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                           Transcriber’s Note

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                             THE GHOST CAMP

                                   OR

                              THE AVENGERS




                     THE WORKS OF ROLF BOLDREWOOD.

               _Uniform Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d. each._

               ROBBERY UNDER ARMS.
               A COLONIAL REFORMER.
               THE MINER’S RIGHT.
               A MODERN BUCCANEER.
               NEVERMORE.
               THE SQUATTER’S DREAM.
               A SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON.
               OLD MELBOURNE MEMORIES.
               MY RUN HOME.
               THE SEALSKIN CLOAK.
               THE CROOKED STICK; OR, POLLIE’S PROBATION.
               PLAIN LIVING.
               A ROMANCE OF CANVAS TOWN.
               WAR TO THE KNIFE.
               BABES IN THE BUSH.

                                -------

           THE SPHINX OF EAGLEHAWK. Fcap. 8vo. 2s.
           IN BAD COMPANY, and other Stories. Crown 8vo. 6s.

                    London: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.




                             THE GHOST CAMP
                                   OR
                              THE AVENGERS




                                   BY
                            ROLF BOLDREWOOD
       AUTHOR OF “ROBBERY UNDER ARMS,” “THE MINER’S RIGHT,” ETC.




                                 London
                       MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
                    NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
                                  1902




                    RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,
                           LONDON AND BUNGAY.




                                CONTENTS

                                        PAGE

                           CHAPTER I       1

                           CHAPTER II     30

                           CHAPTER III    57

                           CHAPTER IV     93

                           CHAPTER V     122

                           CHAPTER VI    159

                           CHAPTER VII   198

                           CHAPTER VIII  236

                           CHAPTER IX    275

                           CHAPTER X     305

                           CHAPTER XI    343

                           CHAPTER XII   365




                             THE GHOST CAMP
                            OR, THE AVENGERS




                               CHAPTER I


A WILD and desolate land; dreary, even savage, to the unaccustomed eye.
Forest-clothed hills towering above the faint, narrow track leading
eastward, along which a man had been leading a tired horse; he was now
resting against a granite boulder. A dark, mist-enshrouded day, during
which the continuous driving showers had soaked through an overcoat, now
become so heavy that he carried it across his arm. A fairly heavy
valise, above a pair of blankets, was strapped in front of his saddle.

He was prepared for bush travelling—although his term of “colonial
experience,” judging from his ruddy cheek and general get-up, had been
limited. A rift in the over-hanging cloud-wrack, through which the low
sunrays broke with a sudden gleam, showed a darksome mountain range to
the south, with summit and sides, snow-clad and dazzling white.

The wayfarer stood up and stared at the apparition: “a good omen,”
thought he, “perhaps a true landmark. The fellows at the mail-change
told me to steer in a general way for the highest snow peak, which they
called ‘the Bogong,’ or some such name. Though this track seems better
marked, these mountain roads, as they call them—goat paths would be the
better name—for there is not a wheel mark to be seen—one needs the foot
of a chamois and the eye of our friend up there.” Here he looked upward,
where one of the great birds of prey, half hawk, half eagle, as the
pioneers decided, floated with moveless wing above crag and hollow. Then
rising with an effort, and taking the bridle rein, he began to lead the
weary horse up the rocky ascent. “Poor old Gilpin!” he soliloquised,
“you are more knocked up than I am—and yet you have the look of a clever
cob—such as we should have fancied in England for a roadster, or a
covert hack. But roads _are_ roads there, while in this benighted land,
people either don’t know how to make them, or seem to do their
cross-country work without them. I wonder if I shall fall in with bed
and board to-night. The last was rough, but sufficing—a good fire too,
now I think of it, and precious cold it was. Well, come along, John! I
must bustle you a bit when we get to the top of this everlasting
hill—truly biblical in that respect. What a lonesome place it is, now
that the sun has gone under again! I suppose there’s no one within fifty
miles—Hulloa!”

This exclamation was called forth by the appearance of a horseman at no
great distance—along the line of track. Man and horse were motionless,
though so near that he wondered he had not observed them before. The
rider’s face, which was towards him, bore, as far as he could judge, an
expression of keenest attention.

“Wonder if he is a bushranger?” thought the traveller; “ought to have
brought one of my revolvers; but everybody told me that there were none
‘out’ now; that I was as safe as if I was in England—safer, in fact,
than ‘south the water’ in the little village. However, I shall soon
know.”

Before he had time to decide seriously, the horseman came towards him.
He saw a slight, dark, wiry individual, something above the middle
height, sunburned, and almost blackened as to such portions of his neck
and face as could be perceived for an abundant beard and moustache. The
horse, blood-looking, and in hard condition, presented a striking
contrast to his own leg-weary, disconsolate animal. The traveller
thought him capable of fast and far performances. His sure and easy
gait, as he stepped freely along the rocky path, stamped him as
“mountain-bred,” or, if not “to the manner born,” having lived long
enough amid these tremendous glens and rocky fastnesses, to negotiate
their ladder-like declivities with ease and safety.

“Good evening!” said the stranger, civilly enough. “Going to ‘Haunted
Creek?’—a bit off the road, ar’n’t you?”

“I _was_ doubtful about the track, but I thought it might lead there. I
was told that it was only eight miles.”

“It’s a good fourteen, and you won’t get there to-night. Not with that
horse, anyhow. But look here! I’m going to my place, a few miles off,
with these cattle—if you like to give me a hand, I can put you up for
the night, and show you the way in the morning.”

“Thanks very much, really I feel much obliged to you. I was afraid I
should have had to camp out, and it looks like a bad night.”

“All right,” said the bushman, for such he evidently was; “these
crawlin’ cattle are brutes to straggle, and I’m lost without my dog.
I’ll bring ’em up, and if you’ll keep the tail going, we’ll get along
easy enough.”

“But where are they?” inquired the tourist, looking around, as if he
expected to see them rise out of the earth.

“Close by,” answered the stranger, laconically, at the same time riding
down the <DW72> of the mountain with loose rein, and careless seat, as if
the jumble of rocks, tree-roots, and rolling stones, was the most level
high road in the world. Looking after the new acquaintance he descried a
small lot of cattle perched on a rocky pinnacle, partly covered by a
patch of scrub. The grass around them was high and green—but, with one
exception, that of a cow munching a tussac in an undecided way, they did
not appear to care about the green herbage, or tall kangaroo grass which
grew around them. Had he known anything about the habits of cattle, he
would have seen by their appearance that these fat beasts (for such they
were) had come far and fast; were like his horse, thoroughly exhausted,
and as such, indifferent to the attractions of wayside pasture.

However, with the aid of a hunting crop, which he flourished behind
them, with threatening action, the bushman soon managed to get them on
to the track, and with the aid of his newly-made comrade induced them to
move with a decent show of alacrity. That some were footsore, and two
painfully lame, was apparent to the new assistant, also that they were
well-bred animals, heavy weights, and in that state and condition which
is provincially alluded to as “rolling fat.”

“Nice meat, ar’n’t they?” said the bushman; “come a good way too.
Beastly rough track; I was half a mind to bring them by Wagga—but this
is the shortest way—straight over the ranges. I’m butchering just now,
with gold-mining for a change, but that’s mostly winter work.”

“Where do you buy your cattle?” asked the Englishman—not that he cared
as to that part of the occupation, but the gold-mining seemed to him a
romantic, independent way of earning a living. He was even now turning
over in his mind the idea of a few months camping among these Alpine
regions, with, of course, the off-chance of coming upon an untouched
gold mine.

“Oh! a few here and there, in all sorts of places.” Here the stranger
shot a searching glance, tinged with suspicion, towards the questioner.
“I buy the chance of stray cattle now and then, and pick ’em up as I
come across ’em. We’d as well jog along here, it’s better going.”

The track had become more marked. There were no wheel marks, the absence
of which had surprised the traveller, since the beginning of his day’s
march, but tracks of cattle and unshod horses were numerous; while the
ground being less rocky, indeed commencing to be marshy, no difficulty
was found in driving the cattle briskly along it. His horse too, having
“company,” had become less dilatory and despondent.

“We’re not far off, now,” said his companion, “and it’s just as well.
We’ll have rain to-night—may be snow. So a roof and a fire won’t be too
bad.”

To this statement the tourist cheerfully assented, his spirits rising
somewhat, when another mile being passed, they turned to the north at a
sharp angle to the road, and following a devious track, found themselves
at the slip-rails of a small but well-fenced paddock, into which the
cattle were turned, and permitted to stray at will. Fastening the slip
rails with scrupulous care, and following the line of fence for a
hundred yards, they came to a hut built of slabs, and neatly roofed with
sheets of the stringy bark tree (Eucalyptus obliqua) where his guide
unsaddled, and motioned to the guest to do likewise. As also to put the
saddle against the wall of the hut, with the stuffing outward. “That’ll
dry ’em a bit,” he said; “mine’s wet enough anyhow. Just bring your
horse after me.”

Passing through a hand gate, he released his horse, first, however,
putting on a pair of hobbles; “the feed’s good,” he said, “but this
moke’s just out of the bush, and rather flash—he might jump the fence in
the night, so it’s best to make sure. Yours won’t care about anything
but filling his belly, not to-night anyhow, so he can go loose. Now
we’ll see about a fire, and boil the billy for tea. Come along in.”

Entering the hut, which though small, was neat and clean; it was seen to
contain two rooms, the inner one apparently used as a bedroom, there
being two bed-places, on each of which was a rude mattress covered with
a blanket. A store of brushwood and dry billets had been placed in a
corner, from which a fire was soon blazing in the rude stone chimney,
while a camp kettle (provincially a “billy”) was on the way to boil
without loss of time.

A good-sized piece of corned beef, part of a round, with half a “damper”
loaf being extracted from a cupboard or locker, was placed on the rude
slab table; after which pannikins and tin plates, with knives and forks,
provided from the same receptacle, were brought forth, completing the
preparations for a meal that the guest believed he was likely to relish.

“Oh! I nearly forgot,” said the traveller, as his entertainer, dropping
a handful of tea into the “billy,” now at the boil, and stirring it with
a twig, put on the lid. “I brought a flask, it’s very fair whisky, and a
tot won’t hurt either of us, after a long day and a wet one.” Going to
his coat, he brought out a flask, and nearly filling the tin cup which
was closed over the upper part, offered it to his host. He, rather to
the surprise of the Englishman, hesitated and motioned as if to refuse,
but on second thoughts smiled in a mysterious way, and taking the tin
cup, nodded, and saying “Well, here’s fortune!” tossed it off. Blount
took one of the pannikins, and pouring out a moderate allowance, filled
it up with the clear spring water, and drank it by instalments.

“I must say I feel better after that,” he observed, “and if a dram needs
an excuse, a long, cold ride, stiff legs, and a wetting ought to be
sufficient.”

“They don’t look about for excuses up here,” said his new acquaintance,
“and some takes a deal more than is good for them. I don’t hold with
that, but a nip or two’s neither here nor there, particular after a long
day. Help yourself to the meat and damper, you see your supper.”

The traveller needed no second invitation; he did not, like the clerk of
Copmanhurst, plunge his fingers into the venison pasty, there being
neither venison nor pasty, but after cutting off several slices of the
excellent round of beef which had apparently sustained previous
assaults, he made good time, with the aid of a well-baked “damper,” and
an occasional reference to a pannikin of hot tea, so that as their
appetites declined, more leisure was afforded for conversation.

“And now,” he said, after filling up a second pannikin of tea, and
lighting his pipe, “I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you, as I hear the
rain coming down, and the wind rising. May I ask whose hospitality I’m
enjoying? I’m Valentine Blount of Langley in Herefordshire. Not long
out, as I dare say you have noticed. Just travelling about to have a
look at the country.”

“My name’s John Carter,” said the bushman, with apparent frankness, as
he confronted Blount’s steady eye, “but I’m better known from here to
Omeo, as ‘Little River Jack’; there’s lots of people knows me by that
name, that don’t know me by any other.”

“And what do you do when you get gold—take it to Melbourne to sell?”

“There’s no call to do that. Melbourne’s a good way off, and it takes
time to get there. But there’s always gold buyers about townships, that
are on for a little business. They give a trifle under market price, but
they pay cash, and it suits us mountain chaps to deal that way.
Sometimes I’m a buyer myself, along with the cattle-dealing. Look here!”
As he spoke, he detached a leather pouch from his belt, looking like one
that stockriders wear for carrying pipe and tobacco, which he threw on
the table. The grog had inclined to confidences and relaxed his attitude
of caution. Blount lifted it, rather surprised at its weight. “This is
gold, isn’t it?”

“Yes! a good sample too. Worth four pound an ounce. Like to look at it?”

“Very much. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen gold in the raw state
before.”

“Well, here it is—the real thing, and no mistake. Right if a chap could
only get enough of it.” Here he opened the mouth of the pouch, which
seemed three parts full, and pouring some of it on a tin plate, awaited
Blount’s remarks.

As the precious metal, partly in dust, partly in larger fragments,
rattled on the plate, Blount looked on with deep interest, and then, on
being invited so to do, handled it with the air of a man to whom a new
and astonishing object is presented for the first time.

“So,” he said musingly, “here is one of the great lures which have moved
the world since the dawn of history. Love, war, and ambition, have been
subservient to it. Priests and philosophers, kings and queens, the court
beauty and the Prime Minister, have vainly struggled against its
influence. But—” he broke off with a laugh, as he noted his companion’s
look of wonder, “here am I, another example of its fascination,
moralising in a mountain hut and mystifying my worthy entertainer.”

“And now, my friend!” he inquired, relapsing into the manner of everyday
life, “what may be the market value of this heavy little parcel?”

“Well—I put it at fifty ounces, or thereabouts,” said Mr. “Little River
Jack,” carefully pouring back the contents of the pouch, to the last
grain; “at, say four pound an ounce, it’s worth a couple of hundred
notes, though _we_ sha’n’t get that price for it. But at Melbourne mint,
it’s worth every shilling, maybe a trifle more.” Before closing the
pouch, he took out a small nugget of, perhaps, half an ounce in weight,
and saying, “You’re welcome to this. It’ll make a decent scarf pin,”
handed it to Mr. Blount.

But that gentleman declined it, saying, “Thanks, very much, but I’d
rather not.” Then, seeing that the owner seemed hurt, even resentful,
qualified the refusal by saying, “But if you would do me a service,
which I should value far more, you might introduce me to some party of
miners, with whom I could work for a month or two, and learn, perhaps,
how to get a few ounces by my own exertions. I think I should like the
work. It must be very interesting.”

“It’s that interesting,” said the bushman, all signs of annoyance
clearing from his countenance, “that once a man takes to it he never
quits it till he makes a fortune or dies so poor that the Government has
to bury him. I’ve known many a man that used a cheque book as big as a
school slate, and could draw for a hundred thousand or more, drop it all
in a few years, and be found dead in a worse ‘humpy’ than this, where
he’d been living alone for years.”

“Strange to have been rich by his own handiwork, and not to be able to
keep something for his old age,” said Blount; “how is it to be accounted
for?”

“By luck, d—d hard luck!” said John Carter, whom the subject seemed to
have excited. “Every miner’s a born gambler; if he don’t do it with
cards, he puts his earnings, his time, his life blood, as one might say,
on the chance of a claim turning out well. It’s good luck, and not hard
work, that gives him a ‘golden hole,’ where he can’t help digging up
gold like potatoes, and it’s luck, bad luck, that turns him out a beggar
from every ‘show’ for years, till he hasn’t got a shirt to his back. Why
do I stick to it, you’ll say? Because I’m a fool, always have been,
always will be, I expect. But I like the game, and I can’t leave it for
the life of me. However, that says nothing. I’m no worse than others. I
can just keep myself and my horse, while there’s an old mate of mine
living in London and Paris, and swelling it about with the best! You’d
like to have a look in, you say? Well, you stop at Bunjil for a week,
till I come back from Bago; it’s a good inn, clean and comfortable, and
the girl there, if I tell her, will look after you; see you have a fire
too, these cold nights. Are you on?”

“Yes! most decidedly,” replied Blount, with great heartiness. “A
mountain hotel should be a new experience.”

“Then it’s a bargain. I’m going down the river for a few days. When I
get back, I’ll pick you up at Bunjil, and we’ll go to a place such as
you never seen before, and might never have dropped on as long as you
lived, if you hadn’t met me, accidental like. And now we’d as well turn
in. I expect some chaps that’s bought the cattle, and they won’t be here
later than daylight.” Accepting another glass of whisky as nightcap, and
subsequently removing merely his boots and breeches, both of which he
placed before the fire, but at a safe distance, Mr. “Little River Jack”
“turned in” as he expressed it, and was shortly wrapped in the embrace
of the kind deity who favours the dwellers in the Waste, though often
rejecting the advances of the luxurious inhabitants of cities. Mr.
Blount delayed his retirement, as he smoked before the still glowing
“back log” and dwelt upon the adventures of the day.

“How that fellow must enjoy his slumbers!” thought he. “In the saddle
before daylight, as he told me; up and down these rocky
fastnesses—fifteen hours of slow, monotonous work, more wearying than
any amount of fast going—and now, by his unlaboured breathing, sleeping
like a tired child; his narrow world—its few cares—its honest, if
sometimes exhausting labours, as completely shut out as if he was in
another planet. Enviable mortal! I should like to change places with
him.”

After expressing this imprudent desire, as indeed are often those of
men, who, unacquainted with the conditions surrounding untried modes of
life, believe that they could attain happiness by merely exchanging
positions, Mr. Blount undressed before the fire, and bestowed himself
upon the unoccupied couch, where he speedily fell asleep, just as he had
imagined himself extracting large lumps of gold from a vein of virgin
quartz, in a romantic fern-shaded ravine, discovered by himself.

From this pleasing state of matters, he was awakened by a sound as of
horse hoofs and the low growl of a dog. It was not quite dark. He sat up
and listened intently. There was no illusion. He went to the hut door
and looked out. Day was breaking, and through the misty dawnlight he was
enabled to distinguish his host in conversation with a man on horseback,
outside of the slip-rails. Presently the cattle, driven by another
horseman, with whom was a dog, apparently of more than ordinary
intelligence, came to the slip-rails. They made a rush as soon as they
were through, as is the manner of such, on strange ground—but the second
horseman promptly “wheeled” them towards the faint dawn line now
becoming more distinct, and disappeared through the forest arches. Mr.
Blount discerning that the day had begun, for practical purposes,
proceeded to dress.

Walking over to the chimney, he found that the smouldering logs had been
put together, and a cheerful blaze was beginning to show itself. The
billy, newly filled, was close to it, and by the time he had washed the
upper part of his body in a tin bucket placed on a log end, outside the
door, his friend of the previous night appeared with both horses, which
he fastened to the paddock fence.

“Those fellows woke you up, coming for the cattle? Thought you’d sleep
through it. I was going to rouse you when breakfast was ready.”

“I slept soundly in all conscience, but still I was quite ready to turn
out. I suppose those were the butchers that you sold the cattle to?”

“Two of their men—it’s all the same. They stopped close by last night so
as to get an early start. They’ve a good way to go, and’ll want all
their time, these short days. Your horse looks different this morning.
It’s wonderful what a good paddock and a night’s rest will do!”

“Yes, indeed, he does look different,” as he saddled him up, and,
plucking some of the tall grass which grew abundantly around, treated
him to a partial rub down. “How far is it to Bunjil, as you call it?”

“Well, not more than twenty miles, but the road’s middlin’ rough. Anyhow
we’ll get there latish, and you can take it easy till I come back. I
mightn’t be away more than three or four days.”

Misty, even threatening, at the commencement, the day became fine, even
warm, after breakfast. Wind is rarely an accompaniment of such weather,
and as the sun rode higher in the cloudless sky, Blount thought he had
rarely known a finer day. “What bracing mountain air!” he said to
himself. “Recalls the Highlands; but I see no oat fields, and the
peasantry are absent. These hills should rear a splendid race of men—and
rosy-cheeked lasses in abundance. The roads I cannot recommend.”

Mr. John Carter had admitted that the way was rough. His companion
thought he had understated the case. It was well nigh impassable. When
not climbing hills as steep as the side of a house, they were sliding
down bridle tracks like the “Ladder of Cattaro.” These Mr. Carter’s
horse hardly noticed; a down grade being negotiated with ease and
security, while he seemed, to Blount’s amazement, to step from rock to
rock like a chamois. That gentleman’s own horse had no such
accomplishments, but blundered perilously from time to time, so that his
owner was fain to lead him over the rougher passes. This rendered their
progress slower than it would otherwise have been, while he was fain to
look enviously at his companion, who, either smoking or discoursing on
local topics, rode with careless rein, trusting implicitly, as it
seemed, to his horse’s intelligence.

“Here’s the Divide!” he said at length, pointing to a ridge which rose
almost at right angles from the accepted track. “We leave the road here,
and head straight for Bunjil mountain. There he stands with his cap on!
The snow’s fell early this season.”

As he spoke he pointed towards a mountain peak of unusual height,
snow-capped, and even as to its spreading flanks, streaked with patches
and lines of the same colour. The white clouds which hung round the
lofty summit—six thousand feet from earth, were soft-hued and fleecy;
but their pallor was blurred and dingy compared with the silver coronet
which glorified the dark-hued Titan.

“Road!” echoed Mr. Blount, “I don’t see any; what passes for it, I shall
be pleased to leave. If we are to go along this ‘Divide,’ as you call
it, I hope it will be pleasanter riding.”

“Well, it is a queerish track for a bit, but after Razor Back’s passed,
it’s leveller like. We can raise a trot for a mile or two afore we make
Bunjil township. Razor Back’s a narrer cut with a big drop both sides,
as we shall have to go stiddy over.”

“The Divide,” as John Carter called it, was an improvement upon the
track they quitted. It was less rocky, and passably level. There was a
gradual ascent however, which Mr. Blount did not notice until he
observed that the timber was becoming more sparse, while the view around
them was disclosing features of a grand, even awful character. On either
side the forest commenced to <DW72> downwards, at an increasingly sharp
gradient. Instead of the ordinary precipice, above which the travellers
rode, on one or other side of the bridle track, having the hill on the
other, there appeared to be a precipice of unknown depth on _either
hand_. As the ascent became more marked, Blount perceived that the
winding path led towards a pinnacle from which the view was extensive,
and in a sense, dreadful, from its dizzy altitude—its abysmal
depths,—and, as he began to realise, its far from improbable danger.

“This here’s what we call the leadin’ range; it follers the divide from
the head waters of the Tambo; that’s where we stopped last night. It’s
the only road between that side of the country and the river. If you
don’t strike this ‘cut,’ and there’s not more than a score or so of us
mountain chaps as knows it, it would take a man days to cross over, and
then he mightn’t do it.”

“What would happen to him?” asked Blount, feeling a natural curiosity to
learn more of this weird region, differing so widely from any idea that
he had ever gathered from descriptions of Australia.

“Well, he’d most likely get bushed, and have to turn back, though he
mightn’t find it too easy to do that, or make where he come from. In
winter time, if it come on to snow, he’d never get home at all. I’ve
known things happen like that. There was one poor cove last winter, as
we chaps were days out searchin’ for, and then found him stiff, and
dead—he’d got sleepy, and never woke up!”

While this enlivening conversation was proceeding, the man from a far
country discovered that the pathway, level enough for ordinary purposes,
though he and his guide were no longer riding side by side, was rapidly
narrowing. What breadth it would be, when they ascended to the pinnacle
above them, he began to consider with a shade of apprehension. His
hackney, which Mr. Jack Carter had regarded with slightly-veiled
contempt as a “flat country horse, as had never seen a rise bigger than
a haystack,” evidently shared his uneasiness, inasmuch as he had
stopped, stared and trembled from time to time, at awkward places on the
road, before they came to the celebrated “leading range.”

In another mile they reached the pinnacle, where Blount realised the
true nature and surroundings of this Alpine Pass. Such indeed it proved
to be. A narrow pathway, looking down on either side, upon fathomless
glens, with so abrupt a drop that it seemed as if the wind, now rising,
might blow them off their exposed perch.

The trees which grew at the depths below, though in reality tall and
massive eucalypts, appeared scarce larger than berry bushes.

The wedge-tailed eagles soared above and around. One pair indeed came
near and gazed on them with unblenching eye, as though speculating on
the duration of their sojourn. They seemed to be the natural denizens of
this dizzy and perilous height, from which the vision ranged, in
wondering amaze over a vast lone region, which stretched to the horizon;
appearing indeed to include no inconsiderable portion of the continent.

Below, around, even to the far, misty sky-line, was a grey, green ocean,
the billows of which, through the branches of mighty forest trees, were
reduced by distance to a level and uniform contour. Tremendous glens,
under which ran clear cold mountain streams, tinkling and rippling ever,
mimic waterfalls and flashing rivulets, the long dry summer through
diversified the landscape.

Silver streams crossed these plains and downs of solemn leafage,
distinguishable only when the sun flashed on their hurrying waters.
These were rivers—not inconsiderable either—while companies of
snow-crowned Alps stood ranged between, tier upon tier above them and
the outlined rim, where earth and sky met, vast, regal, awful, as Kings
of the Over-world! On guard since the birth of time, rank upon rank they
stood—silent, immovable, scornful—defying the puny trespassers on their
immemorial demesne. “What a land! what a vast expanse!” thought the
Englishman, “rugged, untamed, but not more so than ‘Caledonia stern and
wild,’ more fertile and productive, and as to extent—boundless. I see
before me,” he mused, “a country larger than Sweden, capable in time of
carrying a dense population; and what a breed of men it should give
birth to, athletic, hardy, brave! Horsemen too, in the words of
Australia’s forest poet, whom I read but of late. ‘For the horse was
never saddled that the Jebungs couldn’t ride.’ Good rifle shots! What
sons of the Empire should these Australian highlands rear, to do battle
for Old England in the wars of the giants yet to come!”

This soliloquy, and its utterance in thought came simultaneously to a
halt of a decisive nature, by reason of the conduct of Mr. Blount’s
horse. This animal had been gradually acquiring a fixed distrust of the
highway—all too literally—on which he was required to travel. Looking
first on one side, then on the other, and apparently realising the
dreadful alternative of a slip or stumble, he became unnerved and
demoralised. Mr. Blount had ridden a mule over many a _mauvais pas_ in
Switzerland, when the sagacious animal, for reasons known to himself,
had insisted on walking on the outer edge of the roadway, over-hanging
the gulf, where a crumbling ledge might cause the fall into
immeasurable, glacial depths. In that situation his nerve had not
faltered. “Trust to old ‘Pilatus,’” said the guide; “do not interfere
with him, I beseech you; he is under the immediate protection of the
saints, and the holy St. Bernard.” He had in such a position been cool
and composed. The old mule’s wise, experienced air, his sure and
cautious mode of progression, had been calculated to reassure a nervous
novice. But here, the case was different. His cob was evidently _not_
under the protection of the saints. St. Bernard was absent, or
indifferent. With the recklessness of fear, he was likely to back—to
lose his balance—to hurl himself and rider over the perpendicular drop,
where he would not have touched ground at a thousand feet. At this
moment Jack Carter looked round. “Keep him quiet, for God’s sake! till I
get to you—don’t stir!” As he spoke he slid from his horse, though so
small was the vacant space on the ledge, that as he leaned against the
shoulder of his well-trained mount, there seemed barely room for his
feet. Buckling a strap to the snaffle rein, which held it in front of
the saddle, and throwing the stirrup iron over, he passed to the head of
the other horse, whose rein he took in a firm grasp. “Steady,” he said
in a voice of command, which, strangely, the shaking creature seemed to
obey. “Now, Boss! you get off, and slip behind him—there’s just room.”
Blount did as directed, and with care and steadiness, effected a
movement to the rear, while Jack Carter fastened rein and stirrup as
before.

Then giving the cob a sounding slap on the quarter, he uttered a
peculiar cry, and the leading horse stepped along the track at a fast
amble, followed by the cob at a slow trot, in which he seemed to have
recovered confidence.

“That’s a quick way out of the difficulty,” said Blount, with an air of
relief. “I really didn’t know what was going to happen. But won’t they
bolt when they get to the other side of this natural bridge over the
bottomless pit?”

“When they get to the end of this ‘race,’ as you may call it, there’s a
trap yard that we put up years back for wild horses—many a hundred’s
been there before my time. Some of us mountain chaps keep it mended up.
It comes in useful now and again.”

“I should think it did,” assented his companion, with decision. “But how
will they get in? Will your clever horse take down the slip-rails, and
put them up again?”

“Not quite that!” said the bushman smiling—“but near enough; we’ll find
’em both there, I’ll go bail!”

“How far is it?” asked Blount, with a natural desire to get clear of
this picturesque, but too exciting part of the country, and to exchange
it for more commonplace scenery, with better foothold.

“Only a couple of mile—so we might as well step out, as I’ve filled my
pipe. Won’t you have a draw for company?”

“Not just yet, I’ll wait till we’re mounted again.” For though the
invariable, inexhaustible tobacco pipe is the steadfast friend of the
Australian under all and every condition of life, Blount did not feel in
the humour for it just after he had escaped, as he now began to believe,
from a sudden and violent death.

“A well-trained horse! I should think he was,” he told himself; “and
yet, before I left England, I was always being warned against the
half-broken horses of Australia. What a hackney to be sure!—fast, easy,
sure-footed, intelligent—and what sort of breaking in has he had? Mostly
ridden by people whom no living horse can throw; but that is a
disadvantage—as he instinctively recognises the rider he _can_ throw.
Well! every country has its own way of doing things; and though we
Englishmen are unchangeably fixed in our own methods, we may have
something to learn yet from our kinsmen in this new land.”

“I suppose there have been accidents on this peculiar track of yours?”
he said, after they had walked in silence for a hundred yards or more.

“Accidents!” he replied, “I should jolly well think there have. You see,
horses are like men and women, though people don’t hardly believe it.
Some’s born one way, and some another; teaching don’t make much
difference to ’em, nor beltin’ either. Some of ’em, like some men, are
born cowards, and when they get into a narrer track with a big drop both
sides of ’em, they’re that queer in the head—though it’s the _heart_
that’s wrong with ’em—that they feel like pitching theirselves over,
just to get shut of the tremblin’ on the brink feelin’. Your horse was
in a blue funk; he’d have slipped or backed over in another minute or
two. That was the matter with _him_. When he seen old Keewah skip along
by himself, it put confidence like, into him.”

“You’ve known of accidents, then?”

“My word! I mind when poor Paddy Farrell went down. He and his horse
both. He was leadin’ a packer, as it might be one of us now. Well, his
moke was a nervous sort of brute, and just as he got to the Needle Rock,
it’s a bit farther on before the road widens out, but it’s terrible
narrer there, and poor Paddy was walking ahead leadin’ the brute with a
green hide halter, when a hawk flies out from behind a rock and
frightened the packer. He draws back with a jerk, and his hind leg goes
over the edge. Paddy had the end of the halter round his wrist, and it
got jammed somehow, and down goes the lot, horse and pack, and him atop
of ’em. Three or four of us were out all day looking for him at the foot
of the range. We knew where we’d likely find him, and sure enough there
they were, he and his horse, stone dead and smashed to pieces. We took
him back to Bunjil, and buried him decent in the little graveyard. We
managed to fish up a prayer-book, and got ‘Gentleman Jack’ to read the
service over him. My word! he _could_ read no end. They said he was
college taught. He could drink too, more’s the pity.”

“Does _every one_ drink that lives in these parts?”

“Well, a good few. Us young ones not so bad, but if a man stays here,
after a few years he always drinks, partickler if he’s seen better
days.”

“Now why is that? It’s a free healthy life, with riding, shooting, and a
chance of a golden hole, as you call it. There are worse places to live
in.”

“Nobody knows why, but they all do; they’ll work hard and keep sober for
months. Then they get tired of having no one to talk to—nobody like
theirselves, I mean. They go away, and come back stone-broke, or knock
it all down in Bunjil, if they’ve made a few pounds.”

“That sounds bad after working hard and risking their lives on these
Devil’s Bridges. How old was this Patrick Farrell?”

“Twenty-four, his name wasn’t Patrick. It was Aloysius William, named
after a saint, I’m told. The boys called him ‘Paddy’ for short. At home,
I believe they called him ‘Ally.’ But Paddy he always was in these
parts. It don’t matter much now. See that tall rock sticking up by the
side of the road at the turn? Well, that’s where he fell; they call it
‘Paddy’s Downfall,’ among the country people to this day. We’ve only a
mile to go from there.”

When Mr. Blount and his companion reached the Needle Rock, a sharp-edged
monolith, the edge of which unnecessarily infringed on the perilously
scanty foothold, he did not wonder at the downfall of poor Aloysius
William or any other wayfarer encumbered with a horse. He recalled the
“vision of sudden death” which had so nearly been realised in his own
case, and shuddered as he looked over the sheer drop on to a tangled
mass of “rocks and trees confusedly hurled.”

“We’ve got Bunjil Inn to make yet,” said the bushman, stepping forward
briskly; “we mustn’t forget that, if we leave my old moke too long in
the yard, he’ll be opening the gate or some other dodge.”

In a hundred yards from the Needle Rock the track became wider, much to
Mr. Blount’s relief, for he was beginning to feel an uncanny fascination
for the awful abyss, and to doubt whether if a storm came on, he should
be able to stand erect, or be reduced to the ignoble alternative of
lying on his face.

“They’ve passed along here all right,” said the guide, casting a casual
look at the path; “trust old Keewah for that, he’s leadin’ and your moke
following close up.”

Mr. Blount did not see any clear indication, and would have been quite
unable to declare which animal was foremost. But he accepted in all
confidence Little-River-Jack’s assurance. The track, without gaining
much breadth or similarity to any civilised high road, was yet superior
in all respects to the chamois path they had left behind, and when his
companion exclaimed, “There’s the yard, and our nags in it, as safe as
houses,” he was relieved and grateful. The loss of a horse with a new
saddle and bridle, besides his whole stock of travelling apparel, spare
shoes, and other indispensable matters, would have been serious, not to
say irreparable.

However there were the two horses with their accoutrements complete, in
the trap yard aforesaid. The yard was fully eight feet high, and though
the saplings of which it was composed were rudely put together, they
were solid and unyielding. The heavy gate of the same material showed a
rude carpentry in the head and tail pieces, the former of which was “let
into the cap” or horizontal spar placed across the gate posts, and also
morticed into a round upright below, sunk into the ground and projecting
securely above it.

“They must have come in and shut the gate after them,” remarked Blount;
“how in the world did they manage that?”

“Well, you see, this gate’s made pretty well on the balance to swing
back to the post, where there’s a sort of groove for it. It’s always
left half, or a quarter open. A prop’s put loose agen it, which any
stock coming in from that side’s middlin’ sure to rub, and the gate
swings to. See? It may graze ’em, as they’re going in, but they’re
likely to jump forward, into the yard. The gate swings back to the post,
and they’re nabbed. They can’t very well open it _towards_ themselves,
they haven’t savey for that. So they have to wait till some one comes.”

This explanation was given as they were riding along a decently plain
road to Bunjil township, the first appearance of which one traveller
descried with much contentment.

The “Divide,” before this agreeable change, had begun to alter its
austere character. The ridge had spread out, the forest trees were
stately and umbrageous, the track was fairly negotiable by horse and
man. A fertile valley through which dashed an impetuous stream revealed
itself. On the further bank stood dwellings, “real cottages,” as Mr.
Blount remarked, “not huts.” These were in all cases surrounded by
gardens, in some instances by orchards, of which the size and girth of
the fruit trees bore witness to the richness of the soil as well as of
the age of the township.

The short winter day had been nearly consumed by reason of their erratic
progress; so that the evening shadows had commenced to darken the
valley, while the clear, crisp atmosphere betrayed to the experienced
senses of Mr. Carter, every indication of what he described as “a real
crackin’ frost.”

“We’re in luck’s way,” he said, in continuation, “not to be struck for a
camp out to-night. It’s cold enough in an old man frost hereabouts, to
freeze the leg off an iron pot. But this is the right shop as we’re
going to, for a good bed, a broiled steak for tea, and if you make
friends with Sheila (she’s the girl that waits at table) you won’t die
of cold, whatever else happens to you. Above all, the house is clean,
and that’s more than you can say for smarter lookin’ shops. We’d as well
have a spurt to finish up with.” Drawing his rein, and touching his hack
with careless heel, the bushman went off at a smart canter along the
main street, apparently the only one in the little town, Mr. Blount’s
cob following suit with comparative eagerness, until they pulled up at a
roomy building with a broad verandah, before which stood a sign-board,
setting forth its title to consideration, as the “Prospector’s Arms” by
William Middleton.

Several persons stood or lounged about the verandah, who looked at them
keenly as they rode up. A broad-shouldered man with a frank, open
countenance, came out of a door, somewhat apart from the group. He was
plainly, by appearance and bearing, the landlord.

“So you’re back again, Jack,” said he, addressing the bushman with an
air of familiar acquaintance; “didn’t know what had come o’yer. What lay
are ye on now?”

“Same’s usual, moochin’ round these infernal hills and gullies ov yours.
There’s a bit of a rush Black Rock way. I’m goin’ to have a look in
to-morrow. This gentleman’s just from England, seein’ the country in a
gineral way; he’ll stay here till I get back, and then we’ll be going
down river.”

“All right, Jack!” replied the host. “_You_ can show him the country, if
any one can—the missus’ll see he’s took care of,” and as he spoke he
searched the speaker with a swift glance as of one comprehending all
that had been said, and more that was left unspoken. “Here, take these
horses round, George, and make ’em right for the night.”

An elderly individual in shirt sleeves and moleskins of faded hue here
came forward, and took the stranger’s horse, unbuckling valise and pack,
which the landlord carried respectfully into an inner chamber, out of
which a door led into a comfortable appearing bedroom; where, from the
look of the accessories, he augured favourably for the night’s rest. Mr.
Carter had departed with the old groom, preferring, as he said, to see
his horse fed and watered before he tackled his own refreshment; “grub”
was the word he used, which appeared to be fully understanded of the
people, if but vaguely explanatory to Mr. Blount.

That gentleman, pensively examining his wardrobe, reflected meanwhile by
how narrow a chance the articles spread out before him had been saved
from wreck, so to speak, and total loss, when a knock came to the door,
and a feminine voice requested to know whether he would like supper at
six o’clock or later. Taking counsel of his inward monitor, he adopted
the hour named.

The voice murmured, “Your hot water, sir,” and ceased speaking.

He opened the door, and was just in time to see a female form disappear
from the room.

“We are beginning to get civilised,” he thought, as he possessed himself
of the hot water jug, and refreshed accordingly. After which he
discarded his riding gear in favour of shoes and suitable continuations.
While awaiting the hour of reflection, he took out of his valise a
pocket edition of Browning, and was about to glance at it when the clock
struck six.

Entering the parlour, for such it evidently was, he was agreeably
surprised with the appearance of affairs. A clean cloth covered the
solid cedar table, on which was a hot dish—flanked by another which held
potatoes. A fire of glowing logs was cheerful to behold, nor was the
“neat-handed Phyllis” wanting to complete the tableau. A very
good-looking young woman, with a complexion of English, rather than
Australian colouring, removed the dish covers, and stood at attention.

Here the wayfarer was destined to receive fresh information relative to
the social observances of Australian society. “You have only laid covers
for one,” said he to the maid. “My friend, Mr. Carter, is not going to
do without his dinner surely?”

“Oh! Jack!” said the damsel, indifferently; “he won’t come in here, he’s
at the second table with the coachman and the drovers. This is the
gentlemen’s room.”

“How very curious!” he exclaimed. “I thought every one was alike in this
part of the world; all free and equal, that sort of thing. I shouldn’t
the least mind spending the evening with er—John Carter—or any other
respectable miner.”

