulahka
  A Story of West and East
  BY RUDYARD KIPLING AND WOLCOTT BALESTIER


R. CLAY AND SONS, LTD., BREAD ST. HILL E.C., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.
                                                  40,000 16.8.’05




Transcriber’s Note


A small number of clear typographical errors (mostly quote marks) have
been corrected.





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