The girl looked him over before she spoke. “Well, Mr. Blount (Jack said
that was your name), _you_ mightn’t, though you’re just from England,
but other people might. When the police magistrate, the Goldfields
Warden, and the District Surveyor come round, they always stay here, and
the down river squatters. They wouldn’t like it, you may be sure, nor
you either, perhaps, if the room was pretty full.”

He smiled, as he answered, “So this is an aristocratic country, I
perceive, in spite of the newspaper froth about a democratic government.
Well, I must take time, and learn the country’s ways. I shall pick them
up by degrees, I suppose.”

“No fear!” said the damsel. “It’ll all come in time, not but there’s
places at the back where all sorts sit down together and smoke and drink
no end. But not at Bunjil. Would you like some apple-pie to follow,
there’s plenty of cream?”

Mr. Blount would. “Apple-pie reminds one of Devonshire, and our
boyhood—especially the cream,” thought he. “What fun I should have
thought this adventure a few years ago. Not that it’s altogether without
interest now. It’s a novelty, at any rate.”




                               CHAPTER II


MR. BLOUNT, as he sat before the fire, enjoying his final pipe before
retiring for the night, was free to confess that he had rarely spent a
more satisfactory evening—even in the far-famed, old-fashioned,
road-side inns of old England. The night was cold—Carter’s forecast had
been accurate. It was a hard frost, such as his short stay in a coast
city had not acquainted him with. The wide bush fire-place, with a
couple of back logs, threw out a luxurious warmth, before which, in a
comfortable arm-chair, he had been reading the weekly paper with
interest.

The well-cooked, juicy steak, the crisp potatoes, the apple-pie with
bounteous cream, constituted a meal which a keen-edged appetite rendered
sufficient for all present needs. The difficult ride and too hazardous
adventure constituted a fair day’s work—being indeed sufficiently
fatiguing to justify rest without bordering on exhaustion. It was a case
of _jam satis_.

He looked forward to an enjoyable night’s sleep, was even aware of a
growing sense of relief that he was not required to take the road next
morning. The cob would be better for a few days’ rest, before doing more
mountain work. He would like also to ramble about this neighbourhood,
and see what the farms and sluicing claims were like. And a better base
of operations than the Bunjil Hotel, no man need desire.

He had gone to the stable with Carter, as became a prudent horse-owner,
where he had seen the cob comfortably bedded down for the night with a
plenteous supply of sweet-smelling oaten hay before him, and an
unstinted feed of maize in the manger.

“They’re all right for the night,” said Carter. “Your nag will be the
better for a bit of a turn round to-morrow afternoon, just to keep his
legs from swellin’. I’ll be off about sunrise, and back again the fourth
day, or early the next. They’ll look after you here, till then.”

Mr. Blount was of opinion that he could look after himself from what he
had seen of the establishment, and said so, but “was nevertheless much
obliged to him for getting him such good quarters.” So to bed, as Mr.
Pepys hath it, but before doing so, he rang the bell, and questioned
Sheila—for that was her name, as he had ascertained by direct inquiry—as
to the bath arrangements.

“I shall want a cold bath at half-past seven—a shower bath, for choice.
Is there one?”

“Oh, yes—but very few go in for it this time of year. The P.M. does,
when he comes round, and the Goldfields Warden. It’s one of those baths
that you fill and draw up over your head. Then you pull a string.”

“That will do very well.”

“All right—I’ll tell George; but won’t it be very cold? It’s a hard
frost to-night.”

“No—the colder it is, the warmer you feel after it.”

“Well, good-night, sir! Breakfast at half-past eight o’clock. Is that
right? Would you like sausages, boiled eggs and toast?”

“Yes! nothing could be better. My appetite seems improving already.”

The Kookaburra chorus, and the flute accompaniment of the magpies in the
neighbouring tree tops, awakened Mr. Blount, who had not so much as
turned round in bed since about five minutes after he had deposited
himself between the clean lavender-scented sheets. Looking out, he
faintly discerned the dawn light, and also that the face of the country
was as white as if it had been snowing. He heard voices in the verandah,
and saw Little-River-Jack’s horse led out, looking as fresh as paint.
That gentleman, lighting his pipe carefully, mounted and started off at
a fast amble up the road which skirted the range, and led towards a gap
in the hills. Mr. Blount thought it would be as well to wait until
Sheila had the fire well under way, by which he intended to toast
himself after the arctic discipline of the shower bath, with the
thermometer at 28 degrees Fahrenheit.

The bi-weekly mail had providentially arrived at breakfast time,
bringing in its bags the local district newspaper, and a metropolitan
weekly which skimmed the cream from the cables and telegrams of the day.
This was sufficiently interesting to hold him to the arm-chair, in
slippered ease, for the greater part of an hour, while he lingered over
his second cup of tea.

His boots, renovated from travel stains and mud, standing ready, he
determined on a stroll, and took counsel with Sheila, as to a favourable
locality.

The damsel was respectful, but conversed with him on terms of perfect
conversational equality. She had also been fairly educated, and was free
from vulgarity of tone or accent. To him, straight from the old country,
a distinctly unfamiliar type worth studying.

“Where would you advise me to go for a walk?” he said. “It’s good
walking weather, and I can’t sit in the house this fine morning, though
you have made such a lovely fire.”

“I should go up the creek, and have a look at the sluicing claim. People
say it’s worth seeing. You can’t miss it if you follow up stream, and
you’ll hear the ‘water gun’ a mile before you come to it.”

“‘Water gun?’ What ever is that?”

“Oh! it’s the name of a big hose with a four-inch nozzle at the end.
They lead the water for the race into it, and then turn it against the
creek bank; that undermines tons of the stuff they want to sluice—you’ll
hear it coming down like a house falling!”

“And what becomes of it then?”

“Oh! it goes into the tail-race, and after that it’s led into the
riffles and troughs—the water keeps driving along, and they’ve some way
of washing the clay and gravel out, and leaving the gold behind.”

“And does it pay well?”

“They say so. It only costs a penny a ton to wash, or something like
that. It’s the cheapest way the stuff can be treated. Our boys saw it
used in California, and brought it over here.”

So, after taking a last fond look at the cob, and wishing he could
exchange him for Keewah, but doubting if any amount of boot would induce
Carter to part with his favourite, he set out along the bank of the
river and faced the uplands.

His boots were thick, his heart was light—the sun illumined the
frost-white trunks, and diamond-sprayed branches of the pines and
eucalypts—the air was keen and bracing. “What a glorious thing it is to
be alive on a day like this,” he told himself. “How glad I am that I
decided to leave Melbourne!” As he stepped along with all the elasticity
of youth’s high health and boundless optimism, he marked the features of
the land. There were wheel-tracks on this road, which he was pleased to
note. Though the soil was rich, and also damp at the base of the hills
and on the flats, it was sound, so that with reasonable care he was
enabled to keep his feet dry. He saw pools from which the wild duck flew
on his approach. A blue crane, the heron of Australia (_Ardea_) rose
from the reeds; while from time to time the wallaroo (the kangaroo of
the mountain-side) put in appearance to his great delight.

The sun came out, glorifying the wide and varied landscape and the
cloudless azure against which the snow-covered mountain summits
glittered like silver coronets. Birds of unknown note and plumage called
and chirped. All Nature, recovering from the cold and darkness of the
night, made haste to greet the brilliant apparition of the sun god.

Keeping within sight of the creek—the course of which he was pledged to
follow—he became aware of a dull monotonous sound, which he somehow
connected with machinery. It was varied by occasional reports like
muffled blasts, as of the fall of heavy bodies. “That is the sluicing
claim,” he told himself, “and I shall see the wonderful ‘water gun,’
which Sheila told me of. Quite an adventure!” The claim was farther off
than he at first judged, but after climbing with stout heart a “stey
brae,” he looked down on the sluicing appliances, and marvelled at the
inventive ingenuity which the gold industry had developed. Before him
was a ravine down which a torrent of water was rushing with great force
and rapidity, bearing along in its course clay, gravel, quartz, and even
boulders of respectable size.

He was civilly received by the claim-holders; the manager—an
ex-Californian miner—remarking, “Yes, sir, I’m a ‘forty-niner,’—worked
at Suttor’s Mill first year gold was struck there. This is a pretty big
thing, though it ain’t a circumstance to some I’ve seen in Arizona and
Colorado. This water’s led five hundred feet from these workings. See it
play on the face of the hill-side yonder—reckon we’ve cut it away two
hundred feet from grass.”

Mr. Blount looked with amazement at the thin, vicious, thread of water,
which, directed against the lower and middle strata of the mass of
ferruginous slate, had laid bare the alluvium through which ran an
ancient river, silted up and overlaid for centuries. The course of this
long dead and buried stream could be traced by the water-worn boulders
and the smoothness of the rocks which had formed its bed. Where he
stood, there had been a fall of forty feet as shown by the formation of
the rocky channel.

The manager civilly directed the “gunner” to lower the weapon, and aim
it at a spot nearer to where Blount was standing. He much marvelled to
see the stones torn from the “face” and sent flying in the air, creating
a fair-sized geyser where the water smote the cliff. In this fashion of
undermining hundreds of tons are brought down from time to time, to be
driven by the roaring torrent into the “tail-race,” whence they pass
into the “sluice-box,” and so on to the creek, leaving the gold behind
in the riffle bars.

“I suppose it’s not an expensive way of treating the ore in the rough?”
queried Blount.

“I reckon not. Cheapest way on airth. The labour we pay at present only
comes to one man to a thousand yards. This company has been paying
dividends for fifteen years!”

Mr. Blount thanked the obliging American, who, like all respectable
miners, was well-mannered to strangers, the sole exception being in the
case of a party that have “struck gold” in a secluded spot, and
naturally do not desire all the world to know about it. But even they
are less rude than evasive.

He looked at his watch and decided that he had not more than enough time
to get back to Bunjil in time for lunch. So he shook hands with Mr.
Hiram Endicott and set out for that nucleus of civilisation.

Making rather better time on the return journey, he arrived much pleased
with himself, considering that he had accomplished an important advance
in bush-craft and mineralogy.

Sheila welcomed him in a clean print dress, with a smiling face, but
expressed a faint surprise at his safe return, and at his having found
the road to the sluice-working, and back.

“Why! how could I lose the way?” he demanded, justly indignant. “Was not
the creek a sufficiently safe guide?”

“Oh! it can be done,” answered the girl archly. “There was a gentleman
followed the creek the wrong way, and got among the ranges before he
found out his mistake; and another one—he was a newspaper editor—thought
he’d make a near cut, found himself miles lower down, and didn’t get
back before dark. My word! how hungry he was, and cross too!”

“Well, I’m not very hungry or even cross—but I’m going to wash my hands,
after which lunch will be ready, I suppose?”

“You’ve just guessed it,” she replied. “You’ll have tea, I suppose?”

“Certainly. Whether Australia was created to develop the tea and sugar
industry, or tea to provide a portable and refreshing beverage for the
inhabitants to work, and travel, or even fight on, is not finally
decided, but they go wondrous well together.”

After an entirely satisfactory lunch, Mr. Blount bethought him of the
cob—and knowing, as do all Englishmen, that to do your duty to your
neighbour when he is a horse, you must exercise him at least once a day,
he sent for George, and requested that he should be brought forth. In a
few moments the valuable animal arrived, looking quite spruce and
spirited, with coat much smoother and mane tidied; quite like an English
covert hack, as Mr. Blount told himself. His legs had filled somewhat,
but the groom assured Blount that that was nothing, and would go off.

Taking counsel of the landlord on this occasion, that worthy host said,
“Would you like to see an old hand about here that could tell you a few
stories about the early days?”

“Like?” answered Mr. Blount with effusion, “nothing better.” It was one
of his besetting virtues to know all about the denizens of any
place—particularly if partly civilised—wherever he happened to sojourn
for a season. It is chiefly a peculiarity of the imaginative-sympathetic
nature whereby much knowledge of sorts is acquired—sometimes. But there
is a reverse side to the shield.

“George! Ge-or-ge!” shouted the landlord, “catch the old mare and bring
her round. Look slippy!”

George fled away like the wind, with a sieve and a bridle in his hand,
and going to the corner of a small grass paddock, under false pretences
induced an elderly bay mare to come up to him (there being no corn in
the sieve), then he basely slipped the reins over her head and led her
away captive.

The landlord reappeared with a pair of long-necked spurs buckled on to
his heels, and getting swiftly into the saddle, started the old mare off
at a shuffling walk. She was a character in her way. Her coat was rough,
her tail was long, there was a certain amount of hair on her legs, and
yes! she _was_ slightly lame on the near fore-leg. But her eye was
bright, her shoulder oblique; and as she reined up at a touch of the
rusty snaffle and stuck out her tail, Arab fashion, she began to show
class, Mr. Blount thought.

“She’ll be all right, directly,” said the landlord, noticing Mr.
Blount’s scrutiny of the leg, “I never know whether it’s rheumatism, or
one of her dodges—she’s as sound as a bell after a mile.” To add to her
smart appearance, she had no shoes.

They passed quickly through cornfields and meadow lands, rich in
pasture, and showing signs of an occasional heavy crop. The agriculture
was careless, as is chiefly the case where Nature does so much that man
excuses himself for doing little. A cottage on the south side of the
road surrounded by a well-cultivated orchard furnished the exception
which proves the rule. Mr. Middleton opened the rough but effective
gate, with a patent self-closing latch, without dismounting from his
mare, who squeezed her shoulder against it, as if she thought she could
open it herself. “Steady!” said her owner—“this gate’s not an uphill
one—she’ll push up a gate hung to slam down hill as if she knew who made
it. She does know a lot of things you wouldn’t expect of her.” Holding
the gate open till Mr. Blount and the cob were safely through, he led
the way to the cottage, from which issued a tall, upright, elderly man,
with a distinctly military bearing.

“This is Mr. Blount, Sergeant,” said the host, “staying at my place for
a day or two—just from England, as you see! I told him you knew all
about this side, and the people in it—old hands, and new.”

“Ay! the people—the people!” said the old man meditatively. “The land’s
a’ richt—fresh and innocent, just as God made it, but the people! the
de’il made _them_ on purpose to hide in these mountains and gullies, and
show what manner of folk could grow up in a far country, where they were
a law unto themselves.”

“There was wild work in those days before you came up, Sergeant, I
believe!” asserted the landlord, tentatively.

“Ay! was there,” and the old light began to shine in the trooper’s eyes.
“Battle, murder, and sudden death, every kind of villany that the wicked
heart of man could plan, or his cruel hand carry out. But you’ll come
ben and tak’ a cup of tea? The weather’s gey and cauld the noo.”

Mr. Blount would be only too pleased. So the horses were “hung up” to
the neat fence of the garden, and the visitors walked into the spotless,
neat parlour.

“Sit ye doon,” said the Sergeant—“Beenie, bring in tea, and some
scones.” A fresh- country damsel, who presently appeared bearing
a jug of milk and the other requisites, had evidently been within
hearing. “My wife and bairns are doon country,” he explained, “or she
would have been prood to mak’ you welcome, sir. I’m by ma lane the
noo—but she’ll be back next week, thank God; it’s awfu’ lonesome, when
she’s awa.”

“You knew Coke, Chamberlain, and Armstrong, all that crowd—didn’t you,
Sergeant?” queried the landlord.

“That did I—and they knew _me_ before I’d done with them, murdering dogs
that they were! People used to say that I’d never die in my bed. That
this one or that had sworn to shoot me—or roast me alive if they could
tak’ me. But I never gave them a chance. I was young and strong in those
days—as active as a mountain cat in my Hieland home, and could ride for
twenty-four hours at a stretch, if I had special wark in hand. Old
Donald Bane here could tell fine tales if he could talk”—pointing to a
grand-looking old grey, feeding in a patch of lucerne. “The General let
me have him when he was cast, that’s ten years syne. We got our pensions
then, and we’re just hanging it out thegither.”

“I suppose there are no bad characters in this neighbourhood now,
Sergeant?” said Blount. “Everything looks very quiet and peaceful.”

“I wouldna say that,” answered the veteran, cautiously. “There’s many a
mile of rough country, between here and the Upper Sturt, and there’s apt
to be rough characters to match the country. Cattle are high, too. A
dozen head of fat cattle comes to over a hundred pound—that’s easy
earned if they’re driven all night, and sold to butchers that have one
yard at the back of a range, and another in the stringy-bark township,
to take the down off.”

“Yet one wouldn’t think such things could be carried on _easily_ in this
part of the country—where there seem to be so many watchful eyes; but I
must have a longer ride this lovely morning, so I shall be much obliged
if you and our host here will dine with me at seven o’clock, when we can
have leisure to talk. You’re all by yourself, Sergeant, you know, so
there’s no excuse.”

The Sergeant accepted with pleasure; the host was afraid he would be too
busy about the bar at the dinner hour, but would look in afterwards,
before the evening was spent. So it was settled, and the recent
acquaintances rode away.

“What a fine old fellow the Sergeant is!” said Blount; “how wonderfully
neat and trim everything inside the house and out is kept.”

“You’ll generally notice that about a place when the owner has been in
the police; the inspector blows up the troopers if there is a button
off, or a boot not cleaned. You’d think they’d let a prisoner go, to
hear him talk. Barracks—stable—carbine—horse—all have to be neat and
clean, polished up to the nines. Once they get the habit of that they
never leave it off, and after they settle down in a country place, as it
might be here, they set a good example to the farmers and bush people.”

“So the police force promotes order in more ways than one—they root out
dishonesty and crime as well—they’re a grand institution of the
country.”

“Well, yes, they are,” assented the landlord without enthusiasm, “though
they’re not all built the way the Sergeant is. I don’t say but what
they’re a trifle hard on publicans now and again for selling a drink to
a traveller on a Sunday. But if it’s the law, they’re bound to uphold
it. We’d be a deal worse off without them, and that’s the truth.”

Blount and the landlord rode down the course of the stream with much
interest, as far as the Englishman was concerned. For the other, the
landscape was a thing of course. The rich meadow land which bordered the
stream—the far blue mountains—the fat bullocks and sleek horses feeding
in the fields—the sheep on their way to market, were to him an ancient
and settled order of things, as little provocative of curiosity as if
they had existed from the foundation of the world. He had been familiar
from childhood with them, or with similar stock and scenery.

But the stranger’s interest and constant inquiry were unceasing.
Everything was new to him. The fences, the crops, the maize, of which
the tall stems were still standing in their rows, though occasionally
stripped and thrown down by the pigs which were rooting among them and
gleaning the smaller cobs left behind in the harvest plucking. A certain
carelessness of husbandry was noticed by the critic from over sea. The
hedges were mostly untrimmed, the plough too often left in the furrow;
the weeds, “thick-coming carpet after rain,” untouched by the scarifier;
the fences broken, hedges indifferently trimmed.

“This sort of farming wouldn’t go down in England.”

“Perhaps not. Never was there,” replied the Australian Boniface; “but
these chaps are mostly so well off, that they don’t mind losing a trifle
this way, rather than have too many men to pay and feed. Labour’s cheap
in England, I’m told; here it’s dear. So the farmer crowds on all he can
get till harvest and shearin’s past, then he pays off all hands, except
an old crawler or two, to milk cows and draw wood and water. Afterwards
he hires no more till ploughing begins again.”

“There does seem to be a reason for that, and other things I have
observed,” assented Mr. Blount. “I suppose in time everything will be
nearer English, or perhaps American ideas. More likely the last.
Machinery for everything, and no time for decent leisurely country
work.”

“Yes, sir—that’s about it,” said Mr. Middleton, looking at his watch,
“and now we’ve just time to get back for your lunch, and to tell my old
woman that the Sergeant’s coming to dine with you.”

“Doesn’t your mare trot?” said Blount, as they moved off, “it seems to
me that Australian horses have only two paces, walk and canter. She
doesn’t seem lame now.”

“I think sometimes it’s only her villany; she’s going as sound as a bell
now. Yes! she can trot a bit when she likes.”

The cob, a fair performer, had just started, when Mr. Middleton gave the
mare’s left ear a gentle screw, which induced her to alter her pace from
a slow canter to a trot. “Trot, old woman!” he said, and settling to
that useful pace, she caught up the cob. Mr. Blount gradually increased
his pace—the old mare kept level with him, till after a dig with the
spurs, and a refresher with the hunting crop, it became apparent that
the cob was “on his top,” in stable phrase, doing a fair ten or eleven
miles an hour.

“Are ye trotting now?” said the landlord, taking the old mare by the
head.

“Yes! oh, yes—and pretty fair going, isn’t it?”

“Not bad, but this old <DW36> can do better.” On which, as if she had
heard the words, the old mare stretched out her neck and passed the cob
“like a shot!” as her owner afterwards stated when describing the affair
to an admiring audience in the bar room.

The cob, after an ineffectual attempt to keep up, was fain to break into
a hand gallop, upon which the old mare was pulled up, and the rider
explained that it took a professional to beat old “Slavey”; but that
owing to her uncertain temper, he had been unable to “take on” aspiring
amateurs, and so missed good wagers.

“You might have ‘taken me on’ for a pound or two,” said Mr. Blount, “if
you had cared to back her, for I certainly should not have thought she
could have beaten my cob. She doesn’t seem built for trotting—does she?”

“She is a bit of a take down,” admitted Mr. Middleton, “but I don’t bet
with gentlemen as stays in my house. Though her coat’s rough, she’s a
turn better bred than she looks. Got good blood on both sides, and you
can drive her in single or double harness, and ride her too, as far and
as fast as you like. There’s no doubt she’s a useful animal, for you
can’t put her wrong.”

“You wouldn’t care to sell her?”

“No! I couldn’t part with her. My wife and the children drive her. She’s
so good all round, and quiet too; and though there’s lots of horses in
the district, it’s wonderful what a time it takes to pick up a real good
one.”

“Quite Arab like! I was told people would sell anything in Australia,
especially horseflesh. There’s the luncheon bell! Well, I’ve had a
pleasant morning, and even with the prospect of dinner at seven o’clock,
I feel equal to a modest meal, just to keep up the system. It’s
wonderful what an appetite I’ve had lately.”

Mr. Blount fed cautiously, with an eye to dinner at no distant period.
Sheila was much excited at the idea of the Sergeant coming to dine with
him.

“He’s a splendid old chap,” said she. “Such tales I used to hear about
him when I was a kiddie at school. Many a day when he’s been out after
cattle-stealers, and bushrangers, people said he’d never come back
alive. He was never afraid, though, and he made them afraid of _him_
before he was done.”

“By the way, where did you go to school, Sheila? You speak excellent
English, and you haven’t any twang or drawl, like some of the colonial
girls.”

“Oh! at She-oak Flat. There was a State school there, and mother kept us
at it pretty regular, rain or shine, no staying at home, whatever the
weather was like or the roads, and we had three miles to walk, there and
back.”

“So you didn’t go to Melbourne, or Sydney?”

“No! Never been away from Bunjil. I suppose I shall see the sea some
day.”

“_Never seen the sea—the sea?_ You astonish me!”

“Never in my life. Do I look different or anything?”

“You look very nice, and talk very well too. I begin to think the
seaside’s overrated; but I must take another walk, or the landlord will
think I don’t do his dinner justice. What’s it to be?”

“Well, a turkey poult for one thing; the rest you’ll see when the covers
are taken off.”

“Quite right. It’s impertinent curiosity, I’m aware.”

“Oh! not that, but we’re going to astonish you, if we can.”

Upon this Mr. Blount put on his boots again; they had been splashed in
the morning, and required drying. Crossing the creek upon a rustic
bridge, which seemed to depend more upon a fallen tree than on any
recognised plan of engineering, he turned his steps up stream, and faced
the Alpine range. The afternoon, like the morning, was golden bright,
though a hint of frost began to be felt in the clear keen air. The road
was fairly good, and had been formed and macadamised in needful places.

It lay between the rushing creek on one side, towards which there was a
considerable drop, and the line of foot-hills on the other, leaving just
room for meeting vehicles to pass one another, though it needed the
accurate driving of bush experts to ensure safety. Water-races, flumes,
and open ditches crossed the road, testifying to the existence of
gold-workings in the neighbourhood, while an occasional miner on his way
to the township of Bunjil emerged from an unfrequented track and made
towards, what was to him, the King’s Highway. Once he heard the tinkling
of bells, when suddenly there came round a corner a train of thirty or
forty pack-horses, with all manner of sacks and bags, and even boxes on
their backs. There were a few mules also in the drove, to whom was
accorded the privilege of leadership, as on any block or halt taking
place, they pushed their way to the front, and set off up or down the
track with decision, as if better instructed than the rank and file.

“Ha! ‘Bell-horses, bell-horses, what time o’ day? One o’clock, two
o’clock, three and away,’ as we used to say at school. Puts one in mind
of Devonshire,” murmured the tourist. “Many a keg of smuggled spirits
was carried on the backs of the packers, with their bells. I daresay an
occasional breach of custom-house regulations has occurred now and then
if the truth were told. I wouldn’t mind being quartered here at all.
It’s a droll world!” Mr. Blount’s rambles and reveries came to an end
half an hour after sunset, which just left him time to get back to his
hostelry, make some change for dinner, and toast himself before the
fire, in anticipation of the arrival of his guest. The Sergeant arrived
with military punctuality, a few minutes before the hour, having donned
for the occasion a well-worn, well-brushed uniform, in which he looked
like a “non-com.” recommended for the Victoria Cross.

He greeted Sheila cordially and expressed a favourable opinion as to her
growth, and development, since she used to play hockey and cricket with
the boys at She-oak Flat. “And right weel did she play,” he continued,
addressing himself to his entertainer, “she won the half-mile race too,
against all comers, didn’t you, Sheila?”

“I was pretty smart then, wasn’t I, Sergeant? Do you remember fishing me
out of the creek, when I slipped off the log?”

“I mind weel, I thocht you were a swimmer, till I saw ye go down, head
under; so I was fain to loup into ten feet of snow water and catch a
cold that was nigh the deeth o’ me. I misdooted gin ye were worth it a’!
What think ye?”

The girl shook her head at him, her dark, grey eyes bright with
merriment, as she tripped out of the room, to reappear with the turkey
poult before referred to. “She’s a grand lassie!” said the Sergeant,
looking after her admiringly, “and as guid as she’s bonnie. The men and
women that are reared among these hills are about the finest people the
land turns out! The women are aye the best, it’s a pity the lads are not
always sae weel guided. If there was a Hieland regiment here to draft
some of thae lang-leggit lads into ilka year, it would be the making of
the haill countryside.”

“Very likely there will be, some day, but do you think they would stand
the discipline?”

“Deevil a doot on’t, they’re easy guided when they have gentlemen to
deal with as offishers; as for scouting, and outpost duty, they’re born
for it. Fighting’s just meat and drink to them, ance they get fair
started.”

“English people don’t think so,” said the tourist. “They’ve always
opposed the idea of having a naval reserve here, though everybody that’s
lived in the country long enough to know will tell me that Sydney
Harbour lads are born sailors, and if there are many of the mountain
boys like my friend ‘Little-River-Jack,’ they should make the best light
cavalry in the world.”

The Sergeant bent a searching eye on the speaker. “‘Little-River-Jack,’
ay, I ken the callant brawly. Ride, aye, that can he, and he’s a freend,
ye say?”

“Well, I came here with him. He showed me the way, an I wouldn’t swear
he didn’t save my life, coming over that Razor-back pinch, on the
Divide, as he called it.”

“And so ye cam’ on the Divide wi’ him, ou, ay? And ye’re gangin’ awa’
wi’ him to see the country?”

“Yes! I hear he knows every inch of it from the head of the Sturt to the
Lower Narran, besides the mountain gold diggings. I’m going to see one
of them, with him, when he comes to-morrow. There’s nothing strange
about that, is there?”

“I wadna say; he joost buys gold in a sma’ way, and bullocks, for the
flesher-folk, aboot the heid o’ the river. There’s talk whiles that he’s
ower sib with the O’Hara gang, but I dinna ken o’ my ain knowledge.”

“Not proven, I suppose—the Scottish verdict, eh! Sergeant?”

The dinner was a success. The soup was fair. The fish represented by a
Murray cod, about five pound weight, truly excellent. The turkey poult,
like most country-bred birds, incomparably plump and tender, was roasted
to a turn. The other adjuncts in strict keeping with the _pièce de
résistance_.

The guest declined to join his entertainer in a bottle of Reisling,
preferring a glass of whisky and water. Towards the close of the
entertainment the landlord was announced, who took neither wine nor
whisky, excusing himself on the ground that he had already been
compelled “for the good of the house” to drink with more than one
customer.

“I shall have to take to a decanter of toast and water,  to look
like sherry. This ‘What’ll you have, Boss?’ business, is getting too hot
for me lately, and the men don’t like to see you afraid to taste your
own liquor. But, as long as it’s something, they don’t seem to care what
it is. I’ll take a cigar, though, sir, so as to be good company.”

One of the tourist’s extra quality Flor de Habanas being lighted the
conversation grew more intimate, and bordering on the confidential. The
Sergeant was prevailed upon to mix a tumbler of toddy, the night being
cold, and the landlord, whose tongue had been previously loosened, among
the choice spirits in the second dining-room, incited the Sergeant to
give the company the benefit of his reminiscences.

“It’s cold enough, and a man that came in late,” said he, “could feel
the frozen grass as stiff as wire. But the Sergeant’s been out many a
night as bad, with nothing but his coat to sleep in, and afraid to make
a fire for fear of giving away where his camp was.”

“Ay!” said the Sergeant, and his face settled into one of grim resolve,
changing not suddenly, but, as it were, stage after stage.

“I mind one chase I had after an outlawed chiel that began wi’
horse-stealing, and cattle ‘duffing’ (they ca’ it in these parts), and
ended in bloodshed maist foul and deleeberate. Ye’ve heard of
Sub-Inspector Dayrell?”

“Should think I had,” said the landlord. “It was before I took this
house; I was at Beechworth then, but every one heard of the case. He was
the officer that ‘shopped’ Ned Lawless, and a young swell from the old
country. There was a girl in it too. Eumeralla was where he arrested
them, and everybody knew there was something ‘cronk’ about it.”

“The verra mon! He’s gane to his accoont, and Ned’s serving his
sentence. I aye misdooted that the evidence against Lance Trevanion
(that was his name, he cam’ of kenned folk in Devon,) was ‘cookit,’ and
weel cookit too, for his destruction, puir laddie.”

“Then you think he was innocent?”

“As innocent as the lassie that brocht in the denner.”

“What sentence did he get?”

“Five years’ imprisonment—wi’ hard labour. But he didna sairve it. He
flitted frae the hulk _Success_ where they sent him after he nigh killed
Warder Bracker. He was a dour man and a cruel; he’d made his boast that
he’d ‘break’ Trevanion, as he called it, because he couldna get him to
knuckle doon to him like ither convicts, puir craters! So he worked him
harder and harder—complained o’ him for insolence—got him to the dark
cell—once and again insulted him when there was nae ither body to
hear—and one day gave him a kick, joost as he’d been a dog in his road.

“That was mair than enough. Clean mad and desperate, Trevanion rushed at
him, had him doon, and him wi’ his hands in his throttle, before he
could cry on the guard. His eyes were starting out of his head—he was
black in the face and senseless, when a warder from outside the cell who
heard the scuffle, pulled him off. Anither ten seconds, and Bracker
would have been a dead man—as it was, he was that lang coming to, that
the doctor gave him up.”

“What sentence did he get? They’d have hanged him long ago?” queried the
host.

“He’d have got ‘life,’ or all the same twenty years’ gaol; but Bracker
had been had up for cruelty to prisoners in another gaol before, and Mr.
Melrose the Comptroller and the Visiting Justice were dead against a’
kinds o’ oppression, so they ordered a thorough inquiry. Some of the
prisoners swore they’d seen Bracker knocking Trevanion about. He’d been
‘dark-celled’ for weeks on bread and water. When he came out he could
hardly stand up. They’d heard him swear at Trevanion and call him a
loafing impostor—and other names. The evidence went clear against him.
Mr. McAlpine said Bracker ought to have had a year in gaol himself, and
recommended his dismissal. So he left the service, and a good thing too.
I’m no sayin’ that some of the convicts o’ the early fifties were not
desperate deevils, as ever stretched halter. But they were paying for
their ineequities—a high price too, when they’re lockit up night and
day, working the whiles with airn chains on their limbs. And they that
would make _that_ lot harder and heavier, had hearts like the nether
millstane.”

“What became of Trevanion, after all?”

“He was sent to the hulk _Success_. No great relief, ane would think.
But it was better than stone walls. He had the sea and the sky around
him day and night. It made a new man of him, they say. And before the
year was oot (he had plenty money, ye see), he dropped into a boat
through the port hole, one dark night, just before the awfullest storm
ye ever saw. Horses were waitin’ on him next day, and ye’ll no hinder
him frae winning to the New Rush at Tin Pot Flat Omeo, where he worked
as a miner and prospector, for twa year and mair, under the name of
‘Ballarat Harry.’”

“Could not the police find him?” queried the tourist. “They were said to
be awfully smart in the goldfields days.”

“Yes!” said the old Sergeant solemnly, “they did find him, but they
could do naething till him.”

“You don’t say so! Well, this is a strange country. He was identified, I
suppose?” said the stranger. “Why was that?”

“Because he was deid, puir laddie! We pulled him up from a shaft saxty
feet deep, wi’ a bullet through him, and his head split with an axe. It
was Kate Lawless that found him—her husband, Larry Trevenna and the
murdering spawn o’ hell, Caleb Coke, had slain him for his gold—and it
may be for ither reasons.”

“Good God! what a tragedy! Did the scoundrels escape?”

“Coke did by turning King’s evidence. But Trevenna’s wife rode near a
hundred miles on end to give Dayrell the office. He ran Trevenna down in
Melbourne, just as he had taken his passage to England under a false
name. He was found guilty, and hanged.”

“Then Trevenna’s wife worked the case up against her own husband? How
was that?”

“Weel, aweel, I’ll no deny the case was what may be tairmed
compleecated—sair mixed up. Lance Trevanion had been her sweetheart, and
when she jaloused, owing to Dayrell’s wiles, that he had thrown her
over, she just gave the weight o’ her evidence against him, on his trial
for having a stolen horse in his possession, knowing it to be stolen.
Then in rage and desperation, for she repented sair, when she saw what
her treachery had brought on him, she married Trevenna, who used her
like a dog, they say, and was aye jealous of Lance Trevanion. And her
cousin Tessie Lawless, it was her that got him frae the hulk.”

“Oh! another woman!” murmured Blount; “as you say, Sergeant, it is a
trifle mixed up. Who was she in love with?”

“Just Lance, and nae ither. She was true as steel, and never ceased
working for him night and day till she got a warder in the hulk weel
bribit, and persuadit twa gentlemen that lived in Fishermen’s Bend by
wild-fowling to tak’ him awa’ in their dinghy and find a guide and twa
horses that brought him to Omeo. A wild, uncanny spot it was then, I
warrant ye. Then the young lady, his cousin that came frae England to
marry him—”

“What do I hear, Sergeant? _Another woman_ in love with the ill-fated
hero; that makes _three_—in love with the same man at the same time. It
sounds incredible. And were they _really_ fond of him?”

“Woman’s a mysterious crea-a-tion, I’ve aye held, since she first walkit
in the gairden o’ Eden,” quoth the Sergeant impressively. “Either of the
Lawless girls would have died for him—and gloried in it. Kate, that was
his ruin, wild and undeesciplined as she was, but for the poison that
Dayrell insteeled into her, wad ha’ laid her head on the block to save
his. Puir Tessie _did_ die for him, as ye may ca’ it, for she went into
Melbourne Hospital when the fever was at its fiercest, and cried that
they should give her the warst cases. The puir sick diggers and sailors
called her ‘The Angel of the Fever Ward,’ and there she wrought, and
wrought, day after day, and night after night, until she catchit it
hersel’, and so the end came. The doctors and the ither attendants said
she hadna the strength to strive against it.”

“A jewel of a girl!” quoth the Englishman; “why didn’t he marry her?”

“She wouldn’t marry _him_,” said the Sergeant. “She kenned he was
promised to his cousin, a great leddy frae the auld country, who came
all the way to Australia to find him, and she said he must keep his
troth.”

“Women seem to differ in Australia much as they do elsewhere,” mused the
stranger.

“And what for no?” queried the old trooper; “there’s bad and good all
over the world—men as weel’s women—and the more you see of this country,
the more you’ll find it oot. If they’re born unlike from the start,
they’re as different from one another as your cob (as ye ca’ him) frae
‘Little-River-Jack’s’ Keewah that can climb like a goat, or from
Middleton’s auld ‘Slavey’ that can gallop twenty miles before breakfast,
or draw a buggy sixty miles a day at a pinch. But if we get talking
horse, we’ll no quit till cockcraw.”




                              CHAPTER III


“YOU will tell us about Dayrell, Sergeant?” said Mr. Blount. “Is it a
tale of mystery and fear?”

“It was God’s judgment upon the shedding of innocent blood,” said the
Sergeant solemnly; “they’re in their graves, the haill company, the
betrayer and the betrayed. The nicht’s turned dark and eerie. To say
truth, I wad as lieve lay the facts before ye, in the licht o’ day. It’s
a dark walk by the river oaks, and a man may weel fancy he hears
whisperings, and voices of the deid in the midnight blast. I’m at your
sairvice ony day before ye leave Bunjil, but I’ll be makin’ tracks the
noo, wi’ your permeession, sir, and my thanks to ye. Gude nicht!”

The veteran had made up his mind, and wrapped in a horseman’s cloak such
as the paternal Government of Victoria still serves out to the Mounted
Police Force, he marched forth into the night. The landlord parted from
him on the verandah, while Blount walked up and down for an hour,
watching a storm-cloud whelming in gathering gloom the dimly outlined
range, until the rain fell with tropical volume necessitating a retreat
to the parlour, where the logs still sent out a grateful warmth. “The
old man must have missed that downpour,” he said. “He was wise to depart
in good time.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Another meeting was arranged. “Little-River-Jack” sent word by a “sure
hand,” as was the wording of a missive in pre-postal days, that he would
arrive in Bunjil on the next ensuing Saturday, ready for a daylight
start on Sunday morning, if that would suit Mr. Blount’s convenience.

Pursuant to his promise, the Sergeant arrived to lunch at the Bunjil
Hotel on the day specified. He did not make demand for the groom, but
riding into the yard, opened the stable door and put up his ancient
steed, slipping the bridle back over his ears, however, but leaving it
ready to be replaced at short notice.

“It’s an auld habit o’ mine,” he said to the landlord, who now made his
appearance with apologies for the absence of the groom, who was “out,
getting a load of wood,” he explained. “We burn a lot here in the
winter—it’s just as well we haven’t to pay for it—but it takes old
George half his time drawing it in.”

“You’ve got some fresh horses here,” said the Sergeant, his keen eye
resting on three well-conditioned nags at one end of the row of stalls;
“are ye gaun to have races—the Bunjil Town Plate and Publican’s
Purse—and are the lads that own thae flyers come to tak’ pairt? Yon
grey’s a steeplechaser, by his looks, and the two bays are good enough
for Flemington.”

The landlord fidgeted a little before answering.

“They’re some digging chaps that have a camp at Back Creek. They buy
their beef from ‘Little-River-Jack,’ and he takes their gold at a price.
They do a bit of trade in brumbie-shooting now and then, the hides sell
well and the horse-hair—I’m told. Between that and digging they knock
out a fair living.”

“Nae doot,” replied the Sergeant, slowly and oracularly. “If there’s
aught to be won by a guid horse and a bould rider, these are the men
that’ll no lose it for want of a sweater or twa. What names have they?”
And here the old man fixed his eye searchingly on the host.

“Two O’Haras and a Rorke,” answered the host, haltingly. “So they tell
me—‘Irish natives,’ from Gippsland way they call themselves.”

“I wadna doot,” quoth the Sergeant. “Eldest brother Jemmy O’Hara, a fell
chiel. But let byganes be byganes. It’s ill raking up misdeeds of fouk
that’s maybe deid or repenting, repenting in sa-ack-cloth and ashes.
It’ll be one o’clock, joost chappit. I’ll awa ben.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Ay!” said the Sergeant, lunch being cleared away, and both men sitting
before the replenished fire, which the proximity of Bunjil to the snow
line, as well as the frost of the night before, rendered grateful, “it’s
e’en a tale of vengeance long delayed, but the price of bluid was
paid—ay, and mair than paid, when the hour cam’, and the man. I was
stationed at Omeo, I mind weel, years after Larry Trevenna was hangit
for the crime, as well he desairved. If one had misdooted the words of
Holy Writ, there was the confirmation plain for a’ men to see. ‘Be sure
thy sin will find thee out.’ They were half brithers, it was weel
kenned, word came frae hame to that effect, and little thought the
author of their being that the bairn o’ shame, the offspring of the
reckless days of wild, ungoverned youth, was born to slay the heir of
his ancient house, in a far land; to die by the hangman’s cord, amid the
curses of even that strange crew amang whom his life was spent. But he
was fain to ‘dree his weird,’ as in auld Scottish fashion we say; all
men must fulfil their appointed destiny. It’s a hard law maybe, and I
canna agree with oor Presbyterian elders, that ae man is foredoomed to
sin and shame, the tither to wealth and honours, and that neither can
escape the lot prepared for him frae the foundation of the warld! But
whiles, when ye see the haill draama played oot, and a meestery made
clear, the maist careless unbeliever must acknowledge that Heaven’s
justice is done even in this warld o’ appairent contradeections. Weel,
aweel, I’m gey and loth to come to the tale deed o’ bluid, o’ the
fearsome eend. Things had settled doon at Omeo after the events ye ken
o’. There was a wheen duffing and horse-stealing to contend wi’! But
siccan lifting of kye will there be, amang these mountains and glens, I
had a’maist said till the Day of Judgment—but no to be profane, the
country was quieter than it had been for years, when word came to
heidquarters that Ned Lawless had broken gaol; had been seen makin’
across by Talbingo to the table-land, aboot Long Plain and Lobb’s Hole.
There was an ‘auld gun’ (as we ca’ confairmed creeminals) in the
lock-up, as the news came; a Monaro native, and haun and glove with a’
the moss-troopers and reivers south of the Snowy River.

“‘D’ye know where Inspector Dayrell is now, Sergeant?’ says he, quite
free and pleasant. He was only in for ‘unlawfully using’—a maitter o’
six months’ gaol at the warst.

“‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t; what call have ye to be speirin’?’

“‘He’ll never trouble me again, Sergeant, I’m full up of anything like a
big touch now; this bit of foolishness don’t count. But if you want to
do Dayrell a rale good turn, tell him to clear out to New Zealand, the
Islands, San Francisco—anywhere.’

“‘Why should I?’ says I. ‘And him to lose his chance of being made a
Superintendent.’

“‘Superintendent be hanged!’ (it was not in Court, ye ken), and he put
his heid doon low, and spak’ low and airnest.

“‘Is a step in the service worth a man’s life? You tell him from me,
Monaro Joe, that if Ned Lawless isn’t dead or taken within a month, his
life’s not worth a bent stirrup iron.’

“‘And the Lawless crowd broken up?’ says I. ‘Man! ye’re gettin’ dotty.
Ned’s a dour body, waur after these years’ gaol. I wadna put it past
him, but he’s helpless, wantin’ mates. Coke’s a <DW36> with the
rheumatics. Kate’s awa, naebody kens where.’

“‘Ye’re a good offisher, Sergeant,’ says he, ‘but you don’t know
everything. You want a year’s duffing near Lobb’s Hole to sharpen you
up. But if I lay you on to something, will you get the Beak to let me
down easy about this sweating racket, a bloomin’ moke, worth about two
notes! I never offered him for sale, the police know that. A rotten
screw, or I shouldn’t have been overhauled by that new chum Irish
trooper. I was ashamed of myself, I raly was.’

“‘If ye give information of value to the depairtment as regards this
dangerous creeminal,’ says I, ‘I’ll no press the case.’

“‘Well—this is God’s truth,’ says he, quite solemn. ‘His sister Kate’s
been livin’ at Tin Pot Flat for months, under another name. They say
she’s off her head at times, never been right since she lost her child.’

“‘Lost her child!’ says I. ‘Ye don’t say so—the puir crater, and a fine
boy he was. How cam’ that?’

“‘Well, the time Kate rode to White Rock and started Dayrell after Larry
Trevenna, just as he was goin’ to clear out for the old country, passin’
hisself off for Lance (that _was_ a caper, wasn’t it?), she left her boy
with the stockrider’s young wife at Running Creek. The girl (she was a
new chum Paddy) was away for a bit, hangin’ out clothes or somethin’;
the poor kid got down to the creek and was drowned. Kate was stark
starin’ mad for forty-eight hours. Then she took the kid in front of her
on the little roan mare, and never spoke till after the Coroner come and
orders it to be buried.’

“‘And she at Tin Pot Flat, and me nane the wiser! Any mair of the
crowd?’

“‘You remember Dick?—the young brother—he that was left behind when they
cleared for Balooka—he’s a man grown, this years and years; well, she
lives with him. And they say she goes to the shaft every day that Lance
was hauled out from, to kneel down and pray. What for, God only knows.
Dick’s quiet, but dangerous; he’s the best rider and tracker from Dargo
High Plain to Bourke, and that’s a big word.’

“‘I ken that; I’ll joost ride round, and tak’ a look—he’ll need
watchin’, and if he’s joined Ned, and Kate’s makin’ a third, there’ll be
de’il’s wark ere lang.’

“That evening the tent was doon, Kate and the younger Lawless chiel
gane—and nane could say when, how, or where.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“For a week, and the week after that, the wires were going all day and
half the nicht. Every police station on the border of New South Wales
and Victoria from Monaro to Murray Downs was noticed to look up their
black tracker, and have their best horses ready. As for Dayrell, they
couldna warn him that the avengers o’ bluid, as nae doot they held
themselves to be, were on his trail. He was richt awa amang the ‘snaw
leases,’ (as they ca’d them—a country only habitable by man or beast
frae late spring to early autumn;) on the trail o’ a gang o’ horse and
cattle thieves that had defied the police of three colonies. They had
left a record in Queensland before they crossed the New South Wales
border.

“Noted men among them—ane tried for murder! A mate, suspect o’
treachery, was found in a creek wi’ twa bullets in’s heid—there were
ither evil deeds to accoont for.

“Ay, they were a dour gang—fightin’ to the death. So Dayrell took five
of his best men and volunteered for the capture. ‘He was getting rusty,’
he said, ‘but would break up this gang or they should have his scalp.’
These were the very words he used.

“Omeo diggings were passed on the way up. There was sure to be some one
that knew _him_, wherever he went in any of the colonies.

“A tall man put his head out of a shaft on ‘Tin Pot’ as he rode through
the Flat at the head of his troopers, and cursed him with deleeberate
maleegnity until they were out of sight. ‘Ride on, you bloody dog!’ he
said—grinding his teeth—‘you won’t reign much longer now that Ned and I
can work together again, and we have your tracks. I know every foot of
the road you’re bound to travel now—once you’re as far as Merrigal
there’s no get away between Snowy Creek and the Jibbo. It was our rotten
luck the day we first set eyes on you. We were not such a bad crowd if
we’d been let alone. Tessie had half persuaded Ned to drop the cross
work after we got shut of the Balooka horses. The day afore he told me
he’d two minds to let ’em go on the road. Then he couldn’t have been
pulled for more than illegal using, which isn’t felony. But _you_ must
come along and spoil everything. Lance was copped, as innocent as a
child: Ned gets a stretch—it was his death sentence. I know what it’s
turned _him_ into. Kate’s gone mad, what with losin’ the kid—a fine
little chap, so he was (I cried when I heard of it)! Larry’s
hanged—serve him right.

“‘Lance is dead and buried, poor chap! I don’t know what’ll become of
me. And what’s more I don’t care; but I’ll have revenge, blast you!
before the year’s out, if I swing for it!’

“He didna ken Dick Lawless again in his digger’s dress, and there were
few that he didna remember either, if it was ten years after. So he
joost gaed alang blithe and gay. The sun was abune the fog that aye
hangs o’er the flat till midday, or maybe disna lift at a’ like a
Highland mist. He touched his horse’s rein, and the gey, weel-trained
beastie gave a dance like, and shook his heid, till bit and curb chain
jingled again.

“Ah! me, these things are fearsome at the doing and but little better in
the telling. He wadna hae been sae blithe had he seen anither face that
peered o’er the shaft just as he turned at the angle of the road and
struck into a canter with his troopers ahint him. It was the face of a
haggard, clean-shaved man, with hair cut close to the head, and a wild,
desperate look like a hunted beast—only one miner on the field knew who
the strange man was, and he would never have kent him, but for hearin’ a
whisper the night before of a ‘cross cove’ having come late at night to
‘Mrs. Jones’s’ tent.

“Dead beat and half starved to boot was he, but word went round the
little goldfield that it was Ned Lawless, the famous horse and cattle
‘duffer’ who’d been arrested by Inspector Dayrell, and ‘put away’ for
five years.

“Miners are no joost attached to thae kind o’ folk, and for this one,
believed to have stolen wash-dirt cart-horses at Ballarat, they
certainly had no love, but, as for layin’ the police on the hunted
wretch, even though the reward was tempting, not a man, working as they
were on a poor field, but would have scorned the action, and been vara
unceevil to him that suggested it. No! that was the business of the
police—they were paid for it—let them run him down or any other poor
devil that was ‘wanted,’ but as for helping them by so much as raising a
finger, it was not in their line.

“Anyhow, an hour before dawn, one man who had reasons for airly rising
thought he saw Dick with his sister, ‘Mrs. Jones,’ and the stranger,
ride down the gulley which led towards Buckley’s Crossing; the woman was
on a roan pony mare, which she brought with her when she came on ‘Tin
Pot,’ a year ago. The stranger had an old grey screw Dick had bought for
a note, which would let any one catch him, night or day. The fog was
thick, and he couldn’t say on his oath which way they went, but they
took what was called the ‘mountain track.’”

“A nice crowd, as they say in these parts,” said Mr. Blount. “Where did
they go and what did they do, Sergeant?”

“They were ready for any de’il’s wark, ye may believe,” said the old
man, impressively, “and, as I heard frae one that daurna speak me false,
they were no lang ere they were at it.

“The day after they were seen leaving ‘Tin Pot,’ they called at a small
settler’s place and took his twa best horses. He was a man that had good
anes, wad win races at sma’ townships.

“The wife and her sister were at hame, the man was awa’.

“They loaded up a packhorse with rations, more by token a rug and twa
pairs blankets. The younger man told them the horses wad maybe stray
back. He paid for the rations and the blankets, but said they must have
them. It was a lonely place. The woman sat on her horse, and wadna come
ben, though they asked her to have a cup of tea. She shook her head;
they couldna see her face for a thick veil she wore.

“This information didna come in for some days later, when the man won
hame; the women were afraid to leave the place, ye may weel believe. The
raiders rode hard, maistly at nicht, keepit aff the main road, and took
‘cuts’ when they could find them. Dick Lawless knew them a’, could
amaist smell them, his mates used to say.

“They got the Inspector’s trail and never lost it; if they were off it
for a while, they could always ‘cut’ it again. _They_ had telegraphs
plenty (bush anes) but there were nane to warn Dayrell o’ them that
thirsted for his life-bluid, and were following on through the snaw,
like the wolves on a Russian steppe, as the buiks tell us. He was joost
‘fey,’ in the high spirits that foretell death or misfortune, as we
Hielanders believe. He had the chance o’ a capture that would ring
through three colonies. It did that, but no in the way he expeckit.

“He heard tell frae a bushman, a brither o’ the man that the gang shot
before he had time to do more than threaten to ‘give them away,’ that
they were to be at the ‘Ghost Camp’ aboot the twentieth o’ the month. An
auld fastness this, at the edge o’ broken, mountainous country, where
the wild blacks cam’ to hide after killing cattle or robbing huts, when
Queensland was first ta’en up by squatters. A place no that easy to ride
to, maist deeficult to discover, amang the great mountain forests o’ the
border. Battles had there been, between the black police and the wild
native tribes that were strong and bold in the pioneer days, no kenning,
puir bodies, the strength o’ ceevilised man. It was there they halted
after the massacre of Wild Honey Bank, where they killed after nightfa’
the haill family, men and women, wives and weans, an awfu’ spectacle
they were as they lay deid in the hot sun, unshaded, uncovered. I was
tauld it by a man, was ane of the pairty that helped bury them. The
pursuers slew and spared not. Wha shall judge them after the fearsome
sights they saw? There’s but few of that tribe left alive, and sma’
wonder.

“An eerie, waesome spot, they tell me. The gunyahs hae na been leeved in
this mony a year. The few fra-agments o’ the tribe conseeder it to be
haunted, and winna gang near. It’s a’ strewed wi’ skulls, and skeletons
of whites and blacks mingled, nane having been at the pains to bury
them. The grass grows rank abune the mouldering relics o’ baith races.
The banes gleam white when the moon is at her full, lying matted
thegither amaist concealed by the growth of years.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Weel, aweel! I’m just daundering on toward the eend, the sair,
sorrowfu’ eending o’ a fearsome tale. The twa pairties, that wad be the
Queensland gang, and the Sydney-side lot, were nigh hand to the ‘Ghost
Camp’ aboot the same time.

“That’s sayin’ the three Lawless bodies had ridden night and day—picking
up fresh horses for the men, as they came along. Kate rode the roan pony
mare all through, a grand little crater she was, and weel she earned her
name ‘Wallaby,’ sae ca’ed after the kangaroo beastie that wad hop frae
rock to rock, like ony goat o’ the cliffs.

“The Inspector reckoned that Bradfield’s gang wad show up in the
gloaming o’ the appointed day. No kenning that they had been betrayed,
they wad camp careless like. Dayrell’s tracker creepit oot and lay ahint
a rock while they unsaiddled and turned loose their horses. Bradfield he
knew—a tall powerfu’ chiel, with a big beard, a Sydney-side native, and
if he wasna the best bushman in Queensland, he wasna that far aff. Of
the four men with him, twa had ‘done time,’ and were worse after they
cam’ oot o’ gaol, than when they gaed in. They had grog in them; they
made a fire—not a black fellow’s one—and talked and laughed and swore,
as they didna care wha might hear them.

“So far, a’ went weel. Dayrell’s party lay close—made no fire—prepared
to deleever attack at dawn, when dootless Bradfield’s men wad be asleep
or all unsuspeecious. But were they? By no manner of means. The twa
Lawless brithers and Kate had won to Wandong Creek i’ the nicht—Ned and
Kate had lain them doon, joost dead beat and like to dee wi’ sheer
exhaustion. Dick stowed the horse away in the gulley. It’s deep, and
amaist covered in wi’ trees and fern. Then being a tireless crater and
in hard work and training, he thocht he would tak’ a wee bit look oot,
to make a’ safe. It was weel thocht on—though not for the police party.
It wasna lang ere he heard a horse whinnie. Not the nicher o’ a brumbie,
either. Then cam’ the tramp o’ anither and the jingle o’ a hobble chain.
Could it be the police? He would soon know. Creeping frae tree to tree,
he came on the mob. Six riding horses, and two ‘packers’ all with the
Crown brand on. Dayrell’s dark chestnut, he knew _him_ again. And a
light bay with two white hind fetlocks. Police horses all, well fed and
groomed. Now where was the camp?

“Keeping wide and crawling from log to log, like a night-wandering
crater o’ the forest, he thought he saw a glimmer o’ a fire—not a small
one either. What d—d fool had lighted that, with a hot trail so close?
So he walkit, ye ken, till what suld ail him to come ram-sham on six
sleeping men. Police in plain clothes? Never! It was Bradfield’s gang,
believing that Dayrell was no within a colony o’ them. And now to get
speech. Their revolvers were under their hands, their rifles handy ye
ken. If an alarm was given it might spoil the whole plan. With two other
rifles, not counting Kate (and she was a fair shot at short range), they
might turn the tables on Dayrell and his blasted police.

“Keen and ready witted as are the de’il’s bairns at their master’s wark,
Dick Lawless wasna lang in conseedering the pairt he was to play.
Crawling on hands and knees, he got as near Bradfield as was wise like
without awaking him. He then gave a low whistle, such as stockriders
give to tell of cattle in sight.

“‘Who the hell’s that?’ growled Bradfield, awake and alert.

“‘All right, Jim, only Dick Lawless. Cattle going to break camp. (They
had been droving in old days.) Quite like old times, isn’t it?’

“‘Wish I was back again behind a thousand Windorah bullocks,’ said the
bushranger.

“‘I wouldn’t mind either, Jim. But all that’s behind us now—worse luck!
Where do you think Dayrell is? Give it up? D’ye see that black ridge,
with three pines on it? Well, he’s there, waiting for daylight. _He’s_
not fool to make a fire you can see miles off. You’ve nearly been had,
Jim. He came up on purpose to collar you. T’other side the black ridge,
he’s planted men and horses, six of ’em and a packer.’

“‘Who’s with you?’

“‘Just Ned and Kate. They’re lying down in Wandong Creek. Kate’s goin’
dotty now, poor thing, but she would come with us. Thinks she’ll see the
last of Dayrell.’

“‘Strikes me it’s a case of “Just before the battle, mother,”’ said
Bradfield. ‘I’ll wake these chaps. We must have a snack and fix up the
Waterloo business. It’s an hour to daylight yet.’

“Thus speaking he touched the man on his left, who awoke and touched the
next. Without a spoken word the five men were aroused.

“‘Now, chaps!’ said the leader, in low but distinct tones, ‘Dick Lawless
is come to give in the office. He’s on the job too. Dayrell’s behind the
black ridge, with his five fancy troopers. He’s come to collar us. Dick
here and Ned have come to pay off old scores. With us to help he’s like
enough to do it. We’re nigh about equal members, not countin’ Kate, but
the surprise they’ll get’s as good as two men.’

“‘How’s that?’ asked one of the gang.

“‘It’s this way, we’ll have first go. He thinks we don’t know he’s here.
We’ll take cover, and as soon as he shows out to surprise us, we roll
into him. Dick here, Ned and Kate, go at him from Wandong Creek side.
That’ll put the stuns on him. Ned and Dick, both dead shots, will
account for Dayrell. If he goes down the other traps won’t stand long.
Dick, you’ll have a snack? No? Then, so long.’

“The faint line of clearer sky was slowly making itself veesible in the
east as Dayrell at the head of his troopers moved towards Bradfield’s
camp. The black tracker had showed him the position. The glimmering fire
did the rest. ‘Now for a rush, men, we’ll catch them asleep.’ Saddles
and swags were strewn around the fire, billy and frying-pan were there,
not a man to be seen. But from five rifles at short range came a volley
at the troopers, well-aimed and effective, and Dayrell’s right arm fell
to his side broken or disabled.

“Three shots immediately followed from the Wandong Creek timber, on the
left flank of the police. Confused at finding themselves between two
fires, their leader wounded—for Dayrell’s right arm still hung
useless—the troopers, after a second ineffectual volley, wavered. Just
then three figures appeared, standing on a rock which ran crossways to
the narrow outlet by which alone could the police party mak’ retreat.

“At the second volley two troopers dropped, one mortally, the other
severely, wounded. ‘Hold up your hands, if you don’t all want to be
wiped out,’ shouted Bradfield.

“‘By the Lord! that’s Kate Lawless,’ said one of the troopers, pointing
to a tall woman who waved a rifle and shouted defiance after the first
volley was fired.

“‘And that’s Ned, or his ghost,’ said another. ‘I thought he was safe in
Ballarat Gaol. How the h—l did they get here?’

“As he spoke, the two men on the rock took deliberate aim and fired, the
Inspector in return firing his revolver with the left hand.

“The clean-shaved man dropped dead, wi’ a bullet through his head;
Dayrell staggered for a few seconds and making an attempt to recover
himself, sank to the earth. The woman sprang down from the rock, and
rushing across the line of fire raised the dying man’s head from the
ground and gazed into his face, in which the signs of fast-coming death
were apparent.

“‘So this is the end of Inspector Frank Dayrell,’ she said, ‘trapped
like a dingo by the poor devils he was hunting down. I told you you’d
repent it, if you didn’t let _us_ alone. And now my words have come
true; the Lawless family gang’s broke up, but the bloodhound hasn’t much
life in him neither. I sha’n’t last the year out, the old lot’s close up
dead and done for, that was so jolly, and worked hard and straight, when
we first came on Ballarat. Pity we took to ‘cross’ work, wasn’t it?
Love—as they call it—’ here she smiled a strange, sad smile, ‘then
jealousy, revenge, false swearing, murder—Poor Lance! I _did_ him cruel
wrong, and but for you, you, Francis Dayrell, I’d never have sworn a
word to harm him. It’s driven me mad—mad! do you hear, Frank Dayrell?
Good-bye, till we meet in—in—the other place!’

“The firing was o’er, Dick Lawless now showed himself between the rock
and the clear space where lay the dead trooper and Dayrell. The
Inspector raised himself on one arm and with the last glimmer o’licht in
his glazing e’en, looked full in the woman’s face, as he drawled out the
words, ‘Au revoir! Kate, pleasant journey, inner circle of mine with the
left, eh?’ The light faded out of his eyes with the last word, and
falling back, he was dead when his head touched the ground. The woman
gazed for one moment on the still face; then in obedience to a sign from
her brother, walkit over to him, and, mounting their horses, they rode
away into the forest thegither. The police couldna but see they were
ootnummered. Their leader and one trooper dead; anither was badly
wounded. Four men—one barely able to sit on a horse—were no match for
six.

“‘See here, men,’ said Bradfield, a tall, powerful native chiel wi’ a
black beard, a grand bushman, too; ‘this here battle’s over, you’re
euchred, your boss expected to catch us on the hop, and he’s been took
himself. He was a game chap, and we don’t owe him no grudge, nor you
either, though he went a bit out of his way in leavin’ his own district
to collar another officer’s game. He didn’t reckon on Ned and Dick
Lawless, and it’s them that knocked over his wicket. A fair fight’s
righto, but it don’t do even for a policeman to get hisself disliked.’

“‘I say, Jim, the horses are up; are yer goin’ to preach here till the
military’s called out?’

“‘All right, Jack, there’s no hurry. What’s to be done with the dead
men? There’s Inspector Dayrell, our poor cove, and Ned Lawless. We can’t
leave ’em here.’

“‘The police must pack their mates,’ said the second in command, ‘we’ll
take away ours. Where’s the nearest township, or graveyard, if it comes
to that?’

“‘We can make Warradombee in twenty mile’; here spoke one of the police
troopers. ‘It’s close to Grant’s head station.’

“‘All right, you’ve got your packers; strap on the Inspector, and that
Goulburn native, and let ’em be buried decent. We’re not black fellows.
We’ll carry our man, and bury him first chance. Ned must stay where he
is—he’s better there than under the gaol yard. Like as not Dick and
Kate’ll come back to him. They’ve not gone far. Well, you’d better load,
and clear—we’ll give you a lift, as you’re short handed. Don’t sing a
bigger song than you can help. Give us a day’s law, and then we don’t
care what you do. We haven’t acted so bad to you.’

“‘No, by George, you haven’t,’ said the senior constable, ‘except
killin’ the two of us, and you couldn’t help that, seein’ you was
fightin’ for your lives, as the sayin’ is.’

“So the enemies (as I’m tauld) helped to raise the fallen men, and
fasten them on their horses. It was a sad-looking troop, as they moved
off, with their dead legs tied underneath, and at the knees, to the
saddles, their heads bowed low on the horses’ necks, so that they
couldna fall off. But the upper bodies, with heids swaying aboot in that
dreadful guise, lookit awfu’ ghaistly. Little thocht Frank Dayrell that
he wad ride his last ride in siccan a fashion. But nane can foretell his
eend, nor the manner o’t.

“Bradfield’s lot cleared without loss o’ time, carrying with them their
dead and wounded, until a convenient burial place was reached. This duty
completed, they separated, to meet in the ‘Never Never Country,’ between
Burke Town and ‘The Gulf,’ a ‘strange, vain land’ (as one has written)
where ‘night is even as the day,’ and the decalogue is no that sariously
regairded, as in longer settled communities.

“Although the tither ootlaws wadna chairge themselves with Ned Lawless’
funeral, it is no’ to be infaired that he was buried without a prayer,
or that tears werena shed o’er his lonely unhallowed grave. As had been
surmeesed, Kate and the younger brother returned after nightfall.

“It was nearly midnight, the moonrays lighted up the weird shadows of
the ‘Ghost Camp,’ lately throbbing wi’ gunshots, oaths, cries and
exclamations. Blood had been shed; life had been taken; now all was
still and deserted looking.

“Tribe had met tribe in the old, old days, and with spear-thrust, nulla
nulla and boomerang, had fought oot their conflicts, waged for pride,
ambition or revenge. And always to the bitter end! Then came the white
invader, with his iron axes, fine clothes and magical weapons, which
slew before they touched. The sheep and cattle, such delicate morsels
but which except a price was paid, too often that o’ bluid—they dared
na’ take. Battles then were fought in which their bravest warriors fell;
or if by chance they slew stockrider or shepherd, a sair harryin’ o’ the
tribe followed.

“Those days were past; and now, how strange to the elders of the tribe,
the white strangers fought amang themselves, wounding, killing, and
carrying away captive their brithers in colour and speech. These things
were hard to understand. The rays of the lately risen moon lit up the
sombre glades of the battlefield as a man and woman rode in frae the
forest track, and tied up their horses. They came to the rock where the
dead man lay. He had fallen back when Dayrell’s bullet pierced his
brain, and was lying with upturned face and dreadful staring eyes. The
woman knelt by his side, and while she closed them, said, ‘Poor old Ned!
I never thought to lay you out in a place like this. God’s curse on them
that drove you to it; but _he’s_ gone that we have to thank for our
ruin; that debt’s paid, anyhow! You were always a soft-hearted chap, and
none of us, when we were little, had a hard time with you. Not like some
brothers, who’d knock about the poor kiddies as if they were dingo
pups.’

“‘I’ve nothing to say agen him,’ said the man, ‘he was always good to
me, I’d ’a done anything for him. It’s hard to see him here lying dead,
and with that infernal prison crop, not even a beard on his face, and
what a jolly one he used to have. Here’s where the irons hurt him; I
expect he tried to break out afore, and they made him work in these.’

“‘My God!’ cried the woman, passionately; ‘don’t talk of it any more. I
shall scream out directly, and go more off my head than I am now, and
that’s bad enough. To think of him that used to come out of a morning so
fresh and jolly, well dressed, and always with a good horse under him,
and couldn’t he ride? And now to see him lying here, starved and
miserable, like a beggar; it’s enough to break a heart of stone—’

“‘It’s too late now, Kate, too late; but we’d better have taken Tessie’s
warning and started a square trade, carrying or something, when the
digging broke out,’ said the man. ‘We were all strong and full of go. I
could do a man’s work, young as I was; the money would have run into our
pockets—yes, regular run in—if we’d made a square start and stuck to it.
Look at Benson and Warner, see where they are now! They couldn’t read
and write neither, no more than us. Then there was that infernal Larry
Trevenna. Poor Lance! I _was_ sorry for him. They did us all the harm in
the world; Larry with his gambling ways, and Lance setting you up to
think you were good enough to marry him, and putting Dayrell’s back up
agen the family. Our luck was dead out from start to finish, and now
they’re all gone except you and me. I’d better set about the grave.’

“‘Where’d ye get the pick and shovel?’

“‘Some fossicker left them outside his camp. I saw them when I went to
the spring for a drink.’

“‘For God’s sake take them back, no use making more enemies than we can
help. There’ll be a row if he misses ’em!’

“‘All right! I’ll drop them as we pass,’ said her brother, as he drove
the pick into the hard, stony soil.

“The woman took the short mining shovel, and with feverish energy
cleared the narrow shaft as often as required. An hour’s work showed a
cavity of the necessary width and depth, wherein the brother and sister
laid the wasted body of the eldest son of the family—once its pride as
the best horseman, shearer, reaper, cricketer, stockrider, and all-round
athlete of the highland district of New South Wales. The pity of it,
when misdirected energies hurry the men along the fiend’s highway,
leading to a felon’s doom, a dishonoured grave!

“The pity of it! The man now lowered into the rude sepulchre, amid that
ill-omened, blood-stained wild, might, under happier circumstances, and
at a later day, have been receiving the plaudits of his countrymen, the
thanks of his Sovereign, as the fearless, resourceful scout, whose
watchful eye had saved a squadron, or whose stubborn courage had helped
to block an advance until the reinforcement came up.

“It was not to be. Sadly and silently, but for the exclamation of ‘Poor
Ned! good-bye! God have mercy on your soul!’ from the woman, the brother
and sister rode away into the night.

“A rude cross had been fashioned and placed in a cairn of stones piled
upon the grave. ‘The moonbeam strook, and deepest night fell down upon
the heath’ as the hoofstrokes died away in the distance, deepening the
sombre solitude of the spot, which had long worn the appearance of a
place accursed of God and man!”


The far back, and by no means busy township of Dumbool was, if not
enlivened, aroused from its normal apathy (when a race meeting, or a
shearer’s carouse was not in full operation), by the return of a party
of mounted police. The leading inhabitants, always well informed in such
matters, had received notice of them passing through the district,
heading towards the border. The township was not so insignificant or the
two hotels so unimportant, as not to provide “Our Own Correspondent” of
the _Weekly Newsletter_. This gentleman, who was Rabbit Inspector,
Acting Clerk of the Bench, Coroner, and Honorary Magistrate, held all
the minor appointments, not incompatible with the ends of justice, and
the dignity of the Post Office, of which he was the present acting head,
the Government Official of the branch being away on leave. He performed
these various duties fairly well, delegating the Postal work to the
leading storekeeper, and the Bench work to a neighbouring squatter, who,
coached by the senior constable, was capable of getting through a
committal without blundering. But the work of Special Correspondent was
the one which he really enjoyed, and on which he chiefly prided himself.

He had often murmured at the poverty of the journalistic resources of
his surroundings, which afforded no field for literary ability. Even
when Nature seemed kindly disposed, by reason of abnormal conditions, he
was restricted in efforts to improve the occasion by the vigorously
expressed local censorship of the pastoralists. Did he draw a harrowing
picture of the stricken waste, denuded of pasture, and strewn with dead
and dying flocks, and herds, every one was “down on him,” as he
expressed it, for taking away the character of the district. Did he
dilate on the vast prairies waving with luxuriant herbage, after a
phenomenal rainfall, he was abused as “inviting every blooming
free-selector in the colony to come out and make a chess-board of their
runs, directly they had a little grass.” There was no pleasing them.
Even the editor of the _Weekly Clarion_, mindful of influential
subscribers, had admonished him to be careful in good seasons, as well
as bad.

He was at his wits’ end, between the agricultural Scylla, and the
pastoral Charybdis, so to speak. It may be imagined with what gratitude
he hailed the “Tragedy of Ghost Camp,” as his headline described it, in
which he was likely to offend nobody excepting the Police Department,
for whose feelings his public had no great consideration.


Extract from the _Weekly Newsletter and Down River Advertiser_.

“It is long since the site of this celebrated locality, once notorious
for tribal fights, and dark deeds of revenge, not always stopping at
cold-blooded murder, if old tales be true, has resounded with the echo
of rifle shots, the oaths of the victors, the groans of the dying! Yet
such has lately been the case. But a few days since a deed of blood, of
long-delayed vengeance, has been enacted, recalling the more lurid
incidents of pioneer days.

“We had received information of the passing of Inspector Francis
Dayrell, with a party of picked troopers, on a back track, running
parallel to our main stock route. They carried a light camp equipment,
not halting at stations or townships and apparently desirous to avoid
observation. We have in another place expressed our disapproval of this
practice, holding that the ends of justice are better served by
forwarding information to the local press. Had that been done in the
present case, the fatal finale might have been averted.

“Be that as it may, the _cortège_ that was descried approaching our
principal street at an early hour this morning, presented a very
different appearance from that of the well-accoutred police party that
our informant noticed but two days earlier heading for the broken
mountainous country at the head of the Wandong Creek. The troopers
detailed for this dangerous service were led by that well-known, and, we
may say, dreaded police officer, the late Inspector Francis Dayrell, the
greatest daredevil, the most determined officer of the Victorian Mounted
Police.

“It was quickly noted by a sharp-eyed bushman, in the neighbourhood of
Host Parley’s well-kept and commodious hotel, which commands the
approach to our township from the north-east, that something was wrong
with the body of police now approaching the town at a funeral pace.

“The trooper who rode in front led Inspector Dayrell’s well-known
charger, a matchless hackney, perfect in the _manège_ in which all troop
horses are trained. The inspector was badly wounded and nearly
insensible, from the manner in which he bowed himself on the horse’s
neck, while he swayed helplessly in the saddle. The second trooper also
led a horse on which was a wounded man. Behind rode two men, one
evidently so badly hurt, that he sat his horse with difficulty.

“‘They’ve been cut up bad,’ said one of the bushmen. ‘Let’s ride up and
meet ’em, Jack!’ Two men waiting for the mail mounted their horses, and
met the little party; from which, after a word or two with the Sergeant,
they came back full speed to the hotel, and thus imparted the melancholy
news.

“‘Police had a brush with Bradfield’s gang from Queensland, as they
thought they were going to take. Some other chaps had joined them along
with Dick Lawless, and double-banked ’em. Dayrell’s killed, and a
trooper—they’re the two first; Doolan’s wounded bad. The Sergeant wants
a room to put the dead men in till the Coroner’s inquest’s held; he’ll
have ’em buried as soon as it’s over.’

“Great excitement was naturally evoked by this statement.

“In a few minutes the police arrived at the Hotel, where they were met
by Mr. Clarkson, J.P., who obligingly undertook all necessary
arrangements. The Inspector and the dead trooper were laid side by side
in the best bedroom, the landlord resenting a suggestion to place the
corpses in an outhouse—‘He’d have had the best room in the house if he
was alive. He always paid like a prince, and I’m not going to treat him
disrespectful now he’s been killed in the discharge of his duty. Them as
don’t care about sleeping there after him and poor Mick Donnelly, may go
somewheres else. They’ll be buried decent from _my_ house, anyway.’

“The Coroner impanelled a jury without unnecessary delay; and after the
Sergeant and his men had necessary rest and refreshment, that official
elicited evidence which enabled him to record a verdict of ‘Wilful
murder against Edward James Bradfield and Richard Lawless in the cases
of Inspector Francis Dayrell of the Victorian Mounted Police Force, and
trooper Michael Joseph Donnelly, then and there lying dead.’ This
formality concluded, preparations were made for the funeral to take
place next morning in the graveyard appertaining to the township, which
already held a number of occupants, large in proportion to the
population.

“Word had been sent to the neighbouring stations, so that by noon—the
hour appointed—nearly as large a concourse as at the annual race meeting
had assembled. There being no resident clergyman, the service was read
over both men by the Coroner, who, by the way in which he performed the
duty, showed that he was not new to this sad ceremony. We have
repeatedly urged upon the Government the necessity of providing
increased police protection for this important and scantily defended
district. May we trust now that local wants will be more promptly
attended to.

“The last offices being paid to the dead the surviving troopers rode
slowly away leading the spare horses, and bearing the arms and effects
of their comrades with them.

“Kate Lawless and her brother had disappeared. Whether they had made for
the farthest out settled districts of Queensland, or had found a hiding
place nearer home, was not known, though rumours to either effect gained
circulation.”


“And noo ye hae the haill history o’ Frank Dayrell, late Inspector o’
the Mounted Police Force o’ Victoria, no forgetting the death of Ned
Lawless, who died by his hand.

“And, as the sun’s low, and we’ve, I winna say wasted the
afternoon—maybe expended wad be a mair wise-like expression—I’ll just
say good e’en to you, gentlemen, and gae me ways hame. The nicht’s for
frost, I’m thinkin’,” and so saying, the worthy Sergeant declining
further refreshment marched off along the meadow.

                  *       *       *       *       *

An early breakfast next morning, in fact, before the frost was off the
ground, awaited Mr. Blount. In some inns it would have been a
comfortless repast; a half-lighted fire struggling against a pile of
damp wood, and producing more smoke than heat; a grumbling man cook, not
too clean of aspect, who required to know “why the blank people wanted
their grub cooked by candlelight,” and so on—“he’d see ’em blanked
first, if there was any more of this bloomin’ rot.” Such reflections the
guest has been favoured with, in the “good old days,” before the gold
had settled down to a reasonable basis of supply and demand, and the
labour question—as it did subsequently—had regulated itself. Waiting,
too, for half an hour longer than was necessary for your hackney to eat
his oats.

Far otherwise was the bounteous, well-served repast which sent forth
Blount in fit order and condition to do his journey creditably, or to
perform any feats of endurance which the day’s work might exact.

Sheila had been up and about long before daylight. She had consulted the
favoured guest through his chamber door, as to which of the appetising
list of viands he would prefer, and when the adventurous knight sallied
forth in full war paint, he found a good fire and a tempting meal
awaiting him.

“I tell you what, Sheila,” he said, regarding that praiseworthy maiden
with an approving smile, “this is all very fine and you ought to get a
prize at the next Agricultural Show, for turning out such a breakfast,
but how am I to face burnt steak and sodden damper at the diggers’ camp
to-morrow morning?”

The girl looked at him earnestly for a moment or two without speaking,
and then with an air of half warning, half disapproval, said, “Well—if
you ask me, sir, the cooking’s not the worst of it in those sort of
places, and I can’t see for my part why a gentleman like you wants going
there at all. They’re very queer people at the head of the river, and
they do say that the less you have to do with them the better.”

“But I suppose there _are_ all sorts of queer characters in this new
country of yours. I didn’t come from England to lead a feather-bed life.
I’ve made up my mind to see the bush, the goldfields, and all the wild
life I could come across, and I suppose Mr. Little-River-Jack is about
the cleverest guide I could have.”

“Well—ye—es! he’s _clever_ enough, but there _are_ yarns about him. I
don’t like to tell all I’ve heard, because, of course, it mightn’t be
true. Still, if I were you, sir, I’d keep a sharp look out, and if you
spotted anything that didn’t look square, make some excuse and clear.”

“But, my dear girl, what _is_ there to watch? Do he and his friends
steal cattle or rob miners of their gold? Any highway business? Why
can’t you speak out? I see you’re anxious lest I should get into a
scrape; on account of my innocence, isn’t that it? And very kind of you
it is. I won’t forget it, I promise you.”

“I can’t say any more,” said the girl, evidently confused. “But be a bit
careful, for God’s sake, and don’t take all you’re told for gospel;”
after which deliverance she left the room abruptly and did not appear
when Mr. Blount and his guide, both mounted, were moving off. They were
in high spirits, and the cob dancing with eagerness to get away. As they
left the main road at an angle, Blount looked back to the hotel towards
a window from which the girl was looking out. Her features wore a grave
and anxious expression, and she shook her head with an air, as it seemed
to him, of disapproval.

This byplay was unobserved by his companion, who was apparently
scrutinising with concentrated attention the track on which he had
turned.

Throwing off all misgivings, and exhilarated by the loveliness of the
weather, which in that locality always succeeds a night of frost, he
gave himself up to an unaffected admiration of the woodland scene. The
sun now nearly an hour high had dispelled the mists, which lay upon the
river meadows, and brought down in glittering drops the frost jewels
sparkling on every bush and branch.

The sky of brightest blue was absolutely cloudless, the air keen and
bracing; wonderfully dry and stimulating. The grass waved amid their
horses’ feet. The forest, entirely composed of evergreens, from the
tallest eucalypt, a hundred feet to the first branch, to the low-growing
banksia, though partly sombre, was yet relieved by an occasional
cypress, or sterentia. The view was grand, and apparently illimitable,
from the high tableland which they soon reached. Range after range of
snow-clad mountains reared their vast forms to the eastward, while
beyond them again came into view a new and complete mountain world, in
which companies of snow peaks and the shoulders of yet loftier tiers of
mountains were distinctly, if faintly, visible. What passes, what
fastnesses, what well-nigh undiscoverable hiding-places, Blount thought,
might not be available amid these highlands for refugees from
justice—for the transaction of secret or illegal practices!

He was aroused from such a reverie by the cheery voice of his companion,
who evidently was not minded to enjoy the beauty of the morning, or the
mysterious expanse of the landscape in silence. “Great country this, Mr.
Blount!” he exclaimed, with patronising appreciation. “Pity we haven’t a
few more men and women to the square mile. There’s work and payin’
occupation within sight”—here he waved his hand—“for a hundred years to
come, if it was stocked the right way. Good soil, regular rainfall,
timber, water no end, a bit coldish in winter; but look at Scotland, and
see the men and women it turns out! I’d like to be Governor for ten
years. What a place I’d make of it!”

“And what’s the reason you people of Australia, natives of the soil, and
so on, can’t do it for yourselves, without nobles, King or Kaiser—you’ve
none of _them_ to blame?”

“Haven’t we? We’ve too many by a dashed sight, and that’s the reason we
can’t get on. They call them Members of Parliament here, and they do
nothing but talk, talk, talk.”

“Oh! I see; but they’re elected by the people, for the people, and so
on. The people—you and your friends, that is—must have been fools to
elect them. Isn’t that so?”

“Of course it is. And this is how it comes; there’s always a lot of
fellers that like talking better than work. They palaver the real
workers, who do all the graft, and carry the load, and once they’re in
Parliament and get their six pound a week it’s good-bye to honest work
for the rest of their lives. It’s a deal easier to reel out any kind of
rot by the yard than it is to make boots and shoes, or do carpentering,
or blacksmith’s work.”

“H—m! should say it was. Never tried either myself; but when they get
into Parliament don’t they do anything?”

“Well, in a sort of way, but they’re dashed slow about it. Half the
time, every law has to be altered and patched and undone again. They’re
in no hurry, bless you!—they’re not paid by the job; so the longer they
are about it the more pay and ‘exes’ they rake in.”

“What’s wrong with the law about this particular neighbourhood?”

“Well, they’re allowed to take up too much land for one thing. I
wouldn’t give more than a hundred acres, if I had my way, to any
selector,” said this vigorous reformer. “The soil’s rich, the rainfall’s
certain, and the water-supply’s everlastin’. What’s wanted is labour—men
and women, that means. It’ll grow anything, and if they’d keep to fruit,
root crops, and artificial grasses, they could smother theirselves with
produce in a year or two. Irrigate besides. See that race? You can lead
water anywhere you like in this district.”

“Well, why don’t they? One would think they could see the profit in it.
Here it is, under their feet.”

“It’s this way; a man with a couple of thousand acres can keep a flock
of sheep. They don’t do extra well, but they grow a fleece once a year,
and when wool’s a decent price the family can live on it—with the help
of poultry, eggs and bacon, and chops now and then. It’s a poor life,
and only just keeps them—hand to mouth, as it were.”

“Still, they’re independent.”

“Oh! independent enough—the ragged girls won’t go out to service. The
boys loaf about on horseback and smoke half the time. If they had only a
hundred acres or so, they couldn’t pretend to be squatters. The men
would dig more and plough more, the greater part of the area would be
cultivated, they could feed their cows in winter (which _is_ long and
cold in these parts), fatten pigs, have an orchard (look at the
apple-trees at the last place we passed), do themselves real well, and
have money in the bank as well.”

“We must have a republic, and make you first Dictator, I see that. Now,
where does this tremendous ravine lead to?”

“It leads through Wild Horse Gully, down to the Dark River—we’d better
get off and walk the next mile or two—there’s a big climb further on.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said the traveller. “How wild horses or any other
travel about here, astonishes me. Where do they come from? There were
none in Australia when the first people came, I suppose?”

“Not a hoof. They’ve all been bred up from the stray horses that got
away from the stations, long ago. They’re in thousands among these
mountains. It takes the squatters at the heads of the rivers all their
time to keep them under.”

“Do they do much harm?”

“Well, yes, a lot. They eat too much grass for one thing, and spoil more
than they eat, galloping about. Then they run off the station horses,
especially the mares. Once they join the wild mob, they’re never seen
again. Get shot by mistake, too, now and again.”

“Why! do they shoot horses here?”

“Shoot ’em, of course! The hides and hair fetch a fairish price. Some
men live by it. They make trap yards, and get as many as a hundred at a
time. The squatters shoot them now and again, and pay men to do it.”

“It seems a pity. A horse is a fine animal, wild or tame, but I suppose
they can’t be allowed to over-run the country.”

The Wild Horse Gully, down which they were proceeding at a slow and
cautious pace, was a tortuous and narrow pathway, hemmed in by rugged
precipitous mountain sides. From its nature it was impracticable for
wheeled vehicles, but the tracks of horses and cattle were recent and
deeply indented. These his companion scrutinised with more than ordinary
care. The horse tracks were in nearly all instances those of unshod
animals, but as he pointed out, there were two sets of recent imprints
on the damp red loam, of which the sharp edges and nail heads told of
the blacksmith’s shop as plainly as if a printed notice had been nailed
to one of the adjacent tree trunks; also that a dozen heavy cattle had
gone along in front of them at rather a fast pace. These last had come
in on a side track, their sliding trail down the face of the mountain
showing plainly how they had arrived, and, as nearly as possible, to the
experienced eye of one horseman, at what hour.

The day had been tedious, even monotonous, the pace necessarily slow;
the chill air of evening was beginning to be felt, when the bushman,
with a sigh of relief, pointed to a thin wreath of smoke. On an open,
half-cleared spot, a hut built of horizontal logs was dimly visible; a
narrow eager streamlet ran close to the rude dwelling, while at their
approach a pair of cattle dogs began to bark as they walked in a
menacing manner towards the intruders.




                               CHAPTER IV


“DOWN, Jerry! Down, Driver!” said the bushman, “that’ll do, you’re
making row enough to frighten all the cattle in the country.” By this
time the guardians of the outpost had left off their clamour, and one of
them, by jumping up and fawning on Blount, showed that he had gained
their friendship. The older dog, not so demonstrative, had stains of
blood on his mouth and chest. “Ha! Driver, you old villain, been behind
those cattle yesterday? Now lie down, and let’s see if we can raise a
fire and get some tea under weigh, before the boys come in.”

After unsaddling, and turning out their horses, they entered the hut,
which, though not differing materially from the bush structures which
Blount had already visited, was seen to be neater than usual in the
internal arrangements. “Little-River-Jack” proceeded at once to
business. By lighting twigs from a store of brush-wood, laid ready for
such an emergency, and adding another to the smouldering logs at the
back of the huge chimney he secured a cheerful blaze, calculated to warm
through his shivering companion, and to provide him speedily with the
comforting, universal beverage. Opening a rude locker, he took from it a
tin dish containing corned beef and “damper,” also a couple of tin
plates with knives and forks of democratic appearance, and a butcher’s
knife which did duty for a carver.

“You see your dinner, Mr. Blount,” said he. “I daresay you’ve got an
appetite this cold day; I know I have. Help yourself, the billy’s
boiling, I’ll put in the tea.” Suiting the action to the word, he took a
handful of tea out of a bag hanging by a nail in the wall, and placing a
pannikin of sugar on the table, invited his guest to help himself and
fall to.

“It’s not quite up to the breakfast we had this morning,” he said; “but
I’ve had worse many a time; tucker like this will carry a man a long way
when he’s on the road or at regular work.”

This statement, more or less correct, was confirmed by the performance
of both wayfarers, Mr. Blount plying a remarkably good knife and fork,
besides disposing of a wedge of damper, and washing the whole down with
a couple of pints of hot tea.

The fire was by this time in steady glow. Stretching his legs before it,
and indulging in a luxurious smoke, the tourist expressed his opinion
that he had known more artistic cookery, but had never enjoyed a meal
more.

Mr. John Carter, the while, had washed and replaced the plates and
pannikins; also rearranged the beef and bread with a deftness telling of
previous experience. This duty concluded, they awaited the return of the
gold-diggers.

“They don’t come in while there’s light to work by,” he explained; “the
days are that short now, that unless you’re at it early and late there
ain’t much to show for it.”

The twilight had faded into all but complete darkness when the dogs
growled in a non-committal way, as though merely to indicate human
approach without resenting it. “It’s my pals comin’,” the bushman
observed; and, closely following the words, footsteps were heard, and a
big, bearded, roughly-dressed man entered the hut. “Hullo! Jack, you’re
here, and this is the gentleman from England,” he continued, fixing a
bold, penetrating glance upon Blount. “Glad to see you, sir! This is a
rough shop; but we’ve got fair tucker, and firewood’s plenty. We’ll soon
show you the ins and outs of gold-digging, if that’s what you want to
see. Jack got you a feed, I expect; fill up the billy, old man, while we
get a wash.”

Seizing a handful of rough towels, and a bag which hung near the head of
the bunk in the corner to the right of the speaker, he went out into the
night; while certain splashing noises told that face and hands’ cleaning
was in progress.

Little more than ten minutes had elapsed, when the speaker, accompanied
by three other men, re-entered the hut, and after an informal mention of
names to the stranger, sat down to the table, where they went to work at
the beef and damper, with strict attention to business. Mr. Blount had
an opportunity while they were thus engaged of a complete inspection.
Though roughly dressed, there was nothing unpleasing to the educated eye
about their appearance.

They wore red or blue woollen shirts, rough tweed or moleskin trousers,
and heavy miners’ boots. All had beards more or less trimmed, and wore
their hair rather short than long.

Three of the party were tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular; the fourth
was middle-sized, slight and active-looking. He wore only a fair
moustache, and seemed younger than the others. Commencing to make
conversation at once, he was evidently regarded as the wit of the party.

“So you’re back again, Jack, old man!” he said, addressing the guide
with a half-humorous, half-cynical expression. “Goin’ to and fro on the
earth, seekin’ what you might—well, not devour exactly, but pick up in a
free and easy, genteel sort o’ way, like the old chap we used to be so
frightened of when we were kiddies. Don’t hear so much about him now, do
we? Wonder why? He ain’t dead, or played out, what d’ye make of it?”

“You seem to take a lot of interest in him, Dick,” said the guide. “Been
readin’ sermons, or beginnin’ to think o’ your latter end? Lots of time
for that.”

“Well, not so much that way, but I’m seriously thinkin’ o’ clearin’ out
o’ this part o’ the country and tryin’ another colony. It’s too dashed
cold and wet here. I’m afraid of my precious health. I hear great talks
of this West Australian side—Coolgardie, or something like that—where it
never rains, hardly, and they’re getting gold in buckets’ full.”

“You’re doin’ middlin’ well here, Dick,” said one of the other men in a
dissuasive tone of voice. “The lead’s sure to widen out as it gets
deeper and junctions with the Lady Caroline. Why don’t you have
patience, and see it out?”

“Well, haven’t I been waitin’ and waitin’, and now I’m full up; made up
my mind to sell out. If any one here will give me twenty notes for my
fourth share of the claim after this divide, I’m up to take it.”

“I’ll buy it,” said Mr. Blount impulsively. “I should like to have a
turn at real mining, and this seems a fair chance.”

“Done with you, sir; we can write out an agreement here now. You’ll have
a fourth share in the hut and tools, won’t he, mates?”

The men nodded assent. “Going cheap, Jack, isn’t it?”

“Dirt cheap, and no mistake. Mr. Blount never made a better bargain.
I’ll cash his cheque on Melbourne, so you can clear to-morrow, Dick,
though I think you’re a fool for your pains. We’ll witness the agreement
here, and he can hold your miner’s right till he gets a transfer from
the Registrar at Bunjil.”

This transaction, concluded with ease and celerity, seemed to meet with
general approbation. Mr. Blount was charmed with his business insight,
which had enabled him to seize upon an opportunity of joining a “bona
fide going concern” in regular work.

“How’s the ‘Lady Julia’ been behaving lately?” inquired Jack Carter.

“Well, here’s the fortnight’s clean up, close on twelve ounces, I should
say. Might be better, but it’s more than tucker, three ounces a man, say
£40 for two weeks’ work. The month before it was £60, and of course,
there’s a chance of a nugget, or a make in the lead, any day!”

“A nugget’s a lump of gold, isn’t it? What size are they?” queried the
new partner.

“Any size from a pound to a hundredweight. A Chinaman turned up one
worth £230 just after we came, at Back Creek,” answered the big miner;
“in old ground, too. Of course, they’re not everyday finds. But there’s
always a chance. That’s what makes digging so jolly excitin’, a party
can always keep themselves if they work steady, and then there’s the
off-chance of a big slice of luck comin’ their way.”

“I should think it did,”, assented the stranger, heartily. “A free life,
perfect independence, healthy occupation. It will suit me down to the
ground.”

“Early to bed and early to rise is another of the advantages given in
with the honest miner’s business,” said the young man called Dick. “A
feller’s so jolly tired if he’s been amusin’ himself with a pick and
shovel all day, or even the cradle, that by the time he’s had tea, and a
smoke, he’s glad to get to his bunk for fear he should go to sleep, like
a trooper’s horse, all standin’. So Mr. Blount had better collar my
bunk, which I hereby make over to him, along with my share of the ‘Lady
Julia’ claim and tools, cradle, and one-fourth interest in the perlatial
residence, as the auctioneers say. I’ll doss near the fire along with
Jack. Mr. Blount’s got his own blankets, so that’ll be all right.”

Suiting the action to the word, Dick dragged his blankets and a few
articles of attire from the bunk indicated, including a weather-worn
leather valise into which he stuffed the smaller matters.

Arranging his blankets near the fire, he made a pillow of the valise,
and removing his boots and coat, lit his pipe, and lay down on the
earthen floor, pulling the blankets over him, and apparently quite
prepared for a sound night’s rest. “Good-night all!” were his parting
words.

“I’ll say good-night, too,” said Little-River-Jack, undoing the swag,
which he had carried in the front of his saddle during the day’s
journey, and which seemed chiefly composed of a pair of serviceable blue
blankets. “Dick and I’ll take the claim by the chimney. I’ll put on a
back log, to keep us all warm, and do to boil the billy to-morrow
morning. So I’ll say good-night, Mr. Blount, and wish you luck now, as
I’ll be off before daylight. I’d not get up, if I was you, it’s
shivering cold till the sun’s up.”

The three men who were now Mr. Blount’s “mates” (or partners) in the
claim lost no time in depositing themselves in their separate sleeping
places, removing only the more necessary articles of clothing.

Mr. Blount sat before the fire for half an hour, lost in thought, before
arraying himself in a suit of pyjamas, which would have excited the
admiration of his companions had they been awake. Their regular
breathing, however, denoted that such was not the case, and he, too,
after a decent interval, abandoned his unwonted environment for the land
of mystery and enchantment which men call sleep.

Next morning the clatter of tin plates, and other accompaniments, upon
the literal “board” which stood for the table and all appurtenances,
aroused the new partner from a profound slumber.

The dim light of a cloudy dawn was struggling with the smoky flame of a
tallow lamp of rude shape. The “billy” full of hot tea had just been
placed upon the table by the acting cook, who had previously disposed a
tin dish containing fried beef steaks beside it.

Snatching up his towel and sponge bag, the stranger made a rush for the
creek bank, where a rude stage permitted him to indulge in a copious
sluicing of his head, neck and shoulders.

Ice-cold as was the water, he achieved a glow after a vigorous
application of his rough towel, and dressing in haste, was able to
dispose of his share of the meal more or less creditably.

With more consideration than might have been expected, the dish of
steaks had been put down by the fire and kept warm in his absence.

“I shall not over-sleep myself another morning,” he said,
apologetically, “but I suppose the long day _did_ tire me a bit. It was
awfully slow too, stumbling over those rocky tracks. I shall be in
better trim shortly.”

“Expect you will,” said the big digger, “a man’s always soft for the
first week, specially if he hasn’t been used to the life. We’ll start
for the claim, soon’s you’re through with breakfast; Jack and Dick’s off
hours ago. There were cattle to take back, left here for the butcher.”
He now remembered as in a dream having heard a dog bark, and a whip
crack, in the middle of the night, as it seemed to him.

“Early birds,” he remarked sententiously; after which, finishing his
second pannikin of tea, he expressed himself as ready for the road.

The mists were clearing from the mountain-side, which lay dark and
frowning between the little party and the East, but ere long the curving
shoulders of the range became irradiated. A roseate glow suffused the
pale snow crown, transmuting it gradually into a jewelled coronet, while
the mountain flanks became slowly illumined, exhibiting the verdant
foot-hills, in clear contrast with the sombre, illimitable forest. As
the sun’s disc became fully apparent, all Nature seemed to greet with
gladness the triumph of the Day-god. The birds chirped and called in the
dense underwoods through which the narrow path wound.

Flights of water-fowl high overhead winged their way to distant plains
and a milder air. A rock kangaroo, cleared the streamlet with a bound
and fled up the hillside like a mountain hare. A cloud of cockatoos
flitted ghost-like across the tree-tops, betraying by an occasional
harsh cry the fact that a sense of harmony had been omitted, when their
delicately white robes were apportioned to them. As the sun gained power
and brilliancy, Mr. Blount found the path easy to follow and his spirits
began to rise.

“How far to the claim?” he asked.

One of the miners pointed to a hillock of yellow and red earth by the
side of which a rude stage had been erected, and a rope wound around,
from which depended a raw hide bucket.

Moving up, he was aware of a shaft sunk to a depth of fifty or sixty
feet; from appearances, the precious metal had been extracted by rude
appliances on the bank of the creek, still running briskly through the
little flat.

“I’m the captain of this claim,” said the big miner, “elected by a
majority of the shareholders, so, till I’m turned out, I’ll have all the
say.” The other diggers nodded. “You’re new to the game, mister, so I’ll
give you the easiest show to begin with. Later on, you can tackle the
pick and shovel. We three go below, one at a time, you see how it’s
done, and be middlin’ careful: there’s a man’s life on the rope every
time, and if you let the windlass run away with you, out he goes! Next
man in.”

Sitting down on the “brace,” the miner took hold of the hide rope above
his head with both hands, while one of the others at the windlass began
to lower him slowly down, a short strong piece of pointed timber,
referred to as the “sprag,” being inserted into the roller, through
which the hide rope ran, in order to check its velocity, and give the
man at the windlass control.

Blount looking down, saw him gradually descend, until the bottom of the
shaft was reached. The second man was lowered. When the third with his
foot in a bight of the rope prepared to descend, he felt a little
nervous, which the miner was quick to observe. “Don’t be afraid of
killin’ me, mate! just hold on to the windlass-handle like grim death.
It’ll come easy after a bit.” He laughed as he commenced to descend,
saying, “When you hear this tin arrangement clap together, it means
‘haul away.’”

Mr. Blount was most careful, and finding that he could manage the
windlass easily, with the help of the “sprag” aforesaid, became more
confident. The next excitement was when the clapper sounded, and he
began to haul up. But the weight below seemed to be too great. The rope
refused to draw up the bucket. Then he noticed that the “sprag” was
still in the roller.

Smiling at his mistake he took it out, and immediately began to haul up.
Though a good pull it was not a difficult task for an athletic young
man, in high health and spirits. So he bent his back to the work, and
presently the hide bucket, filled with yellow and red clay, came to the
surface; this he drew on one side, and tilted over on to the “tip” or
“mullock” heap, having to that extent been instructed. Lowering it again
he continued the somewhat monotonous work, without cessation, till noon,
when a double note on the clapper warned him that his mates desired to
revisit upper air. This ascent accomplished safely, the billy was
boiled, and dinner, so called, notwithstanding the early hour, was
disposed of.

“My word! you’re gettin’ on fine, mate,” said the big miner, “and that
reminds me, what are we to call you? You needn’t trouble about your real
name, if you want to keep it dark. Many a good man’s had to do that
hereabouts. Anyway, on a goldfield it’s no one’s business but the
owner’s, but we must call you somethin’!”

“Call me Jack Blunt. It’s near enough for the present.”

“All right, Blunt; now you’re christened,” said the big miner. “Phelim
O’Hara’s mine, and these other chaps are my brother Pat and George
Dixon; we’re all natives, only as he’s Lancashire by blood we call him
‘Lanky’ for short; we may’s well go down now, and you can do a bit of
pick and shovel work for a change.”

Mr. Blount considered it to be a change in the fullest sense of the word
when he found himself dangling between earth and sky, with his leg in
the loop of a rope, having a great inclination to turn round and round,
which he combated by thrusting his leg against the side of the shaft. He
realised a feeling akin to that of being lowered over a cliff, which he
had read of in boyhood, reflecting, too, that he had no more _real_
security than a man in that embarrassing position. Still the narrow
shaft had an appearance of safety, which in his case prevented vertigo.
The pick and shovel work was not hard to comprehend. He did his best,
though easily outpaced by his mates.

In a week’s time he found himself quite _au fait_ at the work, while
improving daily in wind and muscle. “Capital training for a boat-race,”
he said, “only there’s no water hereabouts, except this little brook,
but we don’t seem to be getting rich very fast, do we, George?”

George was sententious. He had been a navvy. The best worker of the
party, he was slow of speech, and disinclined to argue on abstract
matters.

“Forty or fifty pound a fortnight for four of us ain’t so bad,” he
growled out.

Not only was Mr. Blount himself becoming accustomed to this unfamiliar
mode of life, but his cob, though he did not take kindly to the
mountaineering work, as we have seen, became familiarised to being
turned out with the claim horses and foregathered with them amicably.
However, one afternoon, when they were brought in for a ride, as it was
too wet to work, the cob, now fat and frolicsome, was reported missing.

His master was much annoyed and alarmed at this state of affairs.
However, Phelim O’Hara volunteered to stay at home, and moreover to lend
him his horse on which to search for the defaulter. Mr. Blount eagerly
accepted the offer, and lost no time in going off to hunt for “John
Gilpin” as the cob was facetiously named. Unlike a bushman, he rode
hither and thither, not troubling himself about tracks, or keeping a
course in any given direction.

The consequence was that towards nightfall he found himself several
miles from camp, or indeed any landmark which he had passed in the early
part of the day. He was, however, sensible enough to follow a creek,
which eventually led him to the river; between which and the hilly
country he had been traversing, he saw a piece of level country on which
several wild horses were grazing.

He was attracted by the appearance of a handsome grey stallion, who
appeared to be the leader and, so to speak, commander of the “manada,”
around which he trotted or galloped, driving in the mares and colts, and
indeed, with open mouth and threatening heels, forcing them to keep
within bounds.

Suddenly there was the sound of a rifle shot from the side of the forest
nearest to the troop. The leader gave a sudden bound forward, then
dropped on his haunches. He made several unavailing attempts to rise.

Struck in the region of the spine, he was evidently paralysed. He reared
himself on his fore-legs but was unable to move forward, more than once
neighing piteously. The mares and foals had fled like a herd of deer at
the sound of the gun, but following the habit of these steeds of the
mountain parks, though “wild as the wild deer, and untamed,” came
timidly back, and stood near their lord and master. As the hinds and
fawns are unwilling to leave the death-stricken stag, so these
descendants of man’s noblest servant refused to quit the spot where the
monarch of their kingdom lies wounded to the death. They circled around
him until another shot from the invisible marksman pealed forth, and a
fine black mare, with a young foal, dropped dead near the wounded sire.

They scattered afresh at this new stroke of fate; Mr. Blount wondering
much whether they would return. But the grey whinnied from time to time,
making frantic efforts to reach the dead mare—all vainly. He swung round
on his fore-legs but was unable to do more.

His struggles became tremendous, his agonised distress piteous to
behold. Bathed in sweat and foam he seemed ready to succumb with terror
and exhaustion, as he sunk sideways till his head, lying prone upon the
grass, nearly touched that of his dead mate. Then again the deadly
weapon rang out, and another victim, this time a frolicsome chestnut
filly, fell to the unerring aim of the marksman, as before, invisible.
Mr. Blount felt a disinclination to move from his position, not knowing
exactly how near he might be to the concealed hunter’s line of fire.

At length, as nearly all the “mob” were down, a tall man in a Norfolk
jacket of tweed with knickerbockers and gaiters to match, walked forth
from behind an immense eucalyptus. He was plainly dressed, though Mr.
Blount discerned a distinction in his air and bearing which convinced
him that the man was no stockrider. He carried a Winchester magazine
rifle, from which he sent a bullet into the head of the wounded horse,
thus putting an end to his sufferings, and leaving him lying dead amid
the females of his court.

The accost of the hunter was not markedly cordial as Mr. Blount stated
that it was a lovely morning, and that the scene before him reminded him
of a battlefield.

“Indeed!” he replied, with a certain amount of hauteur. “May I ask the
favour of your name? and also what you are doing on this part of my
run?”

“Your run! I was led to believe that I was on the area of Crown land,
open, as such, to all travelling on lawful business. My name is Blount.
May I ask in return for yours? As to my business, I am at present
looking for a strayed horse.”

“Was he a bay cob with a short tail and hogged mane, a letter and number
on the near shoulder?”

“That is his exact description.”

“Then he is safe,” said the stranger. “He had joined the station horses
and was run in with them this morning. He is now in my paddock, as I
assumed that he had strayed from his owner, and was making his way down
to the river. My name is Edward Bruce of Marondah, which is not more
than fifteen miles distant. You had better come home with me; I shall be
happy to put you up for the night, and you can take your horse back in
the morning.”

The day was drawing to a close. It was a long way to the claim, and
Blount was by no means sure that he could find his way back or even pick
up his own tracks.

“I think,” he replied, “that I can’t do better than accept your offer,
for which I feel most grateful.”

“There is no real obligation, believe me,” said Mr. Bruce.

“But where is your horse?” said Blount, looking at the stranger’s
serviceable leggings.

“Not far, you may be sure, and in safe keeping; my gillie is pretty
handy.” Putting two fingers to his mouth, he gave the drover’s whistle,
with such volume and shrillness that it might have been heard at a
considerable distance. After a short interval, a high wailing sort of
cry (the Australian aboriginal call) came floating through the forest,
and a black boy galloped up, riding one horse, and leading another of
such superior shape and action that Blount thought it criminal to run
the risk of injuring him in such rough country.

The black boy led the horse to his master, but did not offer to
dismount, or hold the stirrup, as an English groom would have done. Nor
did such attention appear necessary, as Mr. Bruce mounted with alacrity,
and motioning the boy to ride ahead followed at a brisk trot through the
forest and along the rocky cattle tracks, which, though occasionally
running in different directions, converged, and appeared to lead almost
due south. All the while, the son of the forest sitting loose-reined and
carelessly on his horse, never deviated apparently from his course, or
was in doubt for a moment.

In less than two hours, when the light was becoming uncertain, and the
chill evening air of these Australian highlands apparent, a chorus of
baying dogs of all ages, sizes and descriptions announced the vicinity
of the homestead. At the same time, the winding course of a full fed
mountain stream was revealed.

On a promontory which seemed to have dissociated itself from the forest
glades, and been arrested just above the broad river meadow, stood a
roomy bungalow protected by wide verandahs from sun and storm.

“This is Marondah!” said Mr. Bruce, not without a certain air of
dignity—“allow me to welcome you to my home.” A black girl came running
up at the moment, who showed her enviably white and regular teeth in a
smile of greeting, as in a matter-of-fact way she unstrapped the guest’s
valise, and led off his horse.

“You put ’em yarraman longa stable,” commanded the squatter—for such he
was. “Your horse will be all right. Polly is as good a stable hand as
Paddy—a turn better, I sometimes think. She’s a clever ‘gin’ all round.
Ah! I see Mrs. Bruce.”

As they walked forward, a lady came through the garden gate, and met
them—receiving the guest with cordiality—then turning to her husband.

“You’re rather late, Ned! What kept you? I’m always nervous when you’re
out at that end of the run!”

“Well, if you must know, I found the grey horse’s mob, which I’ve been
tracking for some time—and got them all—a real bit of luck. Then I fell
in with Mr. Blount, who was looking for that smart cob that came in with
our horses this morning. Luckily for him, as it turns out.”

“So it was. Did you shoot the poor things? I always feel so sorry for
them.”

“Of course I did; they’re more trouble than all the other ‘brumbies’ on
the run, galloping about, smashing fences, destroying dams, and wasting
grass, for the use of which I pay the Crown rent.”

“Yes, a farthing an acre!” laughed the lady. “All the same, it’s very
cruel—don’t you think so, Mr. Blount? What would they say in England of
such barbarous work?”

“It would raise a scandal, Mrs. Bruce; but everything depends on the
value of the animal, apart from the sentiment.”

Thus conversing, they walked through the garden, which was encompassed
by an orchard of venerable age. It stretched to the river bank, along
which a line of magnificent willows partly over-arched the stream with
graceful, trailing foliage, while the interlaced roots performed
valuable service in supporting the banks in time of flood.

Passing along the broad verandah, vine and trailer-festooned, they
entered a hall, of which the door seemed permanently open.

The walls were garnished with whips, guns on racks (where Mr. Bruce
carefully placed his redoubtable Winchester), the great wings of the
mountain eagle, the scarlet and jet tail-feathers of the black macaw,
and the sulphur- crests of his white relative. These, and other
curios of the Waste, relieved the apartment of any appearance of
bareness, while avoiding incongruity of ornamentation. Passing into a
large, comfortably-furnished room, where preparations for the evening
meal were in evidence, the host pointed to a spirit-stand on the
sideboard, and suggesting that a tot of whisky would not be
inappropriate after a long day, invited his guest to join him. This
offer Mr. Blount frankly accepted, as, besides being tired with a long,
dragging ride, he felt nearly as cold as if he had been deer-shooting in
the Scottish Highlands, instead of this southern mountain land.

He had donned the riding-suit in which he had arrived at Bunjil, and had
also packed necessaries of travel in his valise, in case he might have
to stay a day at a decent house. This sensible precaution (never
needless in the wildest solitudes of Australia) now stood him in good
stead. And he felt truly thankful, after being ushered into a
comfortable bedroom, that he had resisted the temptation to start off
without them. He was enabled, therefore, to issue forth reasonably
fitted for the society of ladies, and the enjoyment of the hospitality
of the period. So that, when shown into another room smaller than the
first he had entered, but more ornate as to furniture, he felt
comparatively at ease, notwithstanding the roughness of his late
surroundings.

Mrs. Bruce was already there, and, rising from a sofa, said—

“Allow me, Mr. Blount, to introduce you to my sister Imogen.”

A tall girl had at this moment arisen, not previously referred to by his
host or the lady of the house.

It was not an introduction—it was a revelation, as Blount subsequently
described the interview. Mrs. Bruce was a handsome woman, tall and
stately, as are many Australians, possessing, withal, fine natural
manners improved by travel, and she might reasonably have been expected
to possess a good-looking sister. For so much Blount stood prepared. But
this divinity of the waste—this Venus Anadyomene—was above and beyond
all expectation, all imagination or conception. He gazed at her, as he
confessed to himself, with an expression of unconventional surprise; for
Imogen Carrisforth was, indeed, a girl that no man with the faintest
_soupçon_ of taste or sentiment could behold without admiration.

Mrs. Bruce was dark-haired, with fine eyes to match, distinctly
aristocratic as to air and carriage; her sister was fair, with abundant
nut-brown hair shot with warmer hues, which shone goldenly as the
lamplight fell across it. It was gathered in masses above her forehead
and around her proudly-poised head, as she smiled a welcome to the
stranger with the hospitably frank accost which greets the guest so
invariably in an Australian country home. While looking into the depths
of her brilliant hazel eyes, Blount almost murmured “O, Dea certe!”
while doubting if he had ever before beheld so lovely a creature.

Mrs. Bruce attributed his evident surprise to the fact of his not having
been informed of the fact of a second lady being at the house. “Ned
ought to have told you,” she said, “that my sister was staying with us.
She has just come from town, where she has been at school. She is so
tall that really it seemed absurd to keep her there any longer.”

“You forget that I am eighteen,” said the young lady under observation.
“My education should be finished now, if ever.”

“Indeed, I’m afraid you won’t learn much more,” said her brother-in-law,
paternally, “though I’m not sure that another year under Miss Charters
would not have been as well.”

“Oh! but I _did_ pine so for the fresh air of the bush—the rides and
drives and everything. I can’t bear a town life, and was growing
low-spirited.”

“How about the opera, balls, the Cup Day itself, at your age too?”
interposed Blount.

“All very well in their way. But society in town seems one unmeaning
round with the same people you meet always. One gets dead tired of it
all. I must have gipsy blood in me, I think, for the gay greenwood has a
fascination, which I feel, but can’t explain.”

During dinner, Blount found Mrs. Bruce most agreeable, and, indeed,
entertaining. He learned something too about the neighbours, none of
whom were nearer than ten miles. Some, indeed, much farther off. It was
also explained to him that the region of the Upper Sturt was not all
rock and forest, swamp and scrub, but that there were rich tablelands at
“the back,” which might be north or north-east. Also that the country
became more open “down the river,” as well as, in a sense, more
civilised, “though we don’t call ourselves _very_ barbarous,” she added,
with a smile.

“Barbarous, indeed!” repeated the guest, with well-acted indignation.
“You seem to me to have all the accessories, and more of them than we in
that old-fashioned country called England. Here you have books, papers,
all the comforts and many of the luxuries of the Old Land, besides a
free, unfettered existence, independence, and no earthly annoyance or
danger.”

“I am not so sure about the last items,” said Mrs. Bruce. “Ned has been
worrying himself lately about a gang of men who call themselves miners,
but are more than suspected to be cattle-stealers. He has missed
valuable animals lately.”

“You surprise me!” replied Blount, with a shocked expression. “The bush
people whom I have come across have appeared to be such simple,
hard-working fellows. But surely Mr. Bruce doesn’t apprehend danger from
gold-diggers or drovers? They are so civil and well-mannered too.”

“Their manners are good enough; better, people tell us, than those of
the same class at home. But they are not always to be trusted, and are
revengeful when thwarted in their bad practices. Edward has more than
once been warned to be more careful about riding alone near their haunts
in the ranges, though he always goes armed.”

“But surely none of the ‘mountain men,’ as I have heard them called,
would lie in wait for Mr. Bruce, or any other proprietor, even if he was
unpopular, which I feel certain Mr. Bruce is not?”

“There is no saying. Blood has been shed in these mountains before now,
peaceful as they appear. However, Edward never stirs out in that
direction without his rifle, and you have seen him shoot. He has no
fear, but I cannot feel free from anxiety myself. And now I think we
must go into the drawing-room, or wrap up and sit in the verandah while
you men smoke; what do you say, Imogen?”

“I vote for the verandah. There’s no wind, and the moon is nearly full.
It’s tolerably cool; but dry cold never hurts any one. Indeed, it’s said
to be the new cure for chest ailment at Davos Platz, isn’t it, Edward?”

“They say so. Doctors are always changing their theories. I prefer a
climate that’s moderately cosy myself. But we must have our smoke, and
you girls can talk to us, if you keep to low tones and modulated
expressions.”

Blount would have vowed to renounce tobacco for the rest of his natural
life if but Miss Imogen would sit by him. The moon had risen, flooding
the dark woods and river pools with silver radiance. Could they but
continue to listen dreamily to the rhythmic murmur of the stream, the
softly-sighing, complaining sound of the trailing willows as from time
to time the river current lifted them—what had life to compare with such
sensations? However, this idyllic joy was in its nature fleeting, as it
became apparent that the frosty air “was really too keen for reasonable
people who had colds to consider and babies.” So Mrs. Bruce, thus
remonstrating, arose, and with two words, “Come, Imogen!” made for one
of the French windows which opened from the drawing-room to the
verandah. When they entered that comfortable, well-furnished apartment—a
handsome Blüthner piano stood open, with music conveniently close—Mr.
Bruce quasi-paternally ordered Imogen to sing, in order that he might
judge what progress she had made during the half year.

So they had a song, another, several indeed to finish up with. Mr.
Blount admitted a slight knowledge of music, and even took a creditable
second in one of Miss Carrisforth’s songs. The night wore on, until just
before ten o’clock, a neat maid brought in a tray with glasses, and the
wherewithal to fill the same. The ladies declining refreshment, said
good-night, and left Mr. Bruce and his guest to have their final smoke,
hoping that they would not sit up too late, as they must feel tired
after their long day’s ride.

The night was glorious, the moon, nearly at its full, had floated into
the mid-heaven. The cloudless, dark blue sky seemed to be illumined with
star clusters and planets of greater lustre than in ordinary seasons. As
they smoked silently, Blount listening to the river gurgling and
rippling over its pebbly shallows, the sharp contrast of his
surroundings with those he had so lately quitted, indeed even with those
during the penultimate sojourn at Bunjil, struck him so forcibly that he
could hardly repress a smile.

However he merely remarked—“Australia is certainly a land of wonders—my
friends in England will not believe half my adventures when I tell
them.”

“I can quite understand that,” replied his host. “When I returned to my
native place, after ten years’ absence, mine showed signs of utter
disbelief in my smaller experiences, while hazardous tales were
swallowed without hesitation.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Blount rose early and was rewarded by a view of the dawnlight
suffusing the eastern horizon with pale opaline tints, gradually
increasing in richness and variety of colouring. Roseate golden clouds
were marshalled around the summit of the snow-crowned alp, and even the
darksome forest aisles responded to the divine informing waves of light
and life.

He was aroused from reverie as he gazed upon the wondrous apparition by
resounding whips and the roll of hoofs, as the station horses were being
run into the yard. The cob was easily distinguished by his cropped tail
and mane, while, refreshed by rest and freedom, he galloped and kicked
up his heels, as if he had been reared in the bush, instead of in a
suburban paddock. Mr. Blount also witnessed his being caught and
conveyed to the stable, in company with Mr. Bruce’s favourite hackney,
and another distinguished-looking animal. With respect to the
last-named, Paddy said that one “belong’n Miss Immie,” volunteering
further information to this effect.

“My word! that one missy ride fustrate.” Storing this encomium in his
mind, Mr. Blount repaired to his apartment, where he made all ready for
departure, resolving not to remain longer away from his associates in
the “Lady Julia,” however great the temptation.

This came at breakfast time, when Mrs. Bruce invited him to stay a few
days, when they would show him their best bits of scenery and otherwise
try to amuse him. There was a muster of fat cattle coming on, which was
always held to be an interesting spectacle to visitors from the other
side of the world. Mr. Bruce was convinced that he would acquire more
colonial experience in a week at this particular time, than half a year
would show him at a different season. A few neighbours would come
over—very decent fellows, and fair specimens of Australian country
gentlemen. It would be a regular “house-party,” as they say in England.
The opportunity should not be lost.

Miss Imogen did not join in the endeavour to tempt Mr. Blount from the
path of duty, but she looked as if such a deflection from the narrow way
would meet with her approval. After his very courteous, but distinct
expression of regret, that he was compelled by a business engagement to
decline—with how much reluctance, he could hardly say—their most kind
and flattering invitation, the request was not pressed, and the
remainder of the breakfast passed off in a lively interchange of the
pleasantries proper to the occasion.

“We are going to speed the parting guest, if he will not honour our
abode any longer,” said Mrs. Bruce, playfully; “but we must do it after
our own fashion. My husband, Imogen and I, will ride with you for part
of the way—indeed nearly as far as where you met Ned yesterday, if you
don’t mind?”

“Mind,” replied the guest, with a look of surprised gratitude, which
caused Miss Imogen to smile and blush. “Nothing could possibly give me
greater pleasure.”

“So that’s settled,” said Bruce. “I’ll order the horses round; we’ll
take Paddy with us, who may as well lead your cob till we part company,
and I’ll mount you on one of the best hacks in this district, or any
other. It will save your horse, and as you’re likely to have a long day
that’s a consideration.”

“How you are adding to my load of obligation; I shall never be able to
repay half the debt.”

“Time enough when we meet again,” said the host, “but we’ve none to
spare at present. So, Imogen, ten minutes and no more to put on your
habit.”

“Five will do,” said the girl, as she laughingly ran out of the room, to
reappear gloved, hatted, and turned out in a most accurately-fitting
habit as the horses were led up.

Her brother-in-law put his hand under her dainty foot, and lifted her
lightly into the saddle, while the bright chestnut mare sidled, and
arched her neck, as she felt the lightest of hands on her bridle rein.
Mr. Bruce guaranteed that the hunter-looking bay detailed for his
guest’s use was “prompt in his paces, cool and bold” like Bevis, upon
whom the spectre knight’s night-ride had such an unfortunate effect,
while he himself mounted the favourite steed which his guest had
remarked at their first meeting, saying: “You don’t often see a
better-looking lot together; as good, too, as they are good-looking.”
Mr. Blount was convinced of the justice of this valuation, and thought
that the statement might even be applied to the riders. Paddy, on a
veteran stock horse, brought up the rear leading the cob, whose short
tail and hogged mane excited Polly’s unmeasured ridicule: “Mine thinkit,
that one pfeller brother belongin’ to pig,” and seized with the
comicality of the idea, she exploded in fits of laughter, as casting
lingering looks of regret at the receding cavalcade, she walked soberly
back to the huts.

“These two horses are the fast walkers of the party, Mr. Blount,” began
the fair Imogen, as the clever hackney she rode started off at so fast a
pace as to incur the suspicion of ambling. “Ned and his henchman, Paddy,
will go rambling ahead or on a parallel, looking for strange tracks,
denoting trespassers on the run, strayed cattle, indeed found sometimes
before they are lost, that is by the lawful owners. The life of the
owner of a cattle station is often ‘not a happy one.’ It is surprising
how many kinds of annoyances, risks and anxieties, he may suffer from.”

“Mr. Bruce doesn’t look as if he suffered from any of the ills of life,”
said Blount, gazing at his fair companion, as who should say, “How
_could_ any man be unhappy who has such a charming sister-in-law, not to
mention a delightful wife and a nice baby?” However he did not wish for
a catalogue of his host’s annoyances. He wanted to hear his companion’s
appreciation of the grand scheme of colour, tone, light and shadow, just
opening out before them, as the “glorious sun uprist” amid clouds which
had recently rolled away, leaving full in view the forest-clothed
uplands, the silent gorges, and the glittering summit of the majestic
alp.

Right joyous are the pastimes connected with horse and hound in the
older land whence our fathers came, amid the wide pastures, the
hedge-bordered fields of green England.

With the hog-spear and rifle on the dusty plains and sudden appearing
nullahs of Hindostan, Arab and Waler, by riders of world wide fame, are
hard pressed in rivalry. In equestrian tournaments, in the polo
gymkhana, and other military contests, there are trials of skill and
horsemanship, with a suspicion of danger, to stir a man’s blood. But a
gallop through the glades of an Australian forest, in the autumnal
season of the year, or even in the so-called mid-winter under the
cloudless skies and glowing sun of the southern hemisphere, yields to no
sport on earth, in keenness of enjoyment or the excitement generated by
the pride of horsemanship.

When the company is illumined by a suitable proportion of dames and
demoiselles, right royally mounted, and practised in the _manège_, the
combination is perfect.




                               CHAPTER V


AND, in the joyous days of youth, the glorious, the immortal, the true,
the ever-adorable deity of the soul’s childhood, unheeding, careless of
the future, thinking, like charity, no evil, revelling in the purely
sensuous enjoyment of the fair present, which of the so-called pleasures
of the future can claim equality of richness or flavour, with those of
that unsurpassable period of the mysterious human pageant! “Carpe Diem!”
oh! fortunate heir of life’s richest treasure-house, is the true, the
only true philosophy. Enjoy, while the pulse is high, the vigour of
manhood untouched by Time, the spirit unsaddened by distrust of the
future.

For you, glows that cloudless azure; for you the streams murmur, the
breezes sigh, the good horse bounds freely over the elastic sward; for
you shine the eyes of the beauteous maiden with a fore-taste of the
divine dream of love. Thank the kind gods, that have provided so
bounteous a feast of soul and sense! Oh! happy thou, that art bidden to
such a banquet of the immortals; quaff the ambrosia, while the light
still glows on Olympus, and Nemesis is as yet an unimagined terror.

In the days which were to come, in the destiny which the Fates were even
then weaving for him, Valentine Blount told himself that never in his
whole life had so many conditions of perfect enjoyment been combined as
in that memorable riding party.

The sun rays prophetic of an early summer, for which the men of a
thousand shearing sheds were even now mustering, were warm, yet tempered
by the altitude of the region and the proximity of the snow fields. All
nature seemed to recognise the voice of spring. The birds came forth
from their leafy coverts, their wild but not unmusical notes sounding
strangely unfamiliar to the English stranger. An occasional kangaroo
dashed across their path, flying with tremendous bounds to its home on
the mountain side. A lot of half-wild cattle stood gazing for a few
moments, then “cleared,” as Miss Imogen expressed it, for more secluded
regions.

“I wonder if I could ‘wheel’ them,” she said, as her bright glance
followed the receding drove; “I see Ned and Paddy on the other wing; Mr.
Blount, you can follow, but don’t pass me, whatever you do;” and in
spite of Mrs. Bruce’s prudential “Oh! Imogen, don’t be rash!” away went
the wilful damsel, through the thickening timber, at a pace with which
the visitor, excellently mounted as he was, on a trained stock-horse,
found it no easy task to keep up. Directly this enterprising movement on
the part of the young lady was observed by the watchful Paddy, he called
to Mr. Bruce, “Miss Immy wheel ’em, my word. Marmy! you man’em this one
piccanniny yarraman, me ‘back up.’” Paddy’s old stock horse dashed off
at speed, little inferior to that of the young lady’s thoroughbred, and
appeared on the “off side wing” just as the fair Diana had wheeled (or
turned) the leaders to the right. Paddy riding up to them on the left
and menacing with his stockwhip, caused them to turn towards Imogen.
This manœuvre persevered with, was finally crowned with success;
inasmuch as the two protagonists, working together and causing the drove
to “ring” or keep moving in a circle, finally persuaded them to stop and
be examined, when with heaving flanks they bore testimony to the
severity of the pace.

Mrs. Bruce, with instinctive knowledge of the points of the situation,
had kept quietly behind her guest, who so far from passing his fair
pilot, found that it gave him enough to do to keep sight of her.

He did service however, if unconsciously, by keeping at a certain
distance behind Imogen, which prevented the cattle from “breaking” or
running back behind her. Mrs. Bruce had ridden quietly behind the rear
guard, or “tail” (as provincially expressed), and as Mr. Bruce, though
hampered with the cob, which he had caught and led along, kept his place
between Mrs. Bruce and Paddy, the disposition was theoretically perfect,
also successful, which in battles as well as in the lesser pursuits of
the world is _the_ great matter, after all.

“Upon my word, Imogen!” said Mr. Bruce, “you have given us a pretty
gallop, and as these bullocks are fat, it can’t have done them much
good. However,” riding round as he spoke, “it gives me a chance to look
through them, and, Hulloa! By Jove! it’s as well I came here to-day,
somebody has put a fresh brand on that black snail-horned bullock, J. C.
just over the E. H. B.; I never sold that beast, I swear! And who the
dickens has put those two letters on? Been done in a pen. You can see
it’s put on from above.”

“Me see um fresh brand on one feller cow,” stated Paddy, with gravity
and deliberation; “me thinkum might ‘duff’ bullock alonga Wild Horse
Gully, me seeum track shod horse that one day marmy shootem brumbie.”

“All right, Paddy,” said his master, “you lookem out track nother one
day.”

“My word!” replied Paddy, “me track um up jolly quick.”

Mr. Bruce seemed disconcerted by the discovery just made. It was not
unimportant. He had suspected that he was losing cattle at this “end of
the run,” among the ranges and broken country. He had not too good an
opinion of the honesty of the small parties of miners who worked the
gullies and creeks which led to the river. He supposed that they got a
beast now and then, but was loath to believe that there was any
organised system of plunder. Now, it was as plain as print that cattle
were yarded in small numbers and branded, before they were delivered to
the buyers, whoever they were. How many had been taken he could hardly
venture to guess at. Cattle being worth from eight to twelve pounds a
head, it would not take so many to be worth a thousand pounds. It made
him look grave, as he said—

“I’m afraid, after this pleasant ride of ours, that it’s time for these
ladies to get home. It will be past lunch-time when they sight Marondah,
and Mrs. Bruce has family responsibilities, you know. However, I’ll send
Paddy on with you till he puts you on a track which will lead to your
destination.”

Mr. Blount was profuse in thanks, and exhausted himself in statements
that he had never enjoyed himself so much in his life, and had a
glorious gallop into the bargain; that it had given him quite a new idea
of Australia, that he had been slow to believe the romantic tales he had
heard about Australian bush-riders and their cross-country work. He was
now in a position to confirm any such statement made, and to declare
that Australian ladies, in science, coolness and courage, were equal to
any horsewomen in any country in the world. He should never forget the
hospitality he had received, nor the lessons in bushmanship. He trusted
to revisit Marondah again before long, when he might, perhaps, be
permitted to taste a more leisurely enjoyment of their fascinating
country life.

Dismounting, he took leave of the ladies, assuring Mrs. Bruce that he
should never forget her kindness and that of Mr. Bruce. If he was less
diffuse in his explanations to Miss Imogen, it may have been that there
was a warmth of his final hand-clasp, or an expression as their eyes
met, before she turned her horse’s head and rejoined her friends, which
was comparatively satisfactory.

The return stage was short, as Blount did not desire to take the
hawk-eyed aboriginal too near the claim, much less within tracking
distance of the stockyard. The fresh tracks of the unwilling cattle,
forced into a strange and small enclosure, would be like a placard in
large letters to the wildwood scout. Hence, as soon as he had land-marks
to guide him, he dismissed his Hiberno-Australian attendant, who handed
over the cob and departed with a cheerful countenance and a couple of
half-crowns.

Left to himself, Mr. Blount rode slowly and heedfully along what he
conceived to be the way to the claim, much exercised in his mind as to
his line of conduct.

Putting together various incidents and unconsidered trifles, the
conviction flashed across his mind that he had been involuntarily an
associate of cattle-stealers, and it might well be believed an
accomplice.

What position would be his if the whole gang were arrested, and he
himself included in the capture? Could it be, during that ride with
Little-River-Jack, that he had assisted to drive certain fat cattle
afterwards sworn to be the property of Mr. Bruce of Marondah, and
bearing his well-known brand “E. H. B.”? Could he deny that he had heard
cattle put into the stockyard near the “Lady Julia” claim late in the
evening, by John Carter (_alias_ “Little-River-Jack”), and taken away
before daylight?

He had received his share of the money for which the gold won in the
claim where he had worked was sold, or _said to be sold_. How could he
prove that it was not a part of the price of the stolen cattle? And so
on. He felt like many another man innocent of evil, or thought of evil,
that, with absurd credulity, and want of reasonable prudence, he had, to
a certain degree, enmeshed himself—might, indeed, find it difficult, if
not impossible, to get free from the consequences of a false accusation.

Perhaps it might have been his duty, in the interests of justice, to
have acquainted Mr. Bruce with the circumstances of his sojourn at the
claim with the O’Haras and Dixon (otherwise Lanky); also of the
suspicious cattle-dealing. This would have simply amounted to “giving
away” the men whose bread he was eating, and who were, however
unfortunate the position, his “mates” and comrades. Mr. Bruce would,
naturally, lose no time in setting the police to work. Then,
Little-River-Jack had certainly saved his life on the “Razor-Back”
ridge; another second or two and the cob with his rider would have been
lying among the rocks below. One such accident _did_ happen there, when
man and horse went over, and were found dead and mangled. As for the two
O’Haras and George Dixon, he had no sort of doubt now of their being
mixed up with the taking of Mr. Bruce’s cattle—possibly of those of
other squatters in his neighbourhood. Of the men who brought the cattle
to the yard, he, of course, had no knowledge, and could have none. In
the half-darkness of the winter dawn he could only dimly discern a
couple of horsemen, one of whom appeared to ride on with Jack Carter,
the other returning.

He was glad now that he had not seen them near enough for
identification. He was close to the claim now, having hit upon the
track, which he remembered was only a few miles distant.

What was he to say to his late companions, and what would be their
feelings towards him, if they heard of the police being after them so
soon after his trip down the river? Would they be persuaded that he had
not betrayed, or at any rate attracted suspicion towards them, which
came to the same thing?

He was in their power, he could not but feel that. What chance could he
have against three determined men, with perhaps as many more who might
be members of the outside gang, the men who were heard, but not seen,
for now he remembered to have heard the lowing of driven cattle more
than once, and the guarded voices of drovers. There was, of course only
one thing to do. He must face the position squarely and tell the truth,
whatever might be the consequences. He would warn them that Mr. Bruce
suspected the miners in the locality of being in league with
cattle-stealers, who were selling his fat cattle to the butchers on the
smaller diggings, of which there were not a few between the heads of the
rivers and the foothills of the mountain range. They knew Mr. Bruce, a
determined, fearless man, who would show them no mercy. They had better
“clear,” to use one of their own expressions, before the pursuit was too
hot.

Revolving these thoughts in his mind, he rode briskly on. He had
remounted the cob, now very fresh, and led the borrowed horse, who, as
he thought, deserved all reasonable consideration. When within half a
mile of the camp he saw a man walking along the track towards him. It
was Phelim O’Hara, the big miner, whom he had always admired as a fine
specimen of an Australian. He was a good-natured giant, possessing also
a large share of the rollicking, reckless humour which is the heritage
of the Milesian Celt. Phelim was a native-born Australian, however, and
on occasion could be sufficiently stern, not to say savage. Now he did
not look so pleasant as usual.

“Safe home, Mr. Blount,” he said. “I see you’ve found that cob of yours,
bad cess to him! I’ve lost a day through him, and maybe more than that.
But I’m dealin’ with a gentleman, lucky for all consarned.”

“I hope so, Phelim,” said the Englishman; “but what’s the matter, the
camp seems deserted?”

“The meaning’s this, Mr. Blount.” Here his voice became rough, if not
menacing. “The police are after us. There’s some yarn got up about
Little-River-Jack and us duffing cattle and selling them on the small
diggings. Pat and Lanky have cleared. I stayed behind to get this horse
of mine and give you the office. There’s some says you gave us away to
Mr. Bruce, and we know what _he_ is when he thinks he’s being robbed.”

“I’ve heard your story, Phelim, now for mine. I met Mr. Bruce, who’d
been shooting wild horses. He asked me what I was doing _on his run_—he
spoke rather shortly. I told him I was looking for my cob, and that I
believed it was Crown land, open to all. He then asked me to describe
the cob, and telling me it was in his paddock, invited me to stay at
Marondah all night, where I was most hospitably treated. He proposed to
ride part of the way back with me, and for Mrs. Bruce and his
sister-in-law to accompany us.”

“That’s Miss Imogen,” said O’Hara. “Isn’t she the beauty of the world?
And ride! There isn’t a stockrider from this to Omeo that she couldn’t
lose in mountain country. Mrs. Bruce rides well too, I’m told.”

“Yes, indeed; we rounded up a mob of cattle. Miss Imogen ‘wheeled’ them
at the start. Black Paddy, who had been brought to lead the cob, was on
the other wing. After that they began to ‘ring,’ and stopped. Then Mr.
Bruce, looking through them, unfortunately saw one of the ‘E. H. B.’
bullocks with a strange brand newly put on. ‘That bullock’s been
yarded,’ he said, ‘and the brand “J. C.” has been put on in a crush.’ I
said nothing. Paddy came with me as far as the cattle track, by the
creek that leads to the claim. I remembered that. Then he gave me the
cob, and I came on. Now you have the whole story. I did not say where I
had come from, nor did Mr. Bruce question me. Of course I put two and
two together about the fat cattle. But I said nothing. I have eaten your
salt, and Little-River-Jack certainly saved my life.”

“Then you didn’t give us away,” said O’Hara, “or say where we was
camped, or tell our names? O’Hara’s not a good one, more’s the pity,”
and here the big mountaineer looked regretful, even repentant over the
past.

“No! not by a word. As luck would have it, Mr. Bruce did not ask me
where or with whom I had been living.”

“And what brought you back here? Wouldn’t it have been easy enough to
clear away down the river, and get shut of us, for good and all?”

“Easy enough, and to have gone down river by steamer. But I wanted to
warn you in time. I knew Mr. Bruce suspected that there were diggers
hereabouts that knew about the fat cattle he missed. So I came to give
you fair warning. Where are the others?”

“They’ve cleared out. I don’t think they’ll be seen in a hurry, this
side anyhow. They’ve packed all they wanted, and sent word to some of
their pals to come and collar the rest. They can’t be pulled for that.
There’s a few ounces of gold coming to you, and the ‘clean up’ was the
best we’ve had. Here it is.” And suiting the action to the word, he
pulled out from a leather pouch a wash-leather bag which, for its size,
felt heavy.

“Keep it, Phelim, I won’t take a penny of it. I learned a good deal
while I was with you, and shall always be pleased to think that I worked
with _men_, and could hold my own among them.”

“You’re a gentleman, sir, and we’ll always uphold you as one, no matter
what happens to us. We’re not bad chaps in our way, though things has
gone against us. What’ll you do now? Camp here to-night? No? Then I’ll
ride with you past ‘Razor Back’; you’ll have light then and the road’s
under your feet. You’d better take my horse till we pass ‘Razor Back.’
_He_ won’t boggle at it if it was twice as narrow.”

It did not take long to pack all that was strictly necessary, which
alone Mr. Blount decided to take with him. After which O’Hara boiled the
billy, and produced a decent meal, which Mr. Blount, having tasted
nothing since breakfast, did justice to. No time was lost then, and
O’Hara leading off with the cob started at a canter, with which Blount
on his horse found no difficulty in keeping up. The contract was
performed, they safely negotiated the perilous pass, the mountain horse
treading as securely and safely as on a macadamised high road, and the
cob going very differently with a different rider. He was then
bestridden by his lawful owner, who prepared to make good time into
Bunjil. The moon was rising, when the men—so strangely met, and
associated—parted. Blount held out his hand, which the other grasped
with unconsciously crushing force. Then the mountaineer quitted the
road, and plunging down the steep into the darksome forest, disappeared
from sight.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Bunjil township was reached before midnight. There had been the local
excitement of an improvised race meeting, the head prize being a bridle
and saddle; the Consolation Stakes boasted a silver-mounted whip,
generously presented by the respected host of the Bunjil Hotel. So that
Mr. Blount, whose train of thought for the last hour or two wavered
between encouragement and depression, as he dreaded the inn being shut,
the ostler asleep, the fire out and the girl gone to bed, felt reassured
as he heard voices and saw lights, indicative of cheery wakefulness. By
good luck, too, the best bedroom and the parlour were unoccupied. Sheila
promised a fire in the latter apartment and tea ready in less than no
time. The ostler took the cob to a loose box, just vacated, while Mr.
Blount having deposited his “swag” in the bedroom and made all ready for
a solid meal, and a royal toasting of his person before the fire of
logs, felt quite a glow of happiness.

On re-entering the parlour he was warmly welcomed by Sheila, who indeed
was so unaffectedly cordial in hailing his safe return, that the guest
concluded that there must have been reason for conjecturing that the
reverse might have occurred.

As she greeted him with natural unstudied welcome, he could not resist
taking both her hands in his, and shaking them with a warmth
corresponding with her feeling of gratitude at his safe return from
apparently unknown and mysterious dangers. The girl blushed and
disengaged her hands, but showed no discomposure as she said, “We didn’t
know but something might have happened to you, out in that wild place,
and Little-River-Jack said you had a narrow escape on ‘Razor Back,’ as
your cob got frightened and might have gone over the downfall like Paddy
Farrell. Then Dick came along, he sold out his share to you, didn’t he?
And he got on the spree for a day or two and let out a few things that
he’d better have kept to himself. So taking it altogether, we’re all
glad, Mr. Middleton, the missis, and me too, that you’re back safe and
sound.”

While the latter part of this dialogue was proceeding, Mr. Blount had
seated himself at the table with his back to the fire, and made a
frontal attack upon a broiled steak flanked by a dish of floury
potatoes, which told of the sharpening effect on the appetite of a long
day in the saddle, and the stimulation of a night journey with two
degrees of frost.

“You had better take away these dishes, Sheila, or I shall never stop
eating. I think, however, that I can hold out till breakfast, now we
have got so far.”

About this time the landlord appeared, blandly apologetic for delay, but
pleading the necessity for being in the bar while there were so many
“gents” round anxious to go home on good terms with themselves.

“More likely to run against a fence, or the bough of a tree,” said
Sheila, who had now rejoined the party, “that’s the sort of ‘good terms
with themselves,’ that’s the fashion, Bunjil way. I wonder there’s not
more legs and arms broken than there are.”

“Why, it’s a good month since you left us, Mr. Blount,” said the
landlord, cheerily unheeding the maid’s moral reflections. “The Sergeant
was here a day or two back, and asked after you—Little-River-Jack came
last week, and talked of going away unless things mended. He billed
Stubbins for a quarter of beef he owed him, and they had a row, and got
to fighting over it.”

“How did that come off?” queried the guest, dallying with his second cup
of tea, and a plate of buttered toast. “Jack’s rather a light weight.”

“So he is—but he can use his hands, and he’s that active he takes a lot
of beating. Well, the butcher at Green Point is a couple of stone
heavier, and fancies himself a bit. He says, ‘You’d better summon me,
Jack!’ We all knew what that meant.”

“You’re takin’ a mean advantage,” says Jack, “it’s a cowardly thing to
do. But I’ll tell you what, if you’re man enough, I’ll fight you for
it—it’s a matter of four notes—five and twenty shillings a hundred—are
you on?”

“All right!” says the Green Point chap; “so they stripped to it, and had
a regular ding-dong go in. The butcher seemed to have the best of it at
first, but Jack wore him out, hittin’ and gettin’ away, and dancin’
round him—all them tricks. At last he bunged up his eyes and nearly
blinded him, they say. Then Jack went in and finished him; what with
loss of wind, and the punishment he got, the butcher was clean knocked
out afore the tenth round. So he didn’t come to time, and the referee
gave it against him. Jack got the four notes and cleared—the butcher
paid up honourable—but he couldn’t show outside the shop for a fortnight
afterwards.”

“A capital stand-up fight, I’m sure. I should like to have been there to
see it. And now, I think I’ll turn in. I’m a bit tired, and dead sleepy.
Good-night, Mr. Middleton, good-night, Sheila! I’ll have breakfast at
nine o’clock, please, bacon and eggs is my present fancy. I’ll stay in
Bunjil a few days and loaf for a change.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

If there is anything in life more conducive to happiness than waking at
dawn in the country, assured of comfort, free from anxiety and relieved
from duty, few people have experienced it.

And nowhere can the rare luxury of the conditions be more fully savoured
than in Australia. Mr. Blount was firmly of this opinion, as in virtue
of his late habitudes, the birds’ wild melody awoke him, as the first
dawnlight tinged the grey, reluctant East.

However, on reflection he decided to take another hour’s repose, while
all things were favourable to such indulgence.

Then, between sleeping and waking, he dozed deliciously until half-past
seven, when he sallied forth, towel in hand, to the creek bank. In the
garden was a rude, but competent bath-house, from which he was enabled
to plunge into the ice-cold stream.

Truth to tell, he did not make a lengthened stay therein, the mercury
being little, if anything, above freezing point, but devoted himself to
a complete and conscientious scrubbing with the rough towel, at the
conclusion of which, he found that a delicious glow had rewarded his
efforts, and the praiseworthy self-denial of the cold-colder-coldest
bath he had taken as a daily custom, ever since he could remember. It is
the after taste, which, as in other matters, is so truly luxurious.

Running back to the house, he saw that his expectation of a full-sized,
first-class fire in the breakfast room had been realised. After warming
himself at this, he attacked the serious business of dressing for the
day, which he pursued with such diligence that he was ready for the
bacon and eggs, before referred to, as nearly as possible at the
appropriate hour.

“Got you a good fire, you see,” remarked Sheila, who, smiling and rosy
as the morn, stood in attendance. “Hope you slept well. My word! we got
an awful start, didn’t know what was going to happen, when Senior
Constable Moore came here the day before yesterday to get warrants for
Little-River-Jack (_alias_ John Carter), Phelim O’Hara, his brother
Patrick, and also a man working in the claim, known as Jack Blunt, and
one ‘Tumberumba Dick.’ Asked me and Mr. Middleton a lot of questions.”

“And what did you say?”

“We didn’t know much, or say much either, if it comes to that. Yes! knew
that Little-River-Jack passed through here now and again. Where he went
to—couldn’t say—hadn’t seen him lately. Heard the O’Haras were working
miners from Queensland or Gippsland—only seen them once. Tumberumba Dick
stayed a day or two here last week, and got on the spree rather. Said
he’d sold his share to Jack Blunt, and was clearing out for West
Australia. Little-River-Jack was a butcher, and supplied the small
diggings.”

“What did they ask about Jack Blunt, eh?”

“Oh! a lot. What was he like?—how was he dressed?”

“Tall and dark” (I said), “not bad-looking.” Here Mr. Blount bowed.
“Dressed like any other gentleman travelling for pleasure. Rough tweed
suit and leggings. Left a few things here. Went away a month ago, with
Little-River-Jack.”

“What for—did he say?” the Senior Constable asked.

“Yes! he talked quite free and open. Said he wanted to see the
country—what gold-diggings were like, and all that. Jack promised to
show him a regular mountain claim—the ‘Lady Julia.’ Tumberumba Dick when
he came by, said ‘he’d sold his share to him for £20. He was full up of
mountain claims, was clearing out for West Australia, where there were
big rises to be made.’”

“Why didn’t they serve warrants, then?”

“The Senior Constable had a long talk with our old Sergeant—he’s retired
now, but everybody puts great faith in him.”

“Did you hear what he said?”

“No—but it came out that the Sergeant told him to be careful about
arresting men on suspicion—there was no direct evidence (those were the
words) against any of the men named. Nobody could swear to their having
been seen taking or branding cattle. Those who knew the O’Haras spoke of
them as hardworking diggers—who sold their gold to Little-River-Jack or
got him to sell it for them. As for Jack Blunt they said—” here the
speaker hesitated.

“Well, what did they say about him?”

“I hardly like to tell you, sir.”

“Oh! come, out with it. What does it matter?”

“Well, sir”—the girl smiled mischievously—“they said—(that is Tumberumba
Dick told some one, who told some one else), that you were a harmless
‘New Chum,’ that hardly knew a cow from a calf, and couldn’t have
‘duffed’ a bullock off a range, if you’d tried for a year.”

“Very complimentary indeed, I must say. So everybody’s honest in this
country who can’t ride—eh?”

“Well, yes, sir—about cattle; with sheep it’s different.”

“I see—never struck me before. I’m glad my honesty is undoubted in a
cattle district, because I can’t gallop down a range. They don’t fine or
imprison for bad riding, I suppose—_yet_. And so you stood up for me,
Sheila, didn’t you?”

“How did you know that, sir?”

“Why, of course you did. I knew you would because we’ve always been
friends. Besides, I saw you looking after me warningly the day I went
away with Jack Carter.”

“I know I did,” said the girl, impetuously. “I had a great mind to say
all I knew, and tell you to have nothing to do with him or his mates.”

“And why didn’t you?”

“Well, you were so set upon going, and it wasn’t for a girl like me to
advise a gentleman of your sort.”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t. Every one is as good as any one else in
Australia. So the papers say, at any rate.”

“Nothing of the sort. A gentleman is a gentleman, and a servant girl a
servant in Australia; all over the world, if it comes to that. I don’t
hold with this democratic rot. All the same, there’s nothing to prevent
you and me having a talk now and then, as long as we keep our places.”

“I should think not,” he rejoined, “and though I might have got into a
serious difficulty through Carter’s introductions, I’m not sorry, on the
whole, that I went with him, the experience was most interesting.”

“That means you saw somebody. Who was _she_, I wonder? Men are all
alike, gentle and simple. I believe I could give a guess, as we heard
you went down the river.”

To this day Blount declares that he never enjoyed a better meal; he
certainly never had a better appetite. And as the sun rising higher in
the heavens irradiated the meadows, the hurrying water of the creek, the
brilliant green of the opening buds of the great elms and poplars that
fringed that streamlet, he admitted that the landscape was almost worthy
of the memorable meal.

After a leisurely assimilation of the journals of the day, and a smoke
in the verandah, he ordered the cob to be brought round, being of
opinion that gentle exercise would be advantageous to his legs, which
the last day’s work might have tried unfairly. They certainly had
puffed, but there was no sign of lameness, and his owner decided that
daily exercise would meet the complaint. Hearing that the Sergeant was
at home he resolved to look up that gallant officer, and gather from him
what rumour had asserted as to Little-River-Jack, the O’Haras, Mr.
Bruce, and lastly himself, if rumours there were.

He found the ex-guardian of the peace, and, so to speak, warden of the
marches, weeding his garden, a trim, well-ordered plot, which, like the
remainder of his little property, was a standing object lesson to the
surrounding homesteads. Putting down his hoe, the veteran advanced with
an air of great cordiality, and welcomed him.

“Sae you have won back frae the Debatable Land, as they ca’ed Nicol
Forest in my youth. There have been wars, and rumours o’ wars, but the
week past; warrants to be issued for Phelim and Patrick O’Hara, and one
Little-River-Jack (went by the name of John Carter), forbye ‘Tumberumba
Dick,’ and a man known as Jack Blunt (_alias_ Valentine Blount) seen in
company with the above on the 20th of August last. Ay! it was openly
said, and I was lookin’ to see you arrive, maybe with the bracelets on.
What think ye of that?”

“That I should have had good cause of action for false imprisonment,”
answered the tourist. “But why didn’t they issue the warrants?”

“Maybe they were no that sure aboot the evidence. There’s neecessity, ye
ken, that there should be full and aample proof in thae ‘duffing’ cases,
as the country people ca’ them. A bush jury winna convict as lang’s
there a link short o’ the Crown Prosecutor’s chain o’ evidence.”

“And was there? I feel personally much obliged to the Department of
Justice for their scruples, which do them honour.”

“Weel, ye ken, though Mr. Bruce o’ Marondah deposed on aith that he saw
an E.H.B. bullock, his property, with a J.C. brand put freshly on, there
was nae witness who saw John Carter or any ither carle do it or the
like. He missed cattle, sure enough, and Black Paddy led him and two
troopers to a deserted claim known as the ‘Lady Julia,’ near which was a
stockyaird wi’ fresh cattle tracks baith in and oot. They didna gang in
their lane. A’body kens that. But wha saw them gang in or gang oot?
Strong presumption, clear circumstantial evidence, but next to nae
proof. Sae the airm of the law was stayed—a great peety, wasna it?”

“Really, it seems like it. Fine paragraphs, lost to the local press.
Capture of cattle-stealers, a leading butcher implicated. A gentleman
lately from England arrested. Damages laid by him for false imprisonment
at £10,000. Really, I might have bought a station with the money, and
been rich and respected. Many a big squatter, Dick told me, had begun
that way, but he _had_ stolen the cattle or sheep, and served sentence
for it, before he turned his talents to better purpose.”

“Dick’s no to lippen to,” replied the Sergeant, “nor nane o’ thae kind
o’ folk. They’ll tell lees by the bushel, gin ye stay to believe them.
When a’s said and done, laddie, ye’re well oot o’ it. Ye’ll maybe tak’
heed o’ chance companions anither time.”

“Very possibly, Sergeant. It does appear as if I had been a trifle
imprudent. I must curb my spirit of adventure, which has led me astray
before now. I nearly got shot in Spain through joining a band of
smugglers, they were such joyous dogs; and Manuela—ah! what eyes! what a
figure! It was rash, no doubt, I must ask for references, another time.
Ha! Ha!”

Mr. Blount treated the escape which he perceived he had narrowly missed
of being hauled before the bar of justice, with apparent levity, but in
his own mind, he was conscious that affairs might have taken a
permanently disagreeable turn, and seriously compromised him socially,
however it ended. What would the Bruce family think of him? What could
Imogen believe? Either that he shared the ill-gotten gains of the
O’Haras and their associates, or that he was so inconceivably dense, and
unsuspicious that any amount of dishonesty might go on before his face,
without his being aware of it. On either assumption, he was between the
horns of a dilemma. Adjudged guilty of folly, or dishonesty. His
vexation was extreme. However, he exhibited no outward signs of remorse,
and concluded his visit by thanking the Sergeant for his information,
and begging him to join him at dinner if he had no lingering suspicion
of his moral character.

“Na! na! I’d pit ma haill trust in thee, if matters luikit as black
again. The glint in thae grey ’een werena given thee for naught; we’ll
hae mair cracks before a’s said and done; the spring’s to be airly, I’m
thinking.”

The season was more advanced than when Blount first entered Bunjil, the
warmer weather had made it apparent that “the year had turned.” The
meadow grasses had grown and burgeoned, the English trees always planted
near the older settlements in Australia, many of them the growth of half
a century, were nearly full leaved, putting to shame with their
brilliant colouring, and opulent shade, the duller hues of the primeval
forest. The water-fowl in flocks flew and dived and swam in the great
lagoons, which marked the ancient course of the river. The cattle and
horses browsing in the lanes and vacant spaces, were sleek of skin, and
fair to behold. All nature spoke of abundance of pasture. In this
fertile valley there was no hint of the scarcity, which once, at any
rate, within the recollection of men then living had been known to
overspread the land: when this very spot, now running over with
plenteousness, the vine, the olive, the fig, peaches, and plums, apples,
and pears, in full leaf and promise of fruit, was bare and adust, the
creek even dry, between the great water-holes, for half a mile at a
stretch.

Mr. Blount on returning from his ride found a large assortment of
letters and newspapers awaiting him. Among them was a telegram marked
_Urgent_. This bore the postmark of a neighbouring colony and had been
forwarded by private messenger, at some expense. Thus ran the magic
message:—“Hobart, 20th. Come over at once. No delay. Great news. Credit
unlimited, Imperial Bank, Melbourne.”

Walking straight into his bedroom, he threw the letters on to the
counterpane of his bed, and drawing forward a chair, proceeded to open
his correspondence seriatim. After noting date and signature, he
returned the greater portion of them to their envelopes, postponing
fuller examination to a more convenient season. The last two, which bore
the postmark of the nearest post-office to Marondah, he retained. Of its
name he was aware, having heard the ladies asking that the post-bag
should be delayed for a few minutes on account of their unfinished
letters.

He did not linger over the first, addressed in a strong, clear,
masculine hand. There was no difficulty in mastering its tone and tenor.


“SIR,—I feel justly indignant that I should have extended hospitality to
a person who, while assuming the outward appearance of a gentleman, has
proved by his conduct to be unworthy of recognition as such.

“As an associate of the O’Hara brothers and two others, who, under
pretence of mining, have in concert with a well-known gang of cattle
stealers, preyed on my herd and those of neighbouring stations, for the
last two years, you have laid yourself open to grave suspicion. I cannot
be expected to believe that you were, although a new arrival, so
unsuspicious as to have no knowledge of their dishonest ways. In a
stockyard near the claim, branding as well as concealment of stolen
cattle had been carried on.

“You were present when I pointed out my E. H. B. bullock, on which a new
brand had been recently placed. You knew that I suspected dishonesty in
that neighbourhood. Was it not your plain duty to have informed me of
any suspicious proceedings? Not only did you fail to do so, but, while
accepting my hospitality, you suppressed the fact of your living as a
mining mate with the O’Hara brothers, and other suspicious characters,
as well as that the notorious ‘Little-River-Jack’ was a member of the
same precious company. I believe that warrants have been applied for at
the instance of one of my neighbours. Should you find that you are
included in the arrest, you will only have yourself to thank for
incredible folly, or criminal carelessness, as to the distinction
between _meum_ and _tuum_.

                                            “I remain, faithfully yours,
                                            “E. HAMILTON BRUCE.”


“Very faithfully, indeed,” quoth the recipient of this plain-spoken
epistle. “Under the circumstances I don’t wonder at the wrath of this
Squire of the South. It is but too natural. Fancy a game-preserving
English country gentleman, discovering that a recent guest, free of
croquet and morning walks with his charming wife and daughters, had been
sojourning with poachers—partaking, peradventure, of his host’s own
stolen pheasants! ‘Six months’ hard’ would have been the least, and
lightest penalty, that he would have dropped in for, and but for having
a friend or two at court, or out of it, Valentine Blount, late of Her
Majesty’s F.O., by courtesy the Honourable, and so forth, might have
‘done time’ for the heinous offence of having concealed on his person
certain beefsteaks and portions of the ‘undercut’ for the possession of
which he could give no reasonable account—moreover defied the peace
officer to take them from him. This of course is bordering upon a joke,
and a very keen jest it was like to have been. Maybe yet, for all I
know. What d—d fools men are sometimes! This I take to be a feminine
superscription—the contents less logical, and perhaps—_perhaps_
only—more emotional, and less lenient of sentence. I wonder what Mrs.
Bruce and the fair Imogen think of the agreeable stranger (I have been
thus described, ere now), who tarried within their gates. I feel
distinctly nervous, however.”

Here Mr. Blount carefully opened the envelope, and was slightly
reassured by the “Dear Mr. Blount” which introduced the subject-matter.

“We are afraid, Imogen and I, that Edward has written you an extremely
disagreeable, not to say threatening letter. He was furiously angry,
would hear neither reason nor explanation, when the O’Hara stockyard
mystery was unveiled. You _must_ confess that explanation _was_
difficult, not to say embarrassing for your friends. _We_ are certain
that there has been some great mistake which needs clearing up without
delay. It will never do for you to lie under this accusation—false as we
believe it to be—of living with dishonest people, and with the knowledge
of their malpractices; of course, you may not know that no men are more
artful in hiding their true characters than our bush cattle and horse
thieves (or ‘duffers’) to use a vulgar expression. They are _not_ coarse
ruffians—on the contrary very well-mannered, hospitable, even polite,
when compared with the labourers of other lands; good-natured, and most
obliging, outside of their ‘profession.’ Indeed I heard a story from a
nice old priest, that visited our station, when I was a girl, which
explains much. A bushman was dilating on the noble qualities of a
comrade. ‘Jack’s the best-hearted chap going; good-natured? why, he’d
lend you his best horse, if you was stuck for one on the road. If he
hadn’t a horse handy, why, he’d _shake_ one for you, rather than let you
leave the place afoot!’ Of course the situation _looks_ bad, on the face
of it, but Imogen and I will _never_ believe anything against your
honour. You have a friend at court, perhaps two.” Besides this—there was
a tiny scrap inside the envelope, apparently pushed in _after_ the
letter had been closed.

“Don’t believe you _knew_ anything.—IMOGEN.”

Mr. Blount read this soothing epistle twice over and put away the scrap
in his pocket-book very carefully. Having done this, he sat down and
wrote hard until summoned to lunch, after which he packed up carefully
all his belongings, leaving out only such as might be wanted for an
early morning start. He was more grave than usual at that comfortable
meal, and it was with an effort that he replied to Sheila’s query
whether he’d received bad news.

“Not bad, no! only important, which comes almost to the same thing. You
have to think over plans and make up your mind, perhaps, to start off at
a moment’s warning, which is always distressing.”

“Oh! nonsense,” said Sheila, who seemed in better spirits than usual. “I
often wish I were a man; how I would wire in when there was anything to
do, even if it was only _half_ good. Men do too much thinking, I
believe. If they’d only ride hard at the fence, whatever it is, they’d
get over, or through it, and have a clear run for their money.”

“But suppose they came a cropper and broke a leg, an arm, or their neck,
as I see one of your steeplechase riders did at Flemington the other
day, what then?”

“Oh! a man must die some time,” replied the cheerful damsel, who looked
indeed the personification of high health, abounding spirits, and as
much courage as can be shown by a woman without indiscretion, “and you
get through nine times out of ten: the great thing is to go at it
straight. ‘Kindness in another’s woes, courage in your own,’ that’s what
Gordon says.”

“Who is Gordon, may I ask?”

“Why, Adam Lindsay, of course, our Australian poet. Haven’t you heard of
him? I thought everybody had.”

“And do you read him?”

“Yes. Every Australian man, woman, and child, if they’re old enough,
knows him by heart.”

“I think I’ve caught the name. Was he born here?”

“Is he dead? Perhaps you’ve heard of Mark Twain?” said Sheila
scornfully, who seemed to be in rather a reckless humour. “Well! he is.
No! he was not born here, more’s the pity, for he knows us cornstalks
better than we know ourselves. He was the son of a British officer, the
family’s Scotch. I’m half Scotch, that’s partly why I am so proud of
him. But it would have been all the same whatever country owned him. I
find my tongue’s running away with me, as usual—the unruly member, as
the Bible says. But you take my tip, Mr. Blount, ‘never change your mind
when you pick your panel’ (that’s Gordon again), it’s the real straight
griffin, with horse or man.”

“This _is_ a wonderful country, and you’re a wonderful young woman. I
haven’t time to analyse you, just now, for my affairs, which I had
intended to treat to a short holiday, are conspiring to hurry me up. At
what hour can I leave in the morning?”

“To-morrow?” said the girl, and her face changed. “You don’t mean to say
you’re going away to-morrow?”

“Sorry to say I must; you saw that I got a telegram, and if I don’t
_clear_, as your people say, I may lose thousands, perhaps a fortune.”

“The coach goes at six, sharp; and gets to the railway-station at the
same hour the next morning. You’d like breakfast first, I suppose?”

“It’s too early to ask you to have it ready—anything will do.”

“Oh! I daresay. You’ve had some decent meals here, haven’t you?”

“Never better in my life.”

“Well, you’ll go away to-morrow, fit and ready for as long a day’s work
as ever you did. It’s almost a pity you’re having the Sergeant to dine.
However, he’ll not stay late. I’ll send over and take your coach
tickets. You’d better have everything packed and ready this afternoon.
Cobb and Co. wait for nothing and nobody.”

“There’s no doubt (Mr. Blount told himself) that the conditions of life
in Her Majesty’s colonies tend to the development of the individual with
a completeness undreamed of in our narrow and perhaps slightly
prejudiced insular life. What a difference there is between this young
woman and a girl of her rank of life in any part of Britain. What
energy, intelligence, organising power she has; I feel certain that she
could rally a wavering regiment on a pinch, drive a coach, ride a race,
or swim a river, in fact do all sorts of things, as well as, ay, better
than, the ordinary man. This is going to be a great country, and the
Australians a great people—arts of war and peace, and so on. How
good-looking she is, too,” concluding his reflections with this profound
observation, which showed that in spite of his subjective turn of mind,
the primary emotions still held sway.

Mr. Blount betook himself to his packing with such concentration, that
by the time he had finished his letters, nothing remained of his
impedimenta, but such as could be easily carried out and packed in the
coach, while he was finishing a distinctly early breakfast.

These said letters required much thought and preparation, it would
appear. First there was a vitally necessary answer to Mr. Bruce’s
warlike communication. To this he concluded to reply as follows:


                                            “BUNJIL HOTEL, _September_—.

“DEAR SIR,—While fully admitting that appearances are against me, I
think that you might with propriety have suspended judgment, if not
until the offences charged against me were proved, or, at least, until
you had heard my explanation, which I give seriatim.

“No. 1. As a matter of fact, I did live with the O’Haras and two other
men on the ‘Lady Julia’ claim. They were hardworking, and well-conducted
miners. For all that I saw, they might have been the most honest men in
Australia. I knew that cattle were brought to the stockyard late, and
taken away early. I judged it to be the custom of the country, and
accepted their statement that they were bought and sold in the ordinary
way. I was cautioned not to go near the yard for fear of frightening
them. I did not see a brand, or look for one—nor should I have known its
significance if I had. As to the O’Haras, and their ‘mates,’ whatever
might have been their previous history, no men could have worked harder,
or more regularly; they could not have _actively_ assisted in the cattle
trade without my noticing it.

“No. 2. That I did not inform you of my position in the claim.

“It would certainly appear to have been my duty so to do under ordinary
circumstances, after I knew of your suspicions. But the circumstances
were _not_ ordinary.

“And the question arises, Should I have been justified in betraying—for
that would have been the nature of the act—the _suspicious_, merely
suspicious circumstances, which I observed during my involuntary
comradeship with these men? I had eaten their salt, been treated with
respect, and in all good faith shared their confidences. Moreover—and
this is the strongest point in my defence—the man known as
Little-River-Jack—of his real name, of course, I am ignorant—certainly
_saved my life_, on the dizzy and narrow pass, known locally as ‘Razor
Back’—of that I feel as certain as that I am writing at this table. In
another moment, my frightened horse, unused to mountain travelling,
would have assuredly fallen, or thrown himself over the precipice, which
yawned on either side of him, while I was equally unable either to
control him or to dismount. By this bushman’s extraordinary quickness
and resource, I was enabled to do both. Was I to give information which
would have driven him into the hands of the police?

“As a citizen, I may have been bound to assist the cause of justice. But
as a _man_, I felt that I could not bring myself to do so.

“3. For the rest, I dissociated myself without more delay than was
absolutely necessary to collect my effects, and return the borrowed
horse, from such compromising company. I was offered my ‘share’—not a
very small amount—of the last gold won, but declined it, and riding
late, reached this hotel at midnight of the day we parted. I heard that
the senior constable of the nearest police station had instructions to
take out warrants for the persons referred to, including _myself_, but,
from some alleged defect in the evidence, that course was not persevered
with.

“Circumstances (wholly unconnected with this unfortunate affair) compel
me to leave to-morrow morning for Tasmania. I have entered fully into
the ‘case for the defendant.’ If the jury consisting of yourself, with
your amiable wife and her sister—whose kindness I can never forget, and
on whose mercy I rely—do not acquit me of all evil intent, I can only
hope that time may provide the means of my complete rehabilitation.
Meanwhile I can subscribe myself with a clear conscience,

                                                 “Yours sincerely,
                                                 “VALENTINE BLOUNT.”


Having with much thought, and apparent labour, concocted this
conciliatory epistle, of which he much doubted the effect, he commenced
another which apparently did not need the same strain upon the mental
faculties. This was addressed to Mrs. E. Hamilton Bruce, Marondah, Upper
Sturt, and thus commenced:


“DEAR MRS. BRUCE,—To say that for your kind and considerate letter I
feel most deeply grateful, would be to understate my mental condition
lamentably. After reading Mr. Bruce’s letter, it seemed as if the whole
world was against me; and, conscious as I was of entire innocence,
except of an act of egregious folly (not the first one, I may confess,
which a sanguine temperament and a constitutional disregard of caution
have placed to my account), my spirits were lowered to the level of
despair. There seemed no escape from the dilemma in which I found
myself.

“I stood convicted of egregious folly, or dishonour, with the sin of
ingratitude thrown in. I could not wonder at the harsh tone of your
husband’s letter. What must he—what must you all—think of me? was the
inexorable query. Suicide seemed the only refuge. Moral _felo-de-se_ had
already been committed.

“At this juncture I re-read your letter, for which I shall never cease
to bless the writer, and, may I add, the probable sympathiser? Hope
again held up her torch, angel bright, if but with a wavering gleam. I
regained courage for a rational outlook. I think I gave a sketch of my
imminent peril and the rescuer to Miss Imogen, as we rode away from
Marondah on that lovely morning. Her commentary was that it was not
unlike an incident in _Anne of Geierstein_, except that the heroine was
the deliverer in that case. We agreed, I think, in rating the book as
one of the best in the immortal series.

“I have fully explained the position in which I stand, to Mr. Bruce in
my letter, which you will doubtless see, so I need not recapitulate. I
have been recalled on important business (unconnected with this
regrettable affair) to Hobart, for which city I leave early to-morrow.
Meanwhile, I trust that all doubts connected with my inconsistent
conduct will be cleared up with the least possible delay.

“In which fullest expectation,

                                               “I remain,
                                               “Very gratefully yours,
                                               “VALENTINE BLOUNT.”


The writer of these important letters, after having carefully sealed
them, made assurance doubly sure by walking to the post-office, and
placing them with his own hands in the receptacle for such letters
provided. He further introduced himself to the acting postmaster, and
ascertained that all correspondence—his own included—which were
addressed to the vicinity of Bunjil, would be forwarded next morning
soon after daylight, reaching their destination early on the following
morning. “It’s only a horse mail,” said that official, “the bags are
carried on a pack-horse. But Jack Doyle’s a steady lad, and always keeps
good time—better, for that matter, than some of the coach-contractors.”

The rest of Mr. Blount’s correspondence was apparently easily disposed
of, some being granted short replies, some being placed in a convenient
bag, and others unfeelingly committed to the flames. About the time when
the Sergeant and dinner arrived, Mr. Blount held himself to be in a
position of comparative freedom from care, having all his arrangements
made, and, except Fate stepped in with special malignity, everything in
train for a successful conclusion to a complicated, unsatisfactory
beginning. His city address was left with the acting postmaster
aforesaid; all letters, papers, &c., were to be forwarded to Valentine
Blount, Esq., Imperial Club, Melbourne.

He would probably return in three weeks or a month; if not, full
directions would be forwarded by his agent.

The dinner was quite up to the other efforts of the Bunjil Hotel _chef_,
an expatriated artist whom advanced political opinions had caused to
abandon “la belle France.” So _he_ said, amid the confessions, indirect
or otherwise, made during his annual “break-out.” But his cookery was
held to confirm that part of his statement, as well as a boast that he
had been _chef_ at the Hôtel du Louvre in Paris. Whatever doubt might be
cast on his statements and previous history, as related by himself, no
one had ever dreamed of disparaging his cookery. This being the case,
and the time wanting nearly three months to Christmas, which was the
extreme limit of his enforced sobriety, neither Mr. Blount nor any one
else could have complained of the banquet.

Nor was “the flow of soul” wanting. The Sergeant was less didactic than
usual; he drew on his reminiscences more and more freely as the evening
grew late, and the landlord contributed his quota, by no means without
pith or point, to the hilarity of the entertainment. The Sergeant,
however, completely eclipsed the other _convives_ by a choice experience
drawn from his memory wallet, as he turned out that receptacle of “tales
of mystery and fear,” which decided the landlord and his guest to “see
him home” at the conclusion of the repast.

This duty having been completed, Mr. Blount was moved to remark upon the
fineness of the night. It was certainly curiously mild and still. “Quite
like spring weather.”

Mr. Middleton looked up and expressed himself doubtfully as to its
continuance. “It’s too warm to be natural, sir,” he said, “and if I was
asked my opinion, I’d say we’re not far from a burst up, either wind or
rain, I don’t say which, a good way out of the common. If you’re in a
hurry to get to Melbourne, you were right to take your passage by Cobb
and Co., or you might not get away for a week.”

“I wouldn’t lose a week just now for a hundred pounds.”

“Well, of course, it’s hard to say, but if the creeks and rivers come
down, as I’ve seen ’em in a spring flood, and we’re close on the time
now, there’ll be no getting to Warongah in a week, or perhaps a
fortnight on top of that. But I think, if you get off to-morrow morning,
you’ll just do it, and that’s all.”

When they returned all traces of the symposium had been removed, and the
cloth laid ready for the early breakfast, which Blount trusted nothing
would occur to prevent him from consuming.

On the plate at the head of the table, near the fire-place, was a
half-sheet of notepaper, on which was written in bold characters:


“DEAR SIR,—The groom will call you at five sharp, breakfast at 5.30.
Coach leaves at six. I’ve got you the box seat.

                                                           “Yours truly,
                                                           “SHEILA.”


“That’s a fine girl,” said the landlord, “she’s got ‘savey’ enough for a
dozen women; and as for work, it’s meat and drink to her. The missus is
afraid she’ll knock herself out, and then we’ll be teetotally ruined and
done for. I hope she won’t throw herself away on some scallowag or
other.”

“Yes! it would be a pity. I take quite an interest in her. But she has
too much sense for that, surely?”

“I don’t know,” answered the landlord, gloomily, “the more sense a woman
has, the likelier she is to fancy a fool, if he’s good-looking, that’s
my tip. Good-night, sir. I’ll be up and see you off. Old George will
call you.”

“Oh! I shall be up and ready, thank you.”

The landlord, however, having exceptional opportunities of studying
human nature, warned old George to have the gentleman up at 5 a.m.
sharp, which in result was just as well. For Blount being too excited
from various causes to sleep, had tossed and tumbled about till 3 a.m.,
when he dropped into a refreshing slumber, so sound that George’s
rat-tat-tat, vigorous and continued on his bedroom door, caused him to
dream that all the police of the district, headed by Mr. Bruce and Black
Paddy, had come to arrest him, and were battering down the hotel in
order to effect a capture.




                               CHAPTER VI


A DIP in the creek, and a careful if hasty toilet, produced a complete
change of ideas. The morning was almost too fine, the leaves of the
great poplars were unstirred, which gave an unnaturally calm and eerie
appearance to the landscape. This was not dispelled by the red sun
shedding a theatrical glare over the snow-peaks and shoulders of the
mountain range.

“My holiday’s over, Sheila!” said he, moving from the fire front to the
table upon which was such an appetising display that he wished he had
gone to bed a little earlier. However, the savour of the devilled turkey
reassured him, and he felt more drawn towards the _menu_ which was to
form the sustaining meal of the day. “Now, what do _you_ think of the
weather? Shall I have a safe journey to the station?”

“Well, you may, and you may not, sir. We all think there’s a big storm
coming; if it’s wind, it may blow a tree down on the coach and horses;
if it rains hard, there’ll be a flood, which will rise the Kiewah and
the Little River in a few hours, so as they can’t be crossed under a
week.”

“That’s a bad look out!” said the traveller, making good time with the
scrambled eggs and toast, which succeeded the devilled turkey, “but
we’ll have to go straight at it, as your friend and philosopher, Gordon,
has it. By the way, I bought a copy at the post-office store, so I can
read it on the way down and think of you when I come to the lines
‘Kindness in another’s trouble,’ and so on.”

“Oh! I daresay,” replied the girl, “a lot you’ll think about me when
you’re on the road to Melbourne and wherever else you’re bound for. But
we’ll all remember _you_ here, never fear! And if you ever come back,
you’ll see how glad all hands will be to welcome you.”

“_You’re_ only too good to me, but why should the other people have this
sort of feeling towards me?”

“Well, one reason is that you never put on any side, as they call it.
You’ve been free and easy with them, without being too familiar. The
country people hereabouts, and in the bush generally, may be rough, and
haven’t seen much, but they know a gentleman when they see one, and
besides, there’s another reason—” And here she seemed to hesitate.

“And what might that be?”

“Well, it came out somehow, I don’t know how, that when you were
‘pinched’ (that is, nearly arrested and tried for being ‘in’ with the
O’Haras and Little-River-Jack in the cattle racket), that you wouldn’t
give them away; never let on that you’d been with them in the claim, or
seen cattle in their yard or anything.”

“But, my dear Sheila! I heard nothing and saw nothing that the
town-crier at the market-place (is there one in this droll country, I
wonder?) might not have proclaimed aloud. I didn’t know there was any
‘cross’ work (is that right?) going on. I certainly guessed after I
visited Mr. Bruce that I might just as well not advertise the O’Haras,
and as Little-River-Jack certainly saved my life on Razor Back, how
_could_ I give him up to the law? Now, could I?”

“Not as a gentleman, sir, I should say. I suppose Mr. Bruce is pretty
wild about it, after you being at his house and all that. He’s a fine
man, Mr. Bruce; all he’s got he’s earned. His brother and he worked like
<DW65>s when first they came from home. Now they’re well off, and on the
way to be richer still. But no man likes to be robbed, rich or poor.
He’ll have Jack yet for this if he don’t mind, sharp as he is.”

“Well, I suppose it serves him right.”

“I suppose it does,” said the girl, hesitatingly; “but I can’t help
feeling sorry for him, he’s so pleasant and plucky, and such a bushman.
He can find his way through those Wombat Ranges, they say, the darkest
night that ever was, and drive cattle besides.”

                  “‘’Tis pity of him, too, he cried,
                  Bold can he speak, and fairly ride,’

as the Douglas said about Marmion, who, though more highly placed than
poor Jack, was but indifferent honest after all. Do you read Walter
Scott?”

“Well, I’ve read bits of the _Lady of the Lake_ and _Marmion_ too. We
had them to learn by heart at school. Only I haven’t much time to read
now, have I? It’s early up and down late. But you’d better finish your
breakfast; it’s getting on to six o’clock, and I see Josh walking down
to the stable.”

“So I will; but tell me, how do you write out a receipt for a horse when
you’ve sold him?”

“Oh! easy enough. ‘This is to certify that I have sold my bay horse,
branded “J. R.” (or whatever he is) to Job Jones for value received.’
That’s enough; you’ve only to sign your name and put a stamp on.”

“Nothing could be simpler. Get the landlord to receipt my bill while I
write out a cheque, and ask George if he’s put my saddle and bridle into
the coach.”

The girl ran out. He wrote the cheque for the account, which he had seen
before breakfast. Then more carefully, a receipt for the cob in the name
of Sheila Maguire, in which he enclosed a sovereign. “Isn’t that your
side-saddle? Where’s your horse? You haven’t got one, eh? Why, I thought
every girl in this country had one.”

“Mine got away; I’m afraid I’ll never see him again.”

“What will you give me for the cob? he’s easy and safe if you don’t try
the Razor Back business with him?”

“I wouldn’t mind chancing a tenner for him, sir.”

“Would you, though? Well, I’ll take it. There’s the receipt. You can pay
me when I ask for it.”

At that moment, the coachman having drawn on his substantial gloves,
mounted the box and called out “All aboard!” Mr. Blount pressed the
receipt and the sovereign into the girl’s reluctant hand, who came out
of the room with rather a heightened colour, while the driver drew his
lines taut as the passenger mounted the box and was whirled off, if not
in the odour of sanctity, yet surrounded with a halo (so to speak) of
cheers and good wishes.

Once off and bowling along a fairly good road behind a team of four fast
horses, specially picked for leaving or approaching towns, a form of
advertisement for the great coaching firm of Cobb and Co. (then, as now,
famed for speed, safety and punctuality throughout the length and
breadth of Australasia), Mr. Blount’s spirits began to improve, keeping
pace, indeed, with the rising of the sun and his own progress. That
luminary in this lovely month of early spring was seen in his most
favourable aspect.

The merry, brawling river, now rushing over “bars” gleaming with quartz
pebbles, the boom of the “water-gun,” the deep, reed-fringed reaches, in
which the water-fowl dived and fluttered, alike engaged the traveller’s
alert interest. The little river took wilful, fantastic curves, as it
seemed to him through the broad green meadows. Sometimes close-clinging
to a basaltic bluff, over which the coach appeared to hang perilously,
while on the other side was the mile-wide, level greensward, thickly
covered with grazing kine and horses. The driver, a wiry native from the
Shoalhaven gullies, was cheerful and communicative.

He was in a position to know and enlarge upon the names and characters
of the different proprietors of the estates through which they passed.
The divisions were indicated by gates in the fences crossing the roads
at right angles, at which period Mr. Joshua Cable requested his
passenger to drive through while he jumped down and opened the gates and
shut them after the operation was concluded. As this business was only
necessary at distances varying from five to ten miles apart, the
stoppages were not serious; though in one instance, where the enclosure
was small and the number of gates unreasonably large, his temper was
ruffled.

“D—n these gates,” he said; “they’re enough to ruin a chap’s temper.
They put up a new cross fence here—wire, too—since I was here last. This
is a bother, but when a man is driving by himself at night it’s worse.
And they can summons you, and fine you two pounds and costs for leaving
a gate open, worse luck!”

“How do you manage then?” asked the passenger, all unused to seeing a
coach and four without groom or guard.

“Well, it’s rather a ticklish bit of work, even with a pair, if they’re
at all touchy, as I’ve had ’em, many a time. You drive round before you
come to the gate and tie your leaders to the fence as close as you can
get ’em. I carry halters, and that’s the best and safest way; but if you
haven’t ’em with you, you must do the best you can with the lead reins.
You’re close enough to jump to their heads and muzzle ’em if they’re
making a move. No chance to stop four horses _after_ they’re off. When
you’ve opened the gate and driven through, you have to turn your team
back and let ’em stand with the leaders’ heads over the fence till
you’ve shut the gate. If it’s a gate that’ll swing back to the post, and
you’ve only a pair, you may manage to give it a shove just as it clears
the hind wheels, but it’s a chance. It’s a nuisance, especially at night
time and in rainy weather, but there’s nothing else for it, and it’s
best always to keep sweet with the owners of the property the road runs
through. Now we’ve five miles without a gate,” said Josh Cable as he led
his horses out and proceeded to make up time, with three horses at a
hand gallop, and the off-wheeler, a very fast horse, trotting about
fourteen miles an hour; “the road’s level, too. We’ll pull up in another
hour at the Horse and Jockey for dinner.” It may be explained that in
Australian road-travel, whatever may be the difference of climate, which
ranges indeed from sunshine to snow, the “dinner” so called, is the meal
taken at or about mid-day—an hour or two, one way or another, not being
regarded of importance. The evening meal at sundown, allowing for
circumstances, is invariably “tea,” though by no means differing in
essentials from the one at mid-day. It is at the option of the traveller
to order and pay extra for the orthodox “dinner,” with wine, if
procurable, as an adjunct.

The Horse and Jockey Hotel was duly reached, the half-hour dinner
despatched, and, at sunrise, the railway station at Warongah reached,
into which, after a hurried meal, Mr. Blount was enabled to hurl himself
and luggage, the train not being crowded. Long before this hour he had
ample time to admire the skill used in driving on a road never free from
stumps and sidelings, creeks, and other pitfalls. Certainly the _seven_
lamps, which he had never seen before on a coach, assisted the pilot’s
course, with the light afforded by the great burners, three on high
above the roof of the composite vehicle, a sort of roofed “cariole”
defended as to the sides by waterproof curtains; while four other lamps
gave the driver confidence, as they enabled him to see around and for
some distance ahead as clearly as in the day.

In sixteen hours from the terminus Mr. Blount was safely landed per cab
at the Imperial Club, Melbourne, in which institution he enjoyed the
privileges of an honorary member, and was enabled to learn that the
_Pateena_ would leave the Queen’s Wharf at four o’clock p.m. next day
for Launceston. Here he half expected to have one or more letters in
answer to his appeal to the mercy of the Court as represented by Mrs.
Bruce and Miss Imogen, or its justice, in the shape of Edward Hamilton
Bruce of Marondah, a magistrate of the Territory. But none came. Other
epistles of no importance, comparatively; also a fiery telegram from
Hobart, “Don’t lose time. Your presence urgently needed.” So making
arrangements for his correspondence to follow him to the Tasmanian Club,
Hobart, he betook himself to the inter-colonial steamship, and at
bed-time was sensible that a “capful” of wind was vexing the
oft-turbulent Straits of Bass.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Hobart—the peaceful, the picturesque, the peerless among Australian
summer climates, whether late or early. Hither come no scorching blasts,
no tropical rains. Nestling beneath the shadow of Mount Wellington,
semi-circled by the broad and winding Derwent, proving by
old-fashioned—in many instances picturesquely ruinous—edifices, it
claims to be one of Britain’s earliest outposts. Mr. Blount, from the
moment of his landing, found himself in an atmosphere about as
peacefully secluded as at Bunjil.

From this Elysian state of repose, he was routed immediately after
breakfast by the tempestuous entrance of Mr. Frampton Tregonwell, Mining
Expert and Consulting Engineer, as was fully set forth on his card, sent
in by the waiter.

“Bless my soul!” called out this volcanic personage, as soon as he
entered the door which he shut carefully behind him. “You are a most
extraordinary chap! One would think you had been born in Tasmania,
instead of the Duchy of Cornwall, whence all the Captains of the great
mining industry have come from since the days of the Phœnicians and even
earlier. Lucky you picked up a partner who is as sharp, excuse me, as
you are—ahem—Blount!”

“When I’m told what all this tirade is about, ending with an atrocious
pun, perhaps I may be able to reply,” answered the object of the attack,
complacently finishing his second cup of tea.

“Did you get my telegram? Answer me that, Valentine Blount.”

“I did, and have come over to this tight little island at great personal
inconvenience, as you may have observed, Mr. Tregonwell!”

“Have you any recollection of our buying a half share in a prospecting
silver claim, of four men’s ground, in the West Coast?”

“I do seem to recall some such transaction, just before I left for
Australia. All the fellows I met in the Hobart Club told me it was a
swindle, and advised me not to put a pound in it.”

“That was the reason that you _did_ invest in it, if I know you.”

“Precisely, I’ve rarely taken advice against my own judgment that I
haven’t regretted it. Did it turn out well?”

“Well! Well? It’s the richest silver lode in the island, in all
Australasia—” almost shouted Tregonwell—“fifty feet wide; gets richer,
and richer as it goes down. I’ve been offered twenty thousand pounds,
cash down, for my half; you could get the same if you care to take it.”

“I’ve a great mind to take it,” said Blount languidly “—mines are so
uncertain. Here to-day, gone to-morrow.”

“Take it?” said his partner, with frenzied air, and trembling with
excitement, “_take_ it! Well!”—suddenly changing his tone—“I’ll give you
a drive this afternoon, capital cabs they have here, and the best horses
I’ve seen out of England. The way they rattle down these hills on the
metal is marvellous! We can’t start for the mine till to-morrow morning;
I suppose you’d like to see it? But if you’re determined to sell, I’d
like you to see a friend of mine first. He has a magnificent place a few
miles out. He’d be charmed to meet you, I’m sure.”

“Certainly, by all means. What’s your friend’s name? Is he a squatter or
a fruit-grower? They seem to be the leading industries over here.”

“Neither; he’s a medical man in large practice. His name is Macandrew.
Medical superintendent of the new Norfolk lunatic asylum.”

“Well, really, Tregonwell, this is too bad,” answered the other partner,
roused from his habitual coolness. “Has it escaped your memory that
_you_ wished to sell out before I left for Australia, that I stuck to
the claim, and have been paying my share of expenses ever since?”

“Quite true, old fellow; it was your confounded obstinacy and luck
combined, a sheer fluke, which has landed us where we are, not a
particle of judgment on either side; and now, then, let’s get through
business detail before lunch. I have it all here.”

Mr. Tregonwell was a thoroughbred Cornishman, short, square set, and
immensely powerful. His coal-black, close-curled hair, with dark,
deep-set eyes, short, upright forehead, and square jaw proclaimed him a
“Cousin Jack” to all who had ever rambled through the picturesque Duchy,
or heard the surges boom on castle-crowned Tintagil. In one way or other
he had been interested in mines since his boyhood; had, indeed, delved
below sea level in those stupendous shafts in his native place of Truro.

An off-shoot of a good old Cornish family, he had worked up to his
present position from a penniless childhood and a youth not disdaining
hard manual labour as a miner, when none better was to be had. This gave
him a more thorough knowledge of the underground world and its
inhabitants than he could otherwise have obtained. As a mining “Captain”
therefore, his reputation had preceded him from the silver mines of Rio
Tinto in Mexico and the great goldfields of California. A noted man in
his way, a type worthy of observation by a student of human nature, like
Valentine Blount, who, having added him to his collection, had drifted
into friendship, and a speculative partnership which was destined to
colour his after life.

As there remained a couple of hours open to such a task before lunch,
the partners settled down to a “square business deal,” as Mr. Tregonwell
(who had possessed himself of trans-Atlantic and other idioms) phrased
it; in the course of which the following facts were elicited. That the
stone, in the first place accidentally discovered as an out-drop in one
of the wildest, most desolate, regions of the West Coast of Tasmania,
was the richest ever discovered in any reefing district “South of the
Line,” as Mr. Tregonwell magniloquently expressed it. On sinking, even
richer ore came to light, “as much silver as stone” in some of the
specimens. He, Tregonwell, had taken care to comply with the labour
conditions, and the necessary rules and regulations, according to the
Tasmanian Mining Act, in such case made and provided. He had satisfied
the Warden of their _bona fides_, and this gentleman had supported him
in all disputes with the “rush crowd” which, as usual under such
circumstances, had swarmed around the sensational find, as soon as it
was declared. Everything, so far, had been plain sailing, but there was
sure to be litigation, and a testing of their title on some of the
technical points of law which are invariably raised when the claim is
rich enough to pay the expenses of litigation. The great thing now was
to float the discovery into a company, exhibit the specimens in the
larger cities and in England, and offer half the property in shares to
the public. This was agreed to. Tregonwell, with practised ease, drew
out the prospectus, explaining the wondrous assays which had already
been made, the increasing body of the lode, its speculative value and
unrivalled richness as it descended to the hundred and fifty feet level.
The prospectors had invited tenders for a fifty head stamp battery to be
placed on the ground. Abundance of running water was within easy reach;
timber also, of the finest quality, unlimited in quantity. Carriage, of
course, in a rough, mountainous country, must be an expensive item. The
directors were anxious not to minimise the cost in any way, and all
statements might be regarded as absolutely truthful. The stone, if it
kept up quality and output, would pay for _any_ rate of carriage and the
most up-to-date machinery. When a narrow-gauge railway had been
completed to the Port, where the Company had secured wharf
accommodation, the transit question would be comparatively trifling.

Mr. Blount retired for lunch to the hotel in which Tregonwell had
engaged rooms—a quiet, old-fashioned house of highly conservative
character, selected by his partner as specially adapted for privacy. The
family had inherited the business and the house from the grandfather,
who had made the business, and built the house in the early days when
the island was still known as Van Diemen’s Land. Mr. Polglase, whose
portrait in oils still ornamented the dining-room, in company with that
of Admiral Rodney, in whose flagship he had been a quartermaster, had
reached Tasmania in a whaler from New Zealand.

The _Clarkstone_ having made a successful voyage, and Mr. Polglase’s
“lay” as first mate amounting to a respectable sum, he decided to quit
the sea, and adopt the more or less lucrative occupation of
hotel-keeping. In those days when the convict population outnumbered the
free, in the proportion of fifty to one, when the aboriginal tribes and
far more savage convict outlaws terrorised the settlers at a
comparatively short distance from Hobart, it was not altogether a
peaceful avocation. But Mark Polglase, a man of exceptional strength and
courage, who had enforced discipline and quelled mutiny among the
turbulent whaling crews hailing from Sydney Cove, was not the man to be
daunted by rioters free or bond. The small, but orderly, well-managed
inn soon came to be favourably known both to the general public and the
authorities, as a house where comfortable lodging was to be procured,
and, moreover, where a strict system of orderliness was enforced. When
the coaching system came to be developed, for many years the best in
Australasia, after admirable roads had been formed by convict labour,
the Lord Rodney was the headquarters of the principal firm. From the
long range of stabling issued daily in the after-time the well-bred,
high-conditioned four-horse teams, which did the journey between Hobart
and Launceston (a hundred and twenty miles) in a day. To be sure the
metalled road was perfect, the pace, the coaches, the method of driving,
the milestones even, strictly after the old English pattern. So that the
occasional tourist, or military traveller, was fain to confess that he
had not seen such a turn-out or done such stages since the days of the
Cottons and the Brackenburys.

The pace was equal to that of the fastest “Defiance” or “Regulator” that
ever kept good time on an English turnpike road. Here the erstwhile
Cornish sailor settled himself for life. To that end he wrote to a young
woman to whom he had become engaged before he left Truro on his last
voyage, and sent her the wherewithal to pay her passage and other
expenses. She was wise enough to make no objection to a home on “the
other side of the world,” as Jean Ingelow puts it, and had no reason to
regret her decision. Here they reared a family of stalwart sons, and
blooming lasses—the latter with complexions rivalling those of
Devonshire. They married and spread themselves over the wide wastes of
the adjoining colonies, with satisfactory results, but never forgetting
to return from time to time to their Tasmanian home, where they could
smell the apple blossoms in the orchards and hear the bee humming on the
green, clover-scented pastures.

The parents in the fulness of time had passed away, and lay in the
churchyard, near the Wesleyan meeting house, which the old man had
regularly attended and generously supported. But his eldest son, lamed
through an accident on a goldfield, reigned in his stead. He too had a
capable wife—it seemed to run in the family. So the name and fame of the
Lord Rodney remained good as of old.

The prospectus and plan of operations being now regarded as “shipshape”
by Mr. Tregonwell, he proceeded to sketch the locality. “It’s an awfully
rough country—nothing you’ve ever seen before is a patch on it. We shall
have to walk the last stage. A goat could hardly find footing, over not
_on_, mind you, the worst part of the track. How Charlie Herbert, who
discovered the show, got along, I can’t think. He was more than half
starved, ‘did a regular perish,’ as West Australians say—more than once.
However it was a feat to brag about when he _did_ come upon it, as
you’ll see when we get there.”

“Herbert’s in charge now, I suppose?”

“Yes! he and his mate. You won’t find him far off, unless I’m handy. It
doesn’t do to leave such a jeweller’s window to look after itself. There
are two wages men, Charlie takes one and Jack Clarke the other, when
they work. They get lumps and lumps of ‘native silver’ worth £50 and £60
apiece.”

“Is it as rich as all that?”

“Rich! bless your heart, nothing’s been seen like it since Golden Point
at Ballarat, and that was alluvial. This is likely to be as rich at 200
feet as on top—and ten years afterwards—as it is now.”

“We may call it a fortune, then, for us and the other shareholders.”

“A fortune!” said Tregonwell, “it’s a dozen fortunes. You can go home
and buy half a county, besides marrying a duke’s daughter, if your taste
lies in the direction of the aristocracy.”

“H—m—ha! I’m not sure that one need go out of Australia for the heroine
of this little romance.”

“What! already captured!—that’s rapid work,” said his partner, throwing
himself into a mock heroic attitude. “You’re not a laggard in love,
whatever you may be in practical matters. However, it’s the common lot,
even I—Frampton Tregonwell—have not escaped unwounded.” Here he heaved a
sigh, so comically theatrical, that Blount, though in no humour to jest
on the subject, could not forbear laughing.

“Whatever you may surmise,” he replied, “we have something more serious
to think about at the present time. After I have handled this wonderful
stone of yours, and knocked a few specimens out of the ‘face’—you see I
have gained some practical knowledge since we parted—then we can discuss
the plan of the future. In the meantime, I am with you to the scaling of
the ‘Frenchman’s Cap,’ if that forms any part of the programme.”

The journeying by land or sea to Hobart had been comparatively plain
sailing. From Hobart to the west coast of Tasmania inaugurated a
striking change. The tiny steamer, _Seagull_, to which they committed
themselves for a thirty hours’ trip, was dirty, and evil smelling. The
shallow bar at Macquarie Harbour forbade a larger boat. Crowded also,
her accommodation was necessarily restricted. The twelve male passengers
had one cabin allotted to them. The women shared another, where berths
like those at a shearer’s hut were arranged at the sides. On a coast, by
no means well lighted, where no shelter from the fierce gales is found
nearer than the South Pole, the passage, performed at night, is
invariably a rough one. All honour is due to the hardy seamen commanding
the small coast fleet. They lose no time on the trip—overladen with
freight, more also to follow—full passenger lists for a month in
advance. That there are not more accidents seems a miracle to the
passenger, as they thread their course in and out, among the numberless
islands and frequent reefs, with marvellous accuracy. Tregonwell, who
was half a sailor, by reason of his manifold voyages, was loud in
admiration.

“The skipper _must_ chance it, now and then,” he remarked, “but he
doesn’t show it, and certainly will not confide in the ordinary
passenger.” They bumped on the bar at Macquarie Harbour, and also had a
narrow escape at “Hell’s Gates,” formed by the rocky point which runs
abruptly northward. They touched bottom in the double whirlpool formed
by the island in the very jaws of the current, where the heavy seas
breaking over the tiny _Seagull_ would not have taken long to turn her
into matchwood. Here the skipper showed himself resourceful in such
trifling matters. Rough though the water, and dark the night, a man
would dash along a spar, laying out a sail to keep her head straight, or
bring her round, if broadside on and steering way was lost. Then “full
speed astern” perhaps, when not being jammed in too tightly, she glided
back into smooth water, ready for another attempt. In an hour, however,
the tide rose until the requisite depth of water, in the harbour bar,
enabled them after the grim, ghostly night, to glide up the smooth
surface of Macquarie Harbour.

It was early morning. They looked out on a sea of mist, walled in by
basaltic cliffs, wherein Mounts Heemskirk and Zeehan kept watch over
that dreary, wreck-lined coast.

Declining breakfast on board, Messrs. Blount and Tregonwell made for the
chief “hotel” of the Macquarie Harbour township, where on a clean white
beach, a friendly host, with comely daughters, made them welcome to an
excellent meal.

What a change from the days when a few fishermen or prospectors
constituted the entire population!

Strahan was now crowded with eager, anxious men, all of whom had money
to spend. Vessels were arriving all day long—sailing craft, as well as
steamers, loaded with supplies of all kinds, for the “silver field” of
Zeehan, so named after one of the vessels of Abel Tasman.

It was a scene of hopeless confusion, as far as the freighting was
concerned. Mining machinery, groceries, drapery, blankets, axes, picks
and shovels were all dumped upon the sand, with scant ceremony and no
regularity.

Day after day they had been passing historic landmarks, were actually on
the scene of Marcus Clarke’s great novel, _His Natural Life_. They could
afford to wait: “Hell’s Gates” lay behind them.

In the distance rose “The Isle of the Dead,” to which they promised
themselves a visit some day, with a ramble among the ruined
prison-houses, where so many tortured souls had languished.

One pictured the wretched officers in charge. How dull and aimless their
lives! Small wonder if they grew savage, and vented the humours, bred of
_ennui_ and isolation, upon the wretched convicts.

The walls of the little stone church are standing still. Tregonwell had
camped there for a few days once, with some fishermen, shooting ducks at
night, and fishing in the long, still, silent days. What a lonely place
for men to be stationed at! The interminable forest walled it in on all
sides, to the very shore. They pulled for miles up the Gordon River, a
grand and picturesque stream, but the land on either bank was absolutely
barren of herbage. Nothing grew for miles but the unfriendly jungle of
undergrowth, above which waved the mournful pines and eucalypts of the
dark impenetrable forest. The distracted owners toiled and wrangled to
separate their goods from the ill-assorted mountain of heterogeneous
property.

After that, came the more important question of carriage to the rich,
but ill-ordered mining camp of Zeehan, where, of course, showy wooden
edifices, of calico, or hessian architecture were being erected. The
land transit was wholly dependent upon pack horses and a few mules.
Drays and waggons were then unknown on that coast. The roads were bad
for pedestrians, utterly impassable for wheel traffic. The busiest men
were the Customs officers, stationed to watch the goods shipped from
other colonies, and to collect the duties exacted thereon. Forwarding
agents also had a careworn look. In the midst of the turmoil, a
pretentious two-storied hotel was being run up. Stores and warehouses
rose like mushrooms from the rain-soaked, humid earth, while town
allotments were sold, and resold, at South Sea Bubble prices.

By dint of Mr. Blount’s persuasive powers, now fully exerted, and
Tregonwell’s abnormal energy, conjoined with reckless payments, they saw
their personal luggage strapped on to a horse’s back, and confided to a
packer, who started with them, and contracted to deliver it when they
arrived on the following day.

They thus commenced the fifteen mile walk to Trial Bay. This was the
nearest port. It lacked, however, any description of harbour, shelter,
or roadway. Small craft could deliver freight in fine weather.

The pedestrians carried their blankets and a change of underclothing.
That was the recognised fashion on the West Coast. If men didn’t start
in the rain, they were certain to be wet through before long. Mr. Blount
was pleased to admit that their day of commencement was fine; more
grateful still to see Trial Bay the same night. Their condition was
fairly good, the walking distinctly heavy. A few miles of sandy beach,
then came the track through the bush proper.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Now commenced the stern realities of the expedition, necessary before
Mr. Blount could have personal cognisance of his strangely acquired
property. After some experience of the forests which lay between Bunjil
and the “Lady Julia” claim, he had thought himself qualified to judge of
“rough country.” To his astonishment, he found that all previous
adventure had given him no conception of the picture of dread and awful
desolation which the Tasmanian primeval wilderness presented. The
gigantic, towering trees, (locally known as Huon River pines), the awful
thickets, the rank growth of a jungle more difficult to pass through,
than any he had known or realised, contributed an appalling _carte du
pays_. The peculiarity of this last forest path was, that without a
considerable amount of labour being expended upon it, it was impassable
for horses, and not only difficult but dangerous for men. The
“horizontal scrub,” locally so termed, was the admixture of immense
altitudes of forest timber, with every kind of shrub, vine, and
parasitic undergrowth. Stimulated by ceaseless rain it hid even the
surface of the ground from the pedestrian’s view. For centuries, the
unimpeded brush-wood beneath the gigantic forest trees, which, shooting
upwards for hundreds of feet, combined by their topmost interlacing of
branches to exclude the sunlight, had fallen rotted, and formed a
superincumbent mass, through which the traveller, passing over a filled
up gully, once falling through the upper platform, so to speak, might
sink to unknown depths. From these indeed, a solitary wayfarer might
find it difficult, if not impossible, to return.

“What a track!” exclaimed Blount, toilsomely wading through waist-high
bracken, and coming to a halt beside a fallen forest giant, eight feet
in diameter, and more than two hundred feet to the first branch. “It
ought to be a prize worth winning that tempts men to penetrate such a
howling wilderness. Hardly that indeed, for there’s an awful silence:
hardly a bird or beast, if you notice, seems to make known its presence
in the ordinary way.”

“I heard this region described by an old hand as exclusively occupied by
shepherds, blacks, bushrangers, tigers and devils,” replied Tregonwell.
“The blacks killed the shepherds, who in their turn harboured the
bushrangers, when they didn’t betray them for the price set on their
heads. The ‘tigers’ and ‘devils’ (carnivorous marsupials) killed the
sheep and occasionally the sheep-dogs. They were the only other
inhabitants of this quasi-infernal region.”

“_Facilis descensus_, then, is another quotation which in this land of
contradictions has come to grief. I suppose we ought to try and cross
this sapling which bars our path?”

“I will go first,” said Tregonwell, “and report from the other side,”
and he prepared to climb the huge and slippery trunk.

The outward appearance of Mr. Blount had undergone a striking and
material change, from the days of Bunjil, and even of the “Lady Julia”
alluvial claim. A blue serge shirt, considerably torn, even tattered
from encounters with brambles, had replaced the Norfolk jacket and tweed
suit. His gaiters were mud-covered to the knees. His boots, extra-strong
and double-soled, were soaked and wrenched out of shape. To add to his
“reversal of form,” he carried on his back a heavy “swag,” in which
under a pair of coarse blue blankets, all his worldly goods immediately
indispensable were packed.

“This is something like ‘colonial experience,’” said he. With a slight
twist of the shoulders, and a groan expressive of uneasiness, he shifted
the weight of the burden. “I never carried a swag before, though now I
come to think of it, our knapsacks of the old days on walking tours were
much the same thing, though more aristocratically named. This confounded
thing seems to get heavier every mile. There is a touch of John Bunyan
about it also.”

The partners found Trial Bay in a worse muddle than Strahan. Tents had
been pitched everywhere; men were working hard to get their own and
other peoples’ loading away.

The small inn was in the usual independent state that obtains when there
is too much custom. “They could sleep there, if they had luck,” said the
landlord airily, but “he didn’t know as there was any beds vacant.”
Accommodation for the travelling public was a secondary matter, in his
estimation. The bar paying enormous profits, was filled to overflowing
the whole day through—the night also. Here Tregonwell’s colonial and
other experience stood him in good stead—an all-round “shout” or two,
combined with an air of good fellowship, and judicious _douceurs_ to the
maid-servants, resulted finally in permission to sleep in No. 5—which
haven of rest, after a South African sort of meal, largely supported by
“bully beef,” the tired partners bestowed themselves. After forcibly
ejecting several volunteer bedfellows, they slept more or less soundly
until daylight.

Certainly no fitter habitat could have been chosen for the desperate
irreclaimable convicts, who alone were exiled there. The dense, gloomy,
barren forests provided sustenance neither for man nor beast.

No birds—no animals—with one exception, the so-called “badger” (or
wombat) which was snared, and eaten by the convicts. The endless rain,
priceless in other lands, was valueless here, save to change the mood of
the outcast from depression to despair.

The Gordon River pine is the most valuable of the enormous growth of
timber in proximity to its banks; a beautiful, soft, red wood, not
unlike the cedar of Australia. It can be split into excellent palings
and will, fortunately, burn well, either in a wet or dry state. The
dense undergrowth, closely intertwined with climbers, renders it
impossible even for a man to get through, unless with an axe to clear
his way before him. And the locally named “horizontal scrub” is a study
in forestry.

It is possible to progress for a quarter of a mile at a stretch, without
being nearer the ground than eighteen or twenty feet. This curious
shrub, growing as it does at a considerable angle less than forty-five
degrees, with its intertwined branches made the jungle all but
impenetrable. A stage of fifteen miles was no child’s play therefore,
and meant a hard day’s work for strong men, if unused to walking. Even
slow walking on the Corduroy, demoralised by the heavy traffic, was
exasperating. Many logs were missing altogether. This meant extra danger
for the pack-horses and mules. These horses were wonderfully sure-footed
and sagacious. Though carrying two hundred pounds (dead weight too) they
were fully as clever at this novel species of wayfaring as the mules.
The pack tracks were cleared just wide enough for the animals to travel
in single file—and with the exception of a few places they could not get
off them, as the forest timber, with dead wood and undergrowth, was
impossible for any horse to get through, until a track was cut.

No deviations were possible; in a climate where the rainfall was ninety
inches per annum, one could imagine into what a condition these tracks
would get.

From time to time a pack horse would sink down behind, irretrievably
bogged. In such a case he would wait patiently, knowing that struggling
made matters worse, until the packer and his mate came to his
assistance. They would lever him up with poles, and whenever they
shouted, he would make his effort.

Sometimes they would unload, to give him a chance to extricate himself.
Then the packs were put on again, and a general start made. Such men
would probably have ten or twelve horses and mules walking loose—often
with not even a bridle on.

The charge made was at the rate of threepence a pound—roughly
twenty-five pounds a ton—from Strahan to the “field,” in those early
days. The only variation from the dense forest was that of the “button
grass” country. This was composed of open flats covered with a tufted
plant, similar to the Xanthorrhea or grass tree—only wanting the
elongated spear-like seed stalk. No animal eats the button grass; it is
worthless for fodder alive or dead.

What sights on the road they saw! Men and boys, with an odd woman or
two, struggling through the mud in the soaking, drizzling rain! Men
wheeling barrows with their tools, swags and belongings generally. Men
harnessed to small carts, tugging them along. Four Germans drew a small
wheeled truck, which they had made themselves, and a staunch team they
were. So practised had some of the early prospecting parties become that
(Tregonwell said) they plied a paying trade of packing on _their own
backs_ to outside claims, where pack tracks for horses had not yet been
cut. These men would carry from eighty to a hundred pounds, walking the
journey of thirty miles in two days. The charge was a shilling a pound.
They would walk back “empty” in one day. If it seemed high pay, it was
hard work. Climbing hills of fifteen hundred feet and going down the
other side with that crushing weight of bacon or flour taxed a man’s
strength, condition and pluck. Tregonwell said you could always pick out
the packers in a crowd after they had been a year or two at it. They
invariably “stood over” at the knees, like old cab horses, from the
strain of steadying themselves down hill with heavy weights up.

“Many a time, when the field first opened” (said Tregonwell), “have I
walked beside one of these men the day through, carrying only my
blankets and a change, not weighing more than fifteen pounds; my packer
companion would carry his fifty to eighty pounds up the long hills with
comparative ease, passing me, if I didn’t look out, pulling up, too,
quite fresh at night, while I could scarcely stagger into camp; yet I
could outdo, easily, any other amateur on the field.”

Some original inventions Blount noted outside of his gradually extending
colonial experience. Each camp had a “fly” pitched permanently over the
fire-place to keep the endless rain from putting it out. “Kindling” wood
was kept under this fly, so that it was always in readiness. After the
fire was well started, green or wet wood could be put on and would burn
well.

Tregonwell, having once started, said that he soon got into form,
improving in pace and condition daily. He expatiated on the keen
enjoyment of the hot meal at the end of the day’s journey, rude as might
be the appliances and primitive the cookery. The meal was chiefly
composed of tinned meat, stewed or curried, with bacon added for
flavour; and freshly-made damper, or “Johnny cakes,” to follow. The
change of garments was to dry pyjamas, with a blanket wrapped round the
wearer.

It was, he stated, a luxurious, half-tired, languorous but
fully-satisfied feeling, the sensation of mind and body essential to the
fullest enjoyment of tobacco. Then the yarns of the old prospectors,
grizzled, sinewy, iron-nerved veterans! Where had they not been?
California in ’49, Ballarat in ’51, pioneers of Lambing Flat, at the big
rush, Omeo, Bendigo, New Zealand, West Coast, 25,000 men on the field in
a week; those were the times to see life! Queensland, Charters Towers,
Gympie, New Guinea, the Gulf, ah! “This Zeehan racket’s a bit of a
spirt; but talk of mining! It’s dead now, dead, sir, and buried. Those
were the days!” The dauntless pioneer fills another pipe and falls into
a reverie of cheap-won gold, reckless revelry, wherein perils by land or
sea, danger, ay, and death, would seem to have been inextricably
mingled.

A strange race, the prospectors, _sui generis_. Hardly a spot on the
globe was there which these men had not searched for the precious
metals. Distance, climate, are nothing, less than nothing, in their
calculations, once let the fact be established of a payable silver or
gold “field.” Landing in Australia in the early fifties, they had worked
on every field before mentioned, and are still ready to join the rush
for any country under heaven should gold happen to “break out.”
Klondyke, Argentina, South Africa, all equally eligible once the ancient
lure is held out. They often put together a few thousand pounds in the
early days of a rich goldfield, their wide experience and boundless
energy making some measure of success certain. They may not drink, but
all live luxuriously, even extravagantly, while the money lasts,
possibly for a few years, then go back to their roving, laborious life.
They generally make enough on each field to carry them to the ends of
the earth, if necessary, and it is mostly so from their point of view.
When funds are low, they can, and do, live cheaply; will work hard and
do long journeys on the scantiest fare. Natural bushmen, often
Australian-born; from this type of man, above all others, a regiment
might be formed of “Guides” or “Scouts,” ready to fight stubbornly in
any war of the future; would hunt, harry, and run to earth De Wet, or
other slippery Boer, if given the contract and a “free hand.”

Harking back to his experiences—“That wild West Coast,” continued
Tregonwell, “was a place to remember—the wooded ranges piled one upon
another, as far as eye could reach, in shape, height, timber, or
colouring hardly differing in any essential particular; yet the noted
prospectors never lost themselves. Stopping for weeks at a likely
‘show,’ as long as the bacon and flour held out, they avoided all
settlements or mining centres on the way. The first prospector, George
Bell, carried a lump of galena of forty pounds’ weight in his swag right
through from Zeehan to Mount Bischoff. For a distance of fifty miles he
went straight between the two points without a road or track being cut
for him.”

When the partners arrived at Zeehan, it certainly appeared to Mr. Blount
a place of peculiar and unusual characteristics. The excitement was
naturally great; stores, hotels, dwellings, lodging-houses going up in
all directions. Timber was plentiful to excess, luckily such as split
into slabs and palings easily.

Tents were beginning to be voted hardly equal to so vigorous a climate.
No one, however, stayed under cover for that reason. They were wet all
day and every day, but the rule was to change into dry things at night.
No harm, strange to say, came to anybody. There was less sickness,
certainly less typhoid, on that field than any since reported.

Less, certainly, than at Broken Hill and the West Australian Goldfields.
The hotels, quickly run up, were rough both in appearance and
management. About fifty men slept in the billiard room for the first few
nights. Then, as their importance as “capitalists” began to be
recognised, beds were allotted. Over these they had to mount guard for
an hour or more before bedtime, as a rule, or else to “chuck out” the
intruder. Here the personal equation came in. The landlord had no time
to support the legal rights of his guests. He merely went so far as to
allot each man a bed. He had to keep it and pay for it.

The term “capitalist” on a mining field is understood to apply to people
with money of their own, or substantial backers who are prepared to pay
down the deposit on mines, sufficiently developed or rich enough to
“float”; worth securing the “option” of purchase for a month, so as to
give time to raise the necessary funds.

The Tregonwell party had secured the “fancy show” of the field (_i.e._,
the next richest in reputation to the Comstock) by promptness in
agreeing to all the owner’s conditions, as he named them, thus giving
him no chance to change his mind. Other offers had been made from Hobart
and elsewhere. However, they paid a liberal deposit, and, after
thoroughly sampling and examining the ore body, agreed to float the mine
in a fortnight. Very short terms! Also to place £10,000 to its credit as
a working capital, and to give the owner £5,000 cash as well as a
certain number of shares.

They knew the market, however, and their business. Tregonwell _walked_
to Strahan in a day and a half, being then in high condition, and got
off to Hobart by steamer that night. Had the transfers signed and
registered in the Mines Department in his name, subject to the
conditions being fulfilled. Wired to their Melbourne brokers, and in
twenty-four hours the shares were applied for three times over, and the
stock quoted at a premium. It seems easy, but such is not always the
case. The boom must be on. The buyers must be well known to the public
as having the necessary experience, and being reliable on a cash basis.

                  *       *       *       *       *

A shout from a tall, well-dressed man—comparatively, we may say—greets
them at the long-desired camp. He comes forward and shakes hands with
Tregonwell, more heartily than even the occasion demands, it would seem.

“By Jove! old fellow. I _am_ so glad to see you. Would have sent a line
to Hobart to hurry you up, if I could have found a man to take it. But
most of the fellows have gone to Marble Creek, so we’re a small
community. But we’re forgetting our manners. Introduce me.”

“Mr. Valentine Blount, permit me to present Mr. Charles Herbert, one of
our partners. You mustn’t swear at the place, the roads, the climate,
the people, or anything belonging to Tasmania, as it’s his native land,
to which he is deeply attached. In all other respects he may be treated
as an Englishman.”

“He certainly looks like one,” said Blount, glancing over the fine
figure and regular features of the tall, handsome Tasmanian. “If the
other gentleman who makes up the syndicate is a match for him, we should
be an efficient quartette.”

“Clarke is a light-weight,” said Tregonwell, “but as wiry as a dingo,
besides being the eminent mining expert of the party (of course, when
I’m away); but he’s perhaps more up to date, as when he went to
California he learned the latest wrinkles in silver-mining. He’s rather
an invalid at present, having jarred his right hand with a pick, and
sprained his left ankle in taking a walk through this ‘merry greenwood,’
as old writers called the forest.”

“I thought I had seen some rough country in New South Wales,” said
Blount, “but this tops anything I have ever seen or indeed heard of,
except an African jungle.”

“Climate not quite so bad, no fever yet,” replied Herbert, “but can’t
say much for the Queen’s Highway. However, the silver’s all right, and
where that’s the case, anything else follows in good time. But, come
inside—no horses to want feeding, luckily, as the oats which came in
advance, cost a guinea a bucket.”

So saying, he led the way to a small but not uncomfortable hut, at one
side of which a fire of logs was blazing in a huge stone chimney. The
walls of this rude dwelling were composed of the trunk of the black fern
tree, placed vertically in the ground, the interstices being filled up
with a compost of mud and twigs, which formed a wind and waterproof
wall, while it lasted. On one of the rude couches lay a man, who excused
himself from rising on the score of a sprained ankle.

“It’s so confoundedly painful,” he said, “that even standing gives me
fits. Of all the infernal, brutal, God-forsaken holes, that ever a man’s
evil genius lured him into, this is the worst and most villanous. In
California, the Tasmanians and Cornstalks were looked on as criminals
and occasionally lynched as such, but you _could_ walk out in daylight
and were not made a pack-horse of. If I were this gentleman, whom I see
Tregonwell has enticed here under false pretences, I should hire a
Chinaman to carry me back to Strahan, and bring an action against him as
soon as I reached Hobart.”

“I’m afraid he’s delirious, Mr. Blount,” said Herbert, soothingly, “and
as he’s lost a leg and an arm, so to speak, we can’t hammer him at
present, but he’s not a bad chap, when he’s clothed and in his right
mind. In the meantime, as a fellow-countryman, I apologise for him.”

“Don’t believe a word these monomaniacs tell you, Mr. Blount,” said the
sufferer, trying to raise himself on one arm, and subsiding with a
groan. “Herbert’s an absurd optimist, and Tregonwell—well, we know what
Cousin Jacks are. However, after supper, I daresay I shall feel better.
Do you happen to have a late paper about you?”

“Several,” said Blount, “which I hadn’t time to read before we left,
including a _Weekly Times_.”

“In that case,” said the pessimist, “I retract much of what I have said.
I have read everything they have here, and thought I was stranded in the
wilderness without food, raiment, or _pabulum mentis_. Now I descry a
gleam of hope.”

“I brought a packet of wax candles,” observed Blount. “Thought they
might be useful.”

“Useful!” cried the invalid, “you have saved my life, they are
_invaluable_. Fancy having to read by a slush lamp! Mr. Blount, we are
sworn brothers from this hour.”

“For Heaven’s sake let us have supper,” interposed Tregonwell. “Is the
whisky jar empty? I feel as if a nip would not be out of place, where
two tired, hungry, muddy travellers are concerned.”

“Not quite so bad as that,” replied Herbert, who had been spreading tin
plates and pannikins over the rude table on trestles, with corned beef
in a dish of the same material, and baker’s bread for a wonder. A
modicum of whisky from the jar referred to was administered to each one
of the company, prior to the announcement of supper.

When the primitive meal had been discussed with relish, Mr. Jack Clarke
considered himself sufficiently restored to sit up against the wall of
the hut, and begin at Mr. Blount’s newspapers with the aid of one of
that gentleman’s wax candles in a bottle, by way of candlestick. The
others preferred to sit round the fire on three-legged stools provided
for such purpose, and smoke, carrying on cheerful conversation the
while.

The discovery of the Comstock as a deeply interesting subject, commended
itself to Mr. Blount; so Tregonwell persuaded Herbert, who was the
pioneer, to sketch the genesis of this famous property, destined to
exercise so important an influence on their future lives.

“Come, Charlie,” said he, “you’re the real prospector, Clarke wouldn’t
have gone into it but for you, and I shouldn’t have taken a share but
for Blount, who knew nothing about mines, having just come from England.
I wanted to chuck it, but Blount, who is obstinate (not a bad virtue, in
its way), determined, for that very reason, to stick to it.

“So he paid his share of the expenses, went away, met all kinds of
adventures and all sorts and conditions of men—with, of course, a girl
or two, not wholly unattractive, and forgot all about it. I kept an eye
on it, so did Charlie; complied with the labour condition, kept up the
pegs, according to the Act, did a little work now and then. And now,
Charlie! it’s your turn.”

Mr. Herbert put down his pipe carefully and began the wondrous tale.
“You know I was always fond of mooning about—wallaby-shooting, fishing,
and collecting birds and plants in mountain country. We had a sheep
station on the edge of this horizontal scrub country in old times; and I
used, when I had leave, to get away and spend a week or two of my
Christmas holiday there. One of the shepherds was a great pal of mine.
Like many of the prisoners of the Crown in old days, he had been
transported wrongfully, or for very slight offences (as much to get rid
of Britain’s surplus population as for any other reason it really would
seem). He was fairly educated, and was a very decent, well-behaved old
chap, with a taste for geology and minerals.

“When his sheep were camped in the middle of the day I would find out
his flock, and we would boil the billy and have lunch, with ever so much
talk.

“‘Look here, Master Charles!’ he said one day, as he took out a dull,
grey-looking stone from his ‘dilly bag,’ ‘do ye know what that is?’ I
did not, and like most youngsters of my age, looked upon it as rubbish,
and showed that I would rather have had a shot at one of the ‘tigers’ or
‘devils’ that came every now and then and killed the sheep at the
stations than all the silver ore in the country.

“‘It’s silver ore,’ said he in a solemn voice; ‘and there’s enough where
that came from to buy all your father’s stations ten times over, if I
could only find my way back to the place where I found it.’

“‘And why can’t you?’ said I; ‘you know all the country round here.’

“The old man looked very sad, and pointed out towards the Frenchman’s
Cap, which was just being covered with mist, while a heavy shower began
to fall, and a thunderstorm roared and echoed among the rocks and caves
of the ‘Tiers,’ at the foot of which we managed to get shelter.

“‘It was a strange day and a strange sight I saw when I picked up this
slug,’ he said. ‘I was never nearer losing my life!—but I’ll tell you
all about it another day. You’d better get back to the station now, or
you’ll get wet through, and maybe catch cold, and then the master won’t
let you come here again.’

“So I was obliged to leave the telling of the story to another day. I
forgot all about the silver ore, and, chiefly remembering the strange
part of the story, was determined to hear about it from the old man
another day.

“It was the late spring-time when we had this talk, old Chesterton and
I; but a month or so afterwards I got a holiday, and as the weather was
warm and fine I cleared out to his out station, and never rested till I
bailed up the old man for another yarn. It is sometimes hot in the
island, though you mightn’t think so.”

“Don’t believe him,” growled Mr. Clarke; “it’s a popular error. The
seasons have changed. Listen to that!” The rain was certainly falling
with a sustained volume, which discredited any references to warmth and
sunshine.

“However,” continued Herbert, paying not the slightest attention,
“remember, it was at the end of the Christmas holidays, and the rocks
felt red hot; there had been bush fires, but the young feed, such as it
was, was lovely and green. The air was clear, the sky for once hadn’t a
cloud on it, and the old man was in a wonderful good humour for a
shepherd.

“‘Well, Master Charles,’ he said, ‘if ye must have it, ye must. I don’t
know that it can do you any harm, though it kept me awake for weeks
afterwards, and every time the dog barked I felt my heart beat like, and
would wake me up all of a tremble. Well, to come to the story, I was
sitting on a log half asleep with the sheep camped quiet and comfortable
under a big pine, when I heard my old dog growl. He never did that for
nothing, so I looked up, and the blood nearly froze in my veins at what
I saw. It wasn’t much to scare the seven senses out of me, but I knew
how I stood.

“‘A man and a woman were coming down a gully from the direction of the
mountain; they were near enough to see me, and it was no use making a
bolt of it. I should only lose my life. Anyhow, I couldn’t leave the
flock. I should get flogged for that. No excuse was taken for anything
of that sort in those days. Following the man was a young gin with a lot
of things on her back as if they had been shifting camp. She was much
like any other black girl of her age, sixteen or thereabouts, maybe
less; they grow up fast and get old fast, too, specially when they are
worked hard, beaten, and brutally treated, as most of them are, and this
one certainly was. Poor Mary! The man had no boots, and his trousers
were ragged, he was mostly dressed in kangaroo skins, and had a fur cap
on.

“‘He had a long beard down to his chest; his black hair fell in a mat
over his shoulders. He carried a double-barrelled gun, and had a belt
with a pouch in it round his waist. He looked like the pictures of
Robinson Crusoe, but I didn’t feel inclined to laugh when he came close
up and stared me in the face. I had seen, ay, lived with criminals of
all sorts since I first came to Tasmania, but such a savage,
blood-thirsty-looking brute as the man before me, I had never come
across before. He saw that I was afraid; well I might be—if he had shot
me there and then, it was only what he had done to others. With a
fiendish grin that made him, if possible, more beast-like in appearance,
he said: “Did ye ever see Mick Brady afore? No! Well, ye see him now.
Maybe ye won’t live long enough to forget him!”

“‘“I’ve heard of you,” I said, “of course.” I tried to look cool, but my
teeth chattered, for all the day was so hot. “I’m a Government man, like
yourself. I’ve never done you any harm that I know of.”

“‘“No harm!” he shouted, “no harm! Aren’t ye one of old Herbert’s
shepherds—a lot of mean crawlers that work for a bloody tyrant, and
inform on poor starving brutes like me that’s been driven to take to the
bush by cruelty and injustice of every kind. I came here to shoot you,
and shoot you I will, and your dog too; the dingos and the tigers may
work their will on the flock afterwards. He’ll feel that a d—d sight
more than the loss of a shepherd. I know him, the hard-hearted old
slave-driver!” God forgive him for miscalling a good man and a kind
master.

“‘“Don’t shoot the dog,” I said, “he’s the best I ever had—a prisoner’s
life’s not much in this country, but a dog like him you don’t see every
day.”

“‘“Kneel down,” he said, “and don’t waste time; ye can say a short
prayer to God Almighty, or the devil, whichever ye favour most. Old
Nick’s given _me_ a lift, many a time.”

“‘He stood there, with the death-light in his red-rimmed, wolfish eyes,
and no more mercy in them than a tiger’s, lapping the blood of a Hindoo
letter-carrier. When I was a soldier I’d seen the poor things brought in
from the jungle, with their throats torn out, and mangled beyond
knowing. Surely man was never in a worse case or nearer death.
Strangely, I felt none of the fear which I did when I saw him first. I
had no hope, but I prayed earnestly to God, believing that a very few
moments would suffice to place me beyond mortal terrors.

“‘The girl meanwhile had crept closer to us and stood with her large
eyes wide open, half in surprise, half in terror—as she leaned her laden
back against one of the rock pillars which stood around. She murmured a
few words in her own language—I knew it slightly—against bloodshed, and
for mercy. But he turned on her with a savage oath, and made as though
he would add her murder to the long list of his crimes.




                              CHAPTER VII


“‘AT that moment, the last I ever expected to see on earth, the black
girl uttered a sudden cry. The report of a gun was heard, as a bullet
passed between me and Brady, flattening itself against the rock where I
had been leaning just before. At the same time four men dashed across
the gully and made for him. He looked at me with devilish malignity for
a moment, but I suppose, wanting the charge in his gun for his own
defence, turned and fled with extraordinary speed towards the forest,
the police—for such they were—with a soldier and the informer, firing at
him as he went. Their guns were the old-fashioned tower muskets; they
were bad shots at best—so the girl and he disappeared in the thick wood,
unhurt as far as I could see. I fell on my face, I know, and thanked God
before I rose—the God of our fathers, who had answered my prayer and
delivered me out of the hand of the “bloody and deceitful man,” in the
words of the Psalmist. I took my sheep home early, and put them in the
paling yard—dog proof it was—and needed to be, in that part of the
country. Just as it was getting dark, the men came back, regularly
knocked up, with their clothes torn to rags and half off their backs.
They hadn’t caught Brady. I didn’t expect they would—he was in hard
condition, and could run like a kangaroo. He got clean out of sight of
them in a mile or two after they left us. What astonished me was, that
they brought back the black girl, with a bullet through her shoulder,
poor thing!

“‘“I suppose that was a mistake,” said I, “you didn’t fire at the poor
thing, surely?”

“‘“_We_ didn’t,” said the soldier, “but who d’ye think did?”

“‘“You don’t say?” said I.

“‘“But I do. It was that infernal villain and coward, Brady himself,
that shot her. She couldn’t keep up with him, and for fear she’d fall
into our hands, and give away his ‘plants,’ he fired at her, and nearly
stopped her tongue for ever. But he’s overdid it this time—she’s red hot
agen ’im now, and swears she’ll go with any party to help track him up.”

“‘“Serve the brute right. Let’s have a look at the poor thing’s
shoulder, I wonder if the bullet’s still in it?”

“‘We washed off the blood, and between us, managed to get it out. It was
wonderful how many people in those days knew something about gunshot
wounds. After we’d shown Mary the bullet, we bound it up, and the poor
gin thanked us, and lay down on her furs by the fire, quite comfortable.
We kept watch and watch, you may be sure, for fear Brady might come in
the night, and shoot one of us, but nothing happened, and after
breakfast the party went back to Hobart, taking the girl with them.

“‘I was in fear for weeks afterwards that he might come and pay me out.
But he didn’t do that either. He was taken not long after, and when he
was, it was through that same girl, Mary, whom he tried to shoot. He met
his fate through his own base bloodthirsty act, and if any one brought
it on his own head, and deserved it thoroughly, Mick Brady was that man.

“‘Now this happened a many years ago, before you were born, or thought
of, as the saying is. Often and often, when I could leave the flock
safe, did I try to find out the place where this stone came from, but I
never could drop on it again. When I found it first and saw that there
was a regular lode, and plenty more “slugs” as rich as this, which is
nearly pure silver, mind you, I was in such a hurry to get back to the
sheep, that I’d only time to mark two or three trees, and drive in a
stake, before I started for home.

“‘I was sure I could find it again. But I never did. It was hot weather,
and a bush fire started that day, and burned for weeks, sweeping all
that side of the country.

“‘You’ll remember reading of Black Thursday, Master Charles? it burned
all Port Phillip, Victoria as they call it now, from Melbourne town to
the Ottawa range. So I expect my marks were burnt out. For I never could
find the way to it again: what with the fallen timber that covered over
the ground, and the ashes that was heaped up a foot deep in some places,
the whole face of the country was altered past knowing. You might have
heard tell that ashes fell on board some of the coasting craft miles
from the shore, and a black cloud hung over the coastline, for days
afterwards. But, take my word for it, Master Charles, the word of a
dying man, for I’m not long for this world, that whoever finds the gully
where this stone came from, and takes up a prospecting claim, will own
the richest silver mine, south of the line. Your father’s always been a
good master to his prisoner servants, that Mick Brady told a lie when he
said he wasn’t, and there’s none of ’em that wouldn’t do him a good
turn, if they could; and I have known you and loved you ever since you
was the height of a walking stick. So here’s the silver “slug,” and the
wash-leather bag of specimens, there’s gold and copper besides, and I
hope there’ll be luck with them.’

“The poor old chap didn’t live long after that. He was comfortable
enough for the last year or two of his life, for my father pensioned his
old servants, and his old horses too, for that matter. He couldn’t bear
to think that after they’d worked well all their lives, they should be
allowed to drag out a wretched existence, starved, or perhaps
ill-treated, till death came to their relief. So the silver ‘slug’ was
bequeathed to me, this is a bit of it on my watch-chain, with the
malachite colouring showing out. It always comes with time, they say.
Anyhow it brought me luck in the end, though it was a precious long time
coming about.”

“As you’ve brought us so far,” said Jack Clarke, “and Mr. Blount seems
interested (he hasn’t been asleep more than twice), I think it would be
a fair thing to give us the last chapter. For, I suppose you _did_ find
the old man’s marked tree, and if so, how? as lawyers say.”

“As you have deduced, with your usual astuteness, that I must have found
it, or we shouldn’t be here, I suppose, I may lay aside my modesty, and
enlighten the company. The ‘Comstock’ has a well-marked track now, if
there’s nothing else good about it. Old Parkins gave me the bearings of
the ‘Lost Gully,’ as he always called it. Once a year, I always took a
loaf round the locality after Christmas, poking about doing a little
fishing, when there was any: shooting wallaby or anything worth while
that I came across. Got an old man kangaroo bailed up at the head of a
gully, one day after a big fight with my dogs. I had fired away my
cartridges, and was looking round for a stick to hit him on the head
with, when I backed on to a stump of an upright sapling, as I thought,
out of a ‘whip stick scrub,’ which had grown up since the fire.

“It did not give way, as I expected, and putting back my hand to feel
it, I found it was a _stake_! It was charred all round, but still sound,
and hard to the core. Lucky for me, it was stringy bark timber. I pulled
it up, and tried it on the old man’s skull, which it cracked like an egg
shell. It had been pointed with a tomahawk, and driven well into the
ground. That clinched the matter. It _was the old man’s peg_! The next
thing was to clear the ground round about of timber and ashes, with all
the accumulation of years. This I did next day, carefully, and it was
not long before I discovered a couple of tomahawk marks on a big
‘mess-mate’ not far off. The bark had partly grown over it. It was in
the form of a cross. Underneath the new bark the marking was perfect, as
I had often seen surveyors’ marks, years and years after they had been
done. Then I came upon the cap of the lode, broke off some rock, fifty
per cent. ore, no mistake. Blazed my track and cleared for Hobart. Took
up a prospector’s claim next morning at 10 a.m. Registered in due form.
Met Clarke and accidentally Messrs. Blount and Tregonwell, new—er—that
is to say, newly arrived from England, and the great silver property,
known to the world as the ‘Tasmanian Comstock, Limited,’ and so on was
duly launched.”

“Well done, Charlie, my boy! No idea you’d so much poetry in your
composition! You were not regarded as imaginative at the old ‘Hutchins
Institute,’ where we both had ‘small Latin and less Greek’ hammered into
us. But you were a sticker, I will say that for you. Now that I’m _hors
de combat_, I seem to see that quality in a new light. Main strength and
stupidity we used to call it in your case.”

“I’ve no doubt; you were horribly ill-mannered, even without a sprained
ankle,” retorted Herbert, “but we make allowances for your condition as
an invalid. By the time we get that corduroy track finished, and traffic
other than ‘man-power’ restored, we shall look for improvement.”

The next day, being bright with sunshine, dispersed some of the gloom
which wet, cold and unwonted fatigue had imposed upon the partners. The
shafts of sunlight, flashing through the endless glades and thickets of
the primeval forest, formed a thousand glittering coruscations of all
imaginable forms and figures.

The pools of water reflected the glimpses of cloudless sky, framed in
sombre but still burnished shades of green. Birds called and twittered
in approval of the change, while strings of water-fowl, winging their
way to the great mountain lakes, told of a happier clime, and the
undisturbed enjoyment in which the tribes of the air might revel.

The obvious primary duty after breakfast was to get to the mine itself.
The distance was not great, but the task was less easy than might be
supposed. The track through the jungle of scrub and forest was
necessarily narrow, as the labour necessary for clearing it was great
and, therefore, expensive. The tremendous rainfall had turned the
adjoining country into a quagmire, the only means of crossing which was
by a corduroy road.

On this inconvenient makeshift the friends stumbled along until they
came to a collection of huts and tents, the usual outcrop of a mining
township, which springs up, mushroom-like, at the faintest indication of
proved, payable gold, silver or copper in any part of Australia. Of
course there was a “store,” so called, from which proudly flaunted a
large calico flag, with “Comstock Emporium” rudely painted thereon,
while a few picks and shovels, iron pots and frying-pans, with a
half-emptied case of American axes outside the canvas door, denoted the
presence of the primary weapons used in the war with nature.

A score or more of shafts, above which were the rude windlasses with
rope and bucket of the period, disclosed the beginning of mining
enterprise, advertising the hope and expectation of a subterranean
treasure-house—the hope invariable, the expectation, alas! so often
doomed to barren disappointment and eventual despair.

However, when the prospectors’ claim was reached, within the area of
which no intrusion was allowed, the dull grey rock from which Mr. Blount
was urged to break down a few fragments disclosed a perfect Aladdin’s
cave of the precious metal. His enthusiasm, slow to arouse, became keen,
stimulated by this “potentiality of boundless wealth.” His more
emotional partner was loudly enthusiastic upon the immense value of the
discovery.

“See that stone,” he said, knocking off a corner of the “face,” “it’s
all fifty per cent. stuff—when it’s not seventy-five. Look at the native
silver and the malachite! I’ve been on the ‘Comstock,’ and the ‘Indian
Chief’ in Denver, and can make affidavit that in their best days they
never turned out better stone than that—most of it was less than half
the percentage, indeed. The ore bodies were larger, you say? No such
thing. This lode widens out; the deeper you go, the more there is of it.
Easy worked, too. Freight expensive? Wait till the corduroy’s finished
to the main road; we’ll have stores and hotels, the electric light, hot
and cold water laid on; a couple of clubs, with the last month’s
magazines, and _The Times_ itself on the smoking-room table. You don’t
know how everything comes to ‘a big field,’ gold, silver or copper, as
soon as the precious metal is proved—proved, mind you—to have a settled
abode there. Fortune? There’s a fortune apiece for every proprietor here
to-day—even for Clarke, who’s now in his bunk reading a yellow-back
novel.”

All this fairy-appearing relation turned out to be a sober and accurate
statement of facts, as far as could be gathered from the survey made by
the partners in the enterprise. The stone, which was of surpassing
richness, was principally found in a well-defined lode, forty feet wide,
increasing in volume as the shafts pierced more deeply into the bowels
of the earth.

A mining expert of eminence turned up, who had, after many perils and
disasters, found his way to Comstock. On being permitted a “private
view,” he confirmed Mr. Tregonwell’s wildest flights of fancy.

“Nothing in the Southern Hemisphere as rich, or half as rich, has ever
been discovered,” he said. He doubted, as did Tregonwell, whether in all
the mines from Peru to Denver such a deposit had ever been unearthed. He
proved by reference to scientific geological treatises that it was so
rare as to have been doubted as a possibility that such a find _could_
occur, but if so, the most apocryphal yield of Peru and Chile would have
paled before the size and richness of this Silverado of the Wilderness,
so long hidden from the gaze of man.

Then an adjournment was made to the “Emporium,” as it was proudly
styled, the meagreness of its materials and adornments being in the
inverse proportion to its imposing designation.

But the glory of the future, the assured development of the mine, and,
as a natural sequence, of the “field,” was shed around with irradiating
effect and brilliancy of colouring. Upon this the proprietor proceeded
to dilate, after an invitation to a calico shielded sanctum, sacred to
the account books and documents of the establishment. In the centre of
the compartment stood a table composed of the top of a packing case,
placed upon stakes driven into the earthen floor. At one side was a
stretcher with his blankets and bedclothes, surmounted by a gaily
 rug, upon which the visitors were invited to sit, while the
host after placing a bottle of whisky of a fashionable brand upon the
festive board, cordially requested his guests to join him in drinking
the health of the energetic and spirited proprietors of the Great
Comstock Silver Mine.

“Not that it looks much now, gentlemen; no more does this stringy bark
and calico shanty of mine. But that says nothing. I was at Ballarat in
the ‘fifties,’ and Jack Garth, the baker, had just such a gunya as this.
I brought up a load of flour for him, and was paid a hundred and fifty
pound a ton for the carriage. The roads were bad certainly—puts me in
mind of this hole, in that way; but you _could_ travel, somehow. And
look at Ballarat now, with trams, and town halls, and artificial lakes,
and public gardens and statues—just like the old country. And Jack
Garth, well, he’s worth a couple of hundred thousand pounds, if he’s
worth a penny; owns farms and prize stock, and hotels, and everything a
man can want in this world. How came that, gentlemen? Because he was a
hardworking straightgoing chap? No! that wouldn’t have done it, though
he’d always have made a good living—any man of the right sort can do
_that_ in Australia. But _the gold was there_! It was there then, and
it’s there now. It floated the whole place up to fortune and fame, the
diggers, the storekeepers, the publicans, the commissioners, the
carriers, the very police made money: some of ’em saved it too. Didn’t
one of ’em own a whole terrace of houses afterwards? Well, the gold was
there, and _the silver’s here_; that’s all that’s wanted for miners to
know, and they’ll follow it up, if it was to the South Pole; and mark my
words, gentlemen, this place’ll go ahead, and grow and flourish, and
make fortunes for us men standing here, and for the er—er—babe unborn.”
Concluding his peroration with this effective forecast, which showed
that his connection, as member, with the Bungareeshire council had not
been without effect on his elocution, Mr. Morgan replenished his glass,
and invited his distinguished guests to do likewise.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Hobart, at length. Mr. Blount was unaffectedly pleased, even joyous,
when for the second time he sighted the towering summit and
forest-clothed sides of Mount Wellington, overlooking the picturesque
city, the noble stretches of the Derwent, and the Southern main.
Impatient of delay, and feverishly anxious to receive the letters which
he had not cared to trust to the irregular postal service of Silverado;
almost certain, as he deemed, of answers to his letters from Mrs. Bruce
and Imogen, even if the master of the house had not relented, he had
stayed a day to ensure the company of the mining expert, the road being
lonely, the weather bad, and the conversation of a cultured companion
valuable under the circumstances. Mr. Blount ran rapidly through the
pile of letters and papers which he found awaiting him; indeed, made a
second examination of these former missives.

A feeling of intense disappointment overcame him when no letters with
the postmark of the village on the Upper Sturt turned up, nor did he
discover the delicate, yet free and legible handwriting, which conveyed
such solace to his soul at Bunjil.

Looking over the correspondence, mechanically, however, he came across
the postmark of that comparatively obscure townlet, and recalling the
bold, characteristic hand of Sheila Maguire, tore it open. It ran as
follows:—


“DEAR MR. BLOUNT,—You told me when you went away that cold morning, that
if anything happened here that I thought you ought to know, I was to
write and tell you. We all thought there would be a heavy fall of rain,
and most likely a big storm that night. I expect you just missed it, but
there must have been a waterspout or something, for the Little River,
and all the creeks at the head of the water, came down a banker. It
knocked the sluicing company’s works about, above a bit, and flooded the
miners’ huts—but the worst thing it did was to drown poor Johnny Doyle
the mailman. Yes! poor chap, it wasn’t known for days afterwards, when
the people at Marondah wondered why they didn’t get their mail. He was
never known to be late before. However, drowned he was, quite simple
too. He could swim first-rate, but the pack-horse was caught in a snag,
and he must have jumped in, to loose the bags, and got kicked on the
head and stunned. So the packer was drowned, and him too, worse luck!
His riding horse was found lower down—he’d swum out all right. They
fished up the pack saddle with the mail-bags, but the letters were
squashed up to pulp—couldn’t be delivered.

“So, if you wrote to any one _down the river, she didn’t get it_.

“I thought it as well to let you know, as you might be waiting for an
answer, and not getting one, go off to foreign parts in _a despairing
state of mind_. Bunjil’s much the same as when you left, except that
Little-River-Jack, the two O’Haras, and Lanky Dixon were arrested in
Gippsland, but not being evidence enough, the P.M. here turned them up.
A report came that you had struck it rich in Tasmania, so you may be
sure of getting _all_ your letters now and some over. I’ve noticed that.
So long. I send a newspaper with the account in it of the flood.

                                   “Believe me always,
                                   “Your sincere friend and well-wisher,
                                   “SHEILA MAGUIRE.

“P.S.—The cob goes first-rate with me. I’m learning him to jump. He’s
christened ‘Bunjil.’ I’m going to live in Tumut after Christmas, and he
will remind me of the time you came here first.”


“By Jove! Sheila, you’re a trump!” was Mr. Blount’s very natural
exclamation, as he arose and walked up and down the room, after
mastering the contents of the momentous epistle. “This clears up the
mystery of their silence. No wonder they didn’t write, Bruce thinking
that I was willing to let judgment go by default. Mrs. Bruce and Imogen
believing Heaven knows what? That I must be a shady character, at any
rate, no gentleman, or I would have answered one or other of their
letters—sent in the goodness of their hearts. So this is the
explanation!”

The temporary relief accorded to the recipient of Sheila’s letter
encouraged him to hunt through the pile of newspapers for the unassuming
_Bunjil, Little River, and Boggy Creek Herald_, which, presently
descrying, he fastened upon the headlines, “Disastrous flood.” “Great
destruction of property.” “Lamentable death by drowning.”

“We regret deeply to be compelled to chronicle the melancholy and fatal
accident by which Mr. John Doyle, a valued employé of the Postal
Department, lost his life last week.

“The mail from the township to the Tallawatta Post-Office, by no means
inconsiderable or unimportant, is carried on horseback, though we have
repeatedly pointed out its inadequacy as a mode of transport. Our
remonstrance has unfortunately been emphasised by the drowning of the
mail-carrier, and the total loss of the letters and papers. Mr. Doyle
was a fine young man, of steady habits, a good horseman and expert
swimmer. It is surmised that in attempting to free the pack-horse, since
discovered entangled in a sunken tree root, he was kicked by the
struggling animal and stunned; the _post-mortem_ examination before the
inquest, made by Dr. Dawson, M.D., who came over from Beechworth for the
purpose, disclosed a deep cut on the temple and the mark of a horseshoe.
The coroner, with a jury of six, brought in a verdict of ‘Accidental
death by drowning.’ At the funeral, nearly a hundred persons attended,
showing the respect in which the deceased was held by the neighbours.
Father O’Flynn of the Presbytery at Hovell conducted the service. This
occurrence has cast quite a gloom over our township and the surrounding
district.”

So much for poor Johnny Doyle, a game, active, hardworking son of the
soil; sober and well conducted, the chief support of his widowed mother,
with a brood of half-a-dozen young children.

There was some argument after the funeral upon the mystery of permitted
evil, and the dispensation which allowed the sacrifice of poor Johnny,
whose life was a benefit in his humble sphere, to all connected with
him, while as to certain worthless members of the body politic, freely
referred to by name, the invariable verdict upon an apparently charmed
life was, “You couldn’t kill ’em with an axe.”

Though temporarily immersed in thought, Mr. Blount quickly came to the
conclusion that, as his former letters had been prevented by fate from
achieving their purpose, it would be the obvious course to write to the
same persons at once, furnishing the same explanation. He devoted the
evening to that duty solely, and after conveying to Mr. Bruce his
regrets for the unavoidable delay which had occurred, and lamenting the
injurious construction which might be put upon his silence, made an
appeal to his sense of honour that he should be granted a hearing, and
be permitted to explain personally the apparent inconsistency of his
conduct.

To Mrs. Bruce he wrote with more freedom of expression, deploring the
unkind fate which had denied him an opportunity of clearing away the
aspersions on his character. As to his non-appearance, he had been
called away by business of the _greatest urgency_, affecting not only
his own but other people’s interests. His future prospects had been
deeply involved. Nothing short of prompt action could have saved the
situation. Now, he was rejoiced to be able to assure her and Miss
Imogen, that a fortune of no inconsiderable amount was actually within
his grasp.

He forwarded a copy of the _Hobart Intelligencer_, a respectable
journal, in which she would find a confirmation of his statement. Also,
a detailed account of the rise and progress of the property, though more
rose- than he would care to assert. The value of the property, a
mining expert of eminence had said, could hardly be over-estimated. It
was his intention, without more delay than the consolidation of the
directorate and other essential arrangements required, to return to New
South Wales, and present himself before them at Marondah, no matter what
the outcome might be. The result he felt would colour his future
existence for happiness or misery, yet he was determined to undergo the
ordeal. A final decision, however disastrous, would be more endurable
than the condition of doubt and uncertainty under which he had existed
for the last few weeks. Accompanying these letters was a packet
containing letters of introduction to the Governors of more than one
colony. They were from personages of high standing, even of great
political influence. Not couched in the formal phraseology which the
writers of such communications hold to be sufficient for the purpose,
they spoke of the bearer as a young man of great promise, who had
unusual opportunities of rising in the diplomatic or other official
branches of the Civil Service, but had, somewhat inconsiderately,
preferred to explore new and untried roads to fortune. The writers had
no doubt but that he would distinguish himself in some form or other
before his novitiate was ended.

A short but impassioned appeal had been enclosed in this letter to Mrs.
Bruce. Her womanly compassion would, he trusted, impel her to deliver it
to Imogen, whose sympathetic feelings, if not a warmer emotion, which he
hardly dared to classify, he felt instinctively to be in his favour.

Having completed his task, he was not satisfied until he had posted the
letters and packet with his own hands, and with an unuttered prayer that
they would meet with no mischance similar to the last, he returned to
the Tasmanian Club, where he slept soundly till aroused by the fully
arisen sun and the hum of labour, combined with the ceaseless clatter of
vehicles.

A man’s mental turmoils and uncertainties doubtless act upon his
physical constitution, but he must indeed be exceptionally framed who
can withstand the cheering influence of a well-cooked breakfast and a
fine day in spring. The surroundings of a first-class Australian Club
are such as to cause the most fastidious arrival from Europe to
recognise the social kinship of the cultured Briton to be worldwide and
homogeneous. The conventional quietude of manner, the perfection of
attendance, the friendliness towards the stranger guest, all these minor
matters, differentiated from the best hotel life, tend to placate the
traveller, much as he may be given to criticise all more or less foreign
institutions, when distant from the “Mecca” of his race.

So it came to pass that, on forth issuing from that most agreeable
caravanserai, his bruised and lacerated spirit felt soothed by the
courtesy of the members generally, as well as of those immediately near
to him at the table where he sat. He had drifted easily into
conversation with several manifestly representative men: with one,
indeed, an all-powerful mining investor (as he learnt subsequently),
holding the fortunes of a mammoth copper syndicate in the hollow of his
hand. Of this gentleman he took special heed, but neither from his
appearance, manner nor conversation was he enabled to make a probable
guess as to the nature of his occupation.

He might have been an _habitué_ of cities, or a life-long dweller in the
country, interested in commerce, in finance, pastoral or agricultural
pursuits; in any one of these, or in all. But there was nothing to
indicate it. A complete negation of the first person singular marked his
conversation, yet he was apparently equally at ease in each and every
topic as they arose. One thing, however, could not be mistaken—the
massive frame and exceptional capacity for leadership, which would seem
to be wasted on a city life.

Another of a widely different type had been his right-hand neighbour at
the genial but conventional board—a young and fashionably-dressed man,
“native and to the manner born,” who seemed to be the recognised
_arbiter elegantiarum_, as well as leader and referee of all sport and
pastime. Secretary to the polo club, steward at the forthcoming
Race-meeting and Hunt Club Cup, on the committee of the Assembly Ball,
also imminent, he tendered an offer to our honorary member to procure
seats, tickets, and introductions for himself and friends, with special
facilities for joining or witnessing these annual celebrations. He also
was not _affiché_ to any known profession—at least, to none that could
be gathered from looks or manner. Others of the ordinary denizens of
club-land to whom he was introduced mentioned his partner, Mr.
Tregonwell, as an out-and-out good fellow, and, as a mining expert, a
benefactor to this island. He had evidently toned down his exuberance in
the interests of conventionality. Mr. Blount, in contradistinction to
the men who had extended the right-hand of friendship to him, was
patently a _novus homo_—ticketed as such by dress and deportment, and
assured of courteous entertainment from that very circumstance.

It was early in the “season” for Hobart to be in full swing as the
recuperating region for the exhausted dwellers in continental Australia,
where from Perth to the Gulf of Carpentaria King Sol reigns supreme in
the summer months. Still, there was no lack of hospitality, including
agreeable _réunions_, which, more informal than in metropolitan
Australian cities, are pleasanter for that circumstance. There was an
old-fashioned air about the environs of Hobart, a pleasantly-restful
expression, a total absence of hurry or excitement. Small farms with
aged orchards abounded, the fruit from which, exceptionally well
flavoured and plenteous, recalled the village homes of Kent and Devon.
Unlike the dwellers on the continent, the yeomen—for such they
were—seemed fully contented with a life of modest independence, which
they were unwilling to exchange for any speculative attempt to “better
themselves.”

What better position could they hope to attain than a home in this
favoured island, blessed with a modified British climate and a fertile
soil, where all the necessaries of a simple yet dignified existence were
within reach of the humblest freeholder?

No scorching droughts, no devastating floods, no destructive cyclones
harassed the rural population. Mr. Blount amused himself with daily
drives through the suburbs, within such distances as were accessible in
an afternoon. Having been much struck with the action of a pair of
cab-horses which he took for his first drive, he arranged for their
services daily during his stay in Hobart. Of one—a fine brown mare,
occupying the “near” side in the pair—he became quite enamoured; the way
in which she went up the precipitous road to Brown’s River, and down the
same on the return journey, without a hint from the driver, stamped her,
in his estimation, as an animal of exceptional quality.

The metalled road, too, was not particularly smooth, albeit hard enough
to try any equine legs. On inquiring the price the owner put on the
pair, he was surprised to find it was but £35. Twenty pounds for his
favourite, and fifteen for her less brilliant companion—useful and
stanch though she was, and a fair match for shape and colour. He
immediately closed the bargain, and thought he should enjoy the feeling
of setting up his own carriage, so to speak; a barouche, too,
chintz-lined, as are most of the cabs of Hobart—obsolete in fashion, but
most comfortable as hackney carriages.

Before the fortnight expired, to which he limited his holiday, he was
sensible of a slight, a very slight, change of feeling, though he would
have indignantly repelled any imputation of disloyalty to Imogen. But it
was not in human nature for a man of his age, still on the sunny side of
thirty, to live among bevies of, perhaps, the handsomest women in
Australasia, by whom he found himself to be cordially welcomed, without
a slight alleviation of the feeling of gloom, if not despair, into which
the absence of any recognition of his letters from Bunjil had thrown
him. Moreover, the reports of the richness of the Comstock mine,
confirmed, even heightened, by every letter from Tregonwell, were in all
the local papers.

“A gentleman, lately arrived from Europe and touring the colonies, now
staying at the Tasmanian Club, was known to be one of the original
shareholders. And if so, his income could not be stated at less than
£10,000 a year. It was by the merest chance that Mr. Valentine Blount
(such is the name, we are informed, of this fortunate personage) bought
an original share in the prospecting claim, which must be regarded
henceforth as the ‘Mount Morgan’, of Tasmania. Mr. Blount is a relative
of Lord Fontenaye of Tamworth, where the family possesses extensive
estates, tracing their descent, it is asserted, in an uninterrupted line
from the impetuous comrade of Fitz Eustace, immortalised in _Marmion_.”

Valentine Blount, it may well be believed, if popular before this
announcement, became rapidly more so, reaching, indeed, the giddy
eminence of the lion of the day. Rank he was declared to possess,
heir-presumptive to a baronetcy, or indeed an earldom, as well-informed
leaders of society claimed to know, with a large income at present,
probably an immense fortune in the future. Of course he would leave for
England at an early date. Handsome, cultured, travelled, what girl could
refuse him? So without endorsing the chiefly false and vulgar imputation
upon Australian girls that he was “run after,” it may be admitted that
he was afforded every reasonable opportunity of seeing the daughters of
the land under favourable conditions.

With the more lengthened stay which the “millionaire” _malgré lui_ (so
to speak) made in this enchanting island, the more firmly was his
opinion rooted that he had fallen upon a section of “old-fashioned
England,” old-fashioned, it may be stated, only in the clinging to the
earlier ideals of that Arcadian country life, which Charles Lamb,
Addison, Crabbe, and more lately, Washington Irving, have rendered
immortal. In the orchards, which showed promise of being overladen with
the great apple crop in the sweet summer time, now hastening to arrive;
in the cider-barrels on tap in the wayside inns and hospitable
farmhouses; in the clover-scented meadows, where the broad-backed sheep
and short-horned cattle wandered at will; in the freestone mansions of
the squirearchy, where the oak- and elm-bordered avenues, winding from
the lodge gate, the ranges of stabling, whence issued the four-in-hand
drags, with blood teams, coachmen and footmen “accoutred proper” at race
meetings or show days, exhibited the firm attachment which still
obtained to the customs of their English forefathers.

These matters, closely observed by the visitor, were dear to his soul,
proofs, if such were needed, of steadfast progress in all the essentials
of national life, without departing in any marked respect from the
ancestral tone.

At Hollywood Hall, at Westcotes, and at Malahide, where he was made
frankly welcome, he rejoiced in these evidences of inherited prosperity,
but still more in association with the stalwart sons and lovely
daughters of the land. “Here,” he thought, as he mused at early morn, or
rode in the coming twilight beneath the long-planted elms, oaks, walnuts
and chestnuts, of the far land, so distant, yet home-seeming, “are the
real treasures of old England’s possessions, not gold or silver,
diamonds or opals (and such there are, as Van Haast assured me), but the
men and women, the children of the Empire, of whom, in the days to come,
we shall have need and shall be proud to lead forth before the world.”

Here, and in other offshoots of the “happy breed of men” whom the parent
isle has sent forth to people the waste lands of the earth, shall the
Anglo-Saxon world hail its statesmen, jurists, warriors, poets, writers,
singers—not, indeed, as feeble imitators of the great names of history,
but bright with original genius and strong in the untrammelled vigour of
newer, happier lands.

“And why is Mr. Blount so deeply immersed in thought,” asked a girlish
voice, “that he did not hear me coming towards him from the rose-garden,
where the frost has tarnished all my poor buds? You are not going to
write a book about us, are you? for if so, I must order you off the
premises.”

“Now what _can_ be written but compliments, well-deserved praises about
your delightful country, and its—well—charming inhabitants?” replied
Blount, after apologising for his abstraction and shaking hands warmly
with the disturber of his reverie.

“Oh! that is most sweet of you to say so. But so many Englishmen we have
entertained have disappointed us by either magnifying our small defects,
or praising us in the wrong place—which is worse.”

“That I am not going to write a book of ‘Tours and Travels in Search of
Gold,’ or anything of the sort, I am free to make affidavit. But if I
were, what could I say, except in praise of a morning like this—of a
rose garden like the one you have just left, of an ancient-appearing
baronial hall like Hollywood, with century old elms and oaks, and the
squire’s daughter just about to remind an absent-minded visitor of the
imminent breakfast bell? I saw it yesterday in the courtyard of the
stables, and what an imposing pile it ornaments! Stalls for five and
twenty horses—or is it thirty? Four-in-hand drag in the coach house,
landau, brougham, dog carts, pony carriage—everything, I give you my
word, that you would find in a country house in England.”

“You are flattering us, I feel certain,” said the young lady, blushing
slightly, yet wearing a pleased smile at this _catalogue raisonné_; “of
course I know that the comparison only applies to English country houses
of the third or fourth class.

“Those of the county magnates, like Chatsworth and at Eaton, must be as
far in advance of ours, as these are superior to the cottages in which
people lived in pioneer days. However, there is the nine o’clock bell
for breakfast; we are punctual also at one for lunch, which may or may
not be needed to-day.”

The big bell clanged for about five minutes, during which visitors and
members of the household were seen converging towards the massive
portico of the façade of the Hall. It was a distinctly imposing edifice,
built of a neutral-tinted freestone, a material which throughout the
ages has always lent itself easily to architectural development.

Hollywood Hall, standing as it did on the border of a river stocked with
trout, and centrally situated in a freehold estate of thirty thousand
acres of fertile land, might fairly be quoted as an object lesson in
colonising experience, as well as an example of the rewards occasionally
secured by the roving Englishman.

The breakfast room though large appeared well filled, as Blount and his
fair companion joined the party. Certain neighbours had ridden over,
after the informal manner of the land, in order to break the journey to
Hobart and spend a pleasant hour in the society of the girls of
Hollywood Hall. Truth to tell, the sex was predominant, the proportion
of the daughters of the house being largely in excess of the men. Tall,
graceful, refined, distinctly handsome, they afforded a notable instance
of the favouring conditions of Australian life. They possessed also the
open air accomplishments of their class. Hard to beat at lawn tennis,
they could ride and drive better than the average man, following the
hounds of a pack occasionally hunted in the neighbourhood.

The merry tones and lively interchange of badinage which went on with
but little intermission during the pleasant meal proved their possession
of those invaluable gifts of the budding maid—high health and unfailing
spirits, with a sufficient, though not overpowering, sense of humour.

The squire, a well-preserved, fresh-looking, middle-aged man, sitting at
the head of his table with an expression of mingled geniality and
command, as the contest of tongues waned, thought it well to suggest the
order of the day. “I feel sorry that I am obliged to drive to an
outlying farm on business, which will occupy me the greater part of the
day. So you will have, with the assistance of Mrs. Claremont, to amuse
yourselves.”

“I think we can manage that,” said the youngest daughter, a merry damsel
of sixteen. “Captain Blake is going to drive Laura and me over to Deep
Woods. Mother says we can ask them to come over to dine, as we _might_
have a little dance afterwards.”

“So that’s one part of the programme, is it? you monkey,” said the host;
“I might have known you had some conspiracy on foot. However, if your
mother approves, it’s all right. Now, does any one care about fishing,
because the trout are taking the fly well, and I heard that snipe were
seen at the Long Marsh yesterday; they’re a week earlier this year”—this
to the son and heir of the house; “what were you intending to arrange?”

“Well, sir, I thought of driving over to see Joe and Bert Bowyer—they’re
just back from the old country—been at Cambridge, too. I’ve got a
fairish team just taken up. Mr. Blount with two of the girls, and
Charlie could come. It’s a fine day for a drive; perhaps the boys will
come back with us.”

“But won’t you want some girls?”

“Oh! I think we shall do, sir! Mother sent a note to Mrs. Fotheringay
early this morning. They’ll come, I’m pretty sure.”

“Aha! master Philip! _you_ managed that, I can see. Well, quite
right—have all the fun you can now; one’s only young once. So you think
I may go away with a clear conscience, as far as our guests are
concerned?”

“I’ll be responsible, sir! you may trust me and mother, I think,” said
the son and heir, a tall, resolute-looking youngster.

So the family council was concluded, and Mr. Blount being informed that
the drag party would not start until eleven o’clock, rested tranquil in
his mind. Miss Laura, his companion of the morning, let him know that
for household reasons her society would not be available until the drag
was ready to start—but that he would find a good store of books in the
library upstairs, also writing materials; if he had letters to answer,
the contents of the post-bag in the hall would reach Hobart at six
o’clock.

To this haven of peace Blount betook himself, satisfied that he would
have a sufficiency of outdoor life before the end of the day, and not
unwilling to conclude pressing correspondence, before commencing the
round of gaiety which he plainly saw was cut out for him. There was a
really good collection of books in the spacious library, from the
windows of which an extensive view of wood and wold opened out. He felt
tempted by the old records of the land, calf-bound and numbered with the
years of their publication, but resolutely sat down to inform Tregonwell
of his whereabouts, with the probable duration of his stay in the
district; warning him to write at once if any change took place in the
prospects of the Comstock. He also requested the secretary of the
Imperial Club at Melbourne to forward to his Hobart address all letters
and papers which might arrive. This done, he satisfied himself that he
was outwardly fit to bear inspection, presented himself in the hall a
few minutes before the time named for the start of the drag party, which
he found was to be accompanied by a mounted escort. A distinguished
looking neighbour whom everybody called “Dick,” evidently on the most
kindly, not to say affectionate terms with all present, was here
introduced to him as Mr. Richard Dereker of Holmby—one of those
fortunate individuals, who come into the world gifted with all the
qualities which recommend the owner equally to men and to women of all
ranks, classes, and dispositions. Handsome, gay, heir to a fine estate,
clever, generous, manly, he was fortune’s favourite, if any one ever
was. He had already come to the front in the Colonial Parliament; there
it was sufficient for him to offer himself, for society to declare that
it was folly for any one to think of opposing his election. He had been
invited to join the party, and as the idea of disappointing the company
was too painful to contemplate, he agreed at once to join the mounted
division. As, however, he had ridden twenty miles already, Philip
Claremont insisted on handing over the reins of the drag to him, and
sending for a fresh hackney, prepared to follow the drag on horseback.
“Did Mr. Dereker drive well?” Mr. Blount asked his next neighbour—as he
had noticed the four well-bred horses, in high condition, giving young
Claremont enough to do to hold them, as they came up from the stables;
the leaders, indeed, breaking into a hand gallop now and then.

“Drive? Dick Dereker drive?” He looked astonished—“the best four-in-hand
whip in the island. Phil is a very fair coachman, but there’s a finish
about Dereker, that no other man can touch.”

So, when the all-conquering hero, drawing on his neatly fitting doeskin
gloves, lightly ascended to the box seat, the helpers at the leaders’
heads released those fiery steeds: as Mr. Dereker drew the reins through
his fingers, and sat up in an attitude of which Whyte Melville would
have approved, every feminine countenance in the party seemed irradiated
with a fresh gleam of brilliancy, while the team moved smoothly off. The
roads of Tasmania in that day—formed chiefly with the aid of convict
labour, of which an unlimited supply was available for public works—were
the best in Australasia. Well-graded and metalled—with mile stones at
proper distances—lined with hawthorn hedges, trimly kept for the most
part—passing through quiet villages where the horses were watered, and
the landlord of the inn stood with head uncovered, according to
traditional courtesy, there was much to remind the stranger of the
mother land; to support the intercolonial contention that Tasmania was
the most English-appearing of all the colonies, and in many respects,
the most advanced and highly civilised.

With this last opinion, Blount felt inclined to agree—although, of
course, other evidence might be forthcoming. In conversation with Mr.
Dereker, between whom and himself Miss Laura Claremont was seated, he
learned that the larger estates from one of which he was coming, and to
another of which he was going, had been acquired by purchase or grant,
at an early stage of the occupation of the colony. The area of fertile
land being more circumscribed than in the colonies of New South Wales
and South Australia, the home market good, and the Government
expenditure during the transportation system immense, while labour was
cheap and plentiful, it followed that agricultural and pastoral pursuits
became for a succession of seasons most profitable.

Hence, the country gentlemen of the land, as in the old days of the West
Indian planters, were enabled to build good houses—rear high-class
horses, cattle and sheep—and, in a general way, live comfortably, even
luxuriously. Owing to the high value of the land and the richness of the
soil, the distances between the estates were not so great as in New
South Wales; were therefore convenient for social meetings, for races,
steeplechases, cricket, shooting and hunting; Reynard’s place being
supplied by the wild dog, or “dingo,” who gave excellent sport, being
both fast and a good stayer. Like his British prototype, he was a
depredator, though on a more important scale: sheep, calves and foals
falling victims to his wolfish propensities. So his pursuit answered the
double purpose of affording excellent sport, and ridding the land of an
outlawed felon.

With reference to hunting, of which old English pastime Mr. Dereker was
an enthusiastic supporter, he explained that owing to the estates and
farms being substantially fenced, horses that could negotiate the high
and stiff rails were a necessity. The breeding of hunters and
steeplechasers had been therefore encouraged from the earliest days of
the colony. Hacks and harness horses for similar reasons. “So that,”
said Mr. Dereker, allowing his whip to rest lightly on his off side
wheeler, “I don’t think you will find a better bred, better matched team
in an English county than this, or four better hackneys than those which
are now overtaking us.”

Certainly, Mr. Blount thought, there was no reason to dispute the
assertion. The team they sat behind, two bays and two greys, driven
chequer fashion, a grey in the near lead, and another in the off wheel,
would be hard to beat. They were, perhaps, hardly so massive as the
English coach horse, but while less powerful and upstanding, they showed
more blood and were generally handsomer. This might account for the ease
with which they accomplished the twenty mile stage in little over the
two hours, and the unchanged form which they carried to the journey’s
end, with a fairly heavy load behind them. As for the hackney division,
when Miss Dalton and her companion overtook the coach just before they
turned into the drive at Holmby, there was a general expression of
admiration from the party, as the beautiful blood mare that she rode
reined up, tossing her head impatiently, while her large, mild eye, full
nostril, and high croup bore testimony to the Arab ancestry.

“Yes! Zuleika _is_ a beauty!” said Miss Laura, looking with pardonable
pride at the satin coat and delicate limbs of the high-caste animal,
“and though she makes believe to be impatient, is as gentle as a lamb.
She is my personal property—we all have our own horses—but I lent her to
Grace Dalton to-day, for her palfrey, as the old romancers say, met with
an accident. She is a fast walker, and will show off going up the
drive.”

“You appear to have wonderfully good horses of all classes in Tasmania,”
said the guest; “indeed in Australia generally, judging by those I saw
in Victoria and New South Wales—but here the hackneys and harness horses
seem to have more ‘class.’”

“For many years,” said Mr. Dereker, “we have had the advantage of the
best English blood—with occasional high-caste Arab importations from
India; so there is no reason why, with a favourable climate, and wide
range of pasture, we should not have speed, stoutness and pace equal to
anything in the world. But here we are at Walmer, so we must defer the
treatment of this fascinating subject till after lunch, when the ladies
have retired.” As he spoke, he turned into the by road which led to the
lodge gate, which, opened by an aged retainer, admitted them to a
well-kept avenue shaded by oaks and elms, and lined by hawthorn hedges.
The house was a large and handsome country home, differing in style and
architecture from Hollywood Hall, but possessing all the requisite
qualifications for hospitality needed by a manor house. As they drove up
to the entrance steps, a fine boy of fourteen ran out and assisted Miss
Claremont to descend, after which he nimbly climbed up beside the
driver, saying, “Oh! Mr. Dereker, isn’t it a jolly team?—won’t you let
me drive round to the stables; you know I can drive?”

“You drive very well, for your time of life, Reggie, but these horses
pull, so be careful.”

“I can hold them,” said the confident youngster, who, indeed, took over
the reins in a very workman-like manner, “besides they’ve done twenty
miles with a load behind them. Aren’t you going to stay all night?”

“Might have thought of it, Reggie, but the ladies are not prepared; we
must get your sister to come instead—you too, if your father will let
you. I suppose Joe and Bertie are at home? How does Tasmania strike them
after the old country?”

“Oh! they’re jolly glad to get back, though they’ve had a ripping time
of it. Father says they must set to work now for the next few years.
Who’s the man that was next to you? Englishman, I expect!”

“Yes! Mr. Blount, only a year out. Seems a good sort, partner with
Tregonwell in that new silver mine, the Eldorado.”

“My word! he’s dropped into a good thing, they say it’s ever so rich,
and getting better as they go down. I must get father to let me go to
the Laboratory in Melbourne, and study up mineralogy. It’s the best
thing going, for a younger son. I don’t want to be stuck at a farm all
my life, ploughing and harrowing for ever. Joe and Bertie will have the
old place, and I must strike out, to get anything out of the common.”

“Quite right, Reggie, nothing like adventure, only don’t go too fast.
Here we are.”

Reggie pulled up in the centre of a square, on all sides of which was a
goodly number of stalls, loose boxes, cow houses, and all things
suitable for a great breeding establishment, where pure stock of all
kinds were largely reared. The horses were promptly taken out and cared
for, while Mr. Dereker, admiringly gazed at by the whole staff,
exchanged a few words of greeting with the head groom, and older stable
men, before he accompanied Master Reggie to the great hall, which was
evidently used for morning reception.

It had magnificent proportions, and was decorated, according to
traditional usage, with the spoils of the chase—mostly indigenous,
though the forest trophies gave evidence that the men of the house had
not always been home-keeping youths. In addition to fine heads of red,
and fallow deer, kangaroo skins, and dingo masks, “tigers” and “devils”
(Australian variety) stuffed, as also the rarer wombat and platypus,
there were trophies which told of hunting parties in the South African
“veldt,” and the jungles of Hindostan. Horns of the eland, and the
springbok, alternated with lion and tiger skins, bears and leopards!

The sons of the first generation of landholders had gone far afield for
sport and adventure before they decided to settle down for life, in the
fair island which their fathers had won from the forest and the savage.

There was scant leisure to muse over these, or other gratifying
developments, as the buzz of conversation, extremely mirthful and
vivacious, which was in full swing when Mr. Dereker and his young
companion entered the hall, was apparently accelerated by their arrival.

A certain amount of chaff had evidently been directed against the two
collegians, so lately returned from their university. How did the men
and maidens of the old country compare with their compatriots here—in
athletics, in field sports, in looks (this related only to the feminine
division), and so forth? Mr. Joe and Mr. Bertie Bowyer had been
apparently hard set to hold their ground; beset as they were by
sarcastic advice, adjured to keep to the strict line of truth on one
side—but not to desert their native land on the other—they were in
imminent danger of wreck from Scylla, or Charybdis. Their opinions were
chiefly as follows:

In athletics and field sports the colonists held their own fairly well,
with perhaps a trifle to spare. Notably in the hunting field; the small
enclosures and high stiff fences of Tasmania giving them practice and
experience over a more dangerous line of country than any in Britain. In
horsemanship, generally, the colonists were more at home, from having
been in youth their own grooms and horse-breakers. In shooting, and the
use of the gloves, particularly in the art of self-defence, the
Australians showed a disposition to excel. Already a few professionals
from Sydney had shown good form and staying power. In boating there was
a distinct and growing improvement, few of the Oxford and Cambridge
boat-races being without a colonist in one or other crew. There was
often one in both. This state of matters is hailed with acclamation. The
great advantage which the old country possessed in the way of sport lay
in the social environment. The difference between its pursuit here and
in Britain consisted in the fact that the seasons were carefully
defined, and the laws of each division strictly adhered to. Moreover, in
whatever direction a man’s tastes lay, hunting, fishing, shooting, or
coursing, he was always sure of the comradeship of the requisite number
of enthusiastic _habitués_ and amateurs.

After lunch, which was a conspicuously cheerful reunion, it was decided
that a start homeward was to be made at four o’clock sharp. In the
meantime, the brothers Bowyer intimated their intention to drive over in
a mail phaeton, which they had brought out with them, built by Kesterton
of Long Acre, with all the newest improvements of the most fashionable
style. One of the Misses Bowyer and her friend, Jessie Allan, an
acknowledged belle from Deloraine, would join the party; Reggie might
come too, as he was a light weight, and would be useful for opening
gates. The intervening time was spent in exploring the orchard and
gardens, both of which were on an unusually extensive scale. The fruit
trees, carefully pruned and attended to, were of great age. Indeed Mr.
Blount felt impelled to remark that apparently one of the first things
the early settlers seem to have done, after building a house, not a
mansion, for that came afterwards, was to plant a garden and orchard.

“Our grandfathers,” said Mr. Joe Bowyer, “remind me of the monks of old,
who, in establishing the abbeys, which I always examined in our walking
tours, for I am an archaeologist in a very small way, always took care
to choose a site not far from a trout stream, and with good meadow lands
adjoining, equally suitable for orchard, corn or pasture. These estates
mostly commenced with a Crown grant of a few thousand acres, such as
were given at the discretion of the early Governors, to retired officers
of the army and navy, many of whom decided to settle permanently in the
island. The grantee had a certain time allotted to make his choice of
location. This he employed in searching for the best land, with access
to markets, &c. In a general way, the country being open, and there
being at that time no system of sale by auction of bush land, the
nucleus was secured of what has since become valuable freeholds.”

“I should think they were,” said the stranger guest, “and in the course
of time, with the increase of population, as the country becomes fully
settled, must become more valuable still. Do you look forward to
spending the whole of your lives here, you and your brother, or retiring
to England, where your rents, I should suppose, would enable you to live
very comfortably?”

“We might have a couple of years in the old country,” said the Tasmanian
squire, “before we get too old to enjoy things thoroughly, but after a
run over the Continent, for a final memory, this is our native land, and
here we shall live and die.”

“But the fulness of life in Britain, foreign travel, the great cities of
the world, music, art, literature such as can be seen and enjoyed in
such perfection nowhere else, why leave them for ever?”

“Yes, of course, all that is granted, but a man has something else to do
in the world but merely to enjoy himself, intellectually or otherwise.
This land has made _us_, and we must do something for it in return.
Luxuries are the dessert, so to speak, of the meal which sustains life.
They fail to satisfy or stimulate after a while. We are Australians born
and bred; in our own land we are known and have a feeling of comradeship
with our countrymen of every degree. The colonist, after a few years,
has an inevitable feeling of loneliness in Europe, which he cannot shake
off. It is different with an Englishman however long he has lived here.
He goes home to his family and friends, who generally welcome him,
especially if he has made a fortune. Even they, however wealthy and used
to English life, often return to Australia. There is something
attractive in the freer life, after all.”

“Yes, I suppose there must be,” and a half sigh ended the sentence, as
he thought of Imogen Carrisforth’s hazel eyes and bright hair, her frank
smile and joyous tones, a very embodiment of the charm and graces of
divine youth. A cloud seemed to have settled upon his soul, as his
companion led the way to the entrance hall, where the whole party was
collecting for the homeward drive. However, putting constraint upon his
mental attitude, he took his seat with alacrity beside his fair
companion of the morning.




                              CHAPTER VIII


THE return drive was made in slightly better time than the morning
journey, the English mail phaeton of the Messieurs Bowyer, with a pair
of exceptional trotters, taking the lead. The mounted contingent
followed at a more reasonable pace, as they had from time to time to put
“on a spurt” to come up with the drag, harness work, as is known to all
horsemen, keeping up a faster average pace than saddle. However,
everybody arrived safely at the Hall in excellent spirits, as might have
been gathered from the cheerful, not to say hilarious, tone which the
conversation had developed. Mr. Blount, in especial, whose ordinary
optimism had reasserted sway, told himself that (with one exception)
never had he enjoyed such a delicious experience of genuine country
life. There was no more time available than sufficed for a cup of
afternoon tea and the imperative duty of dressing for dinner. At this
important function the mistress of the house had exercised a wise
forecast, since, when the great table in the dining-room, duly laid,
flowered, and “decored with napery,” met the eyes of the visitors, it
was seen that at least double as many guests had been provided for as
had assembled at breakfast. “Dick!” said the host to Mr. Dereker, “Mrs.
Claremont says you are to take the vice-chair; you’ll have her on your
right and Miss Allan on your left—wisdom and beauty, you see—so you
can’t go wrong. Philip, my boy! you’re to take the right centre, with
Joe Bowyer and Miss Fotheringay on one side, Laura and Mr. Blount on the
other. Jack Fotheringay fronts you, with any young people he can get. I
daresay he’ll arrange that. You must forage for yourselves. Now I can’t
pretend to do anything more for you. I daresay you’ll shake down.”

So they did. There was much joking and pleasant innuendo as the
necessary shufflings were made, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives
having to be displaced and provided with neighbours not so closely
related. Nothing was lacking as far as the material part of the dinner
was concerned—a famous saddle of mutton, home-grown from a flock of
Southdowns kept in the park, descended from an early English
importation; a grand roast turkey, upon which the all-accomplished Mr.
Dereker operated with practised hand, as did the host upon the
Southdown, expatiating at intervals upon the superiority of the breed
for mutton purposes only. The red currant jelly was a product of the
estate, superintended in manufacture by one of the daughters of the
house; trout from the river, black duck from the lake, equal to his
canvas-back relative of the Southern States; a haunch, too, of red deer
venison, Tasmanian born and bred. For the rest, everything was well
cooked, well served, and excellent of its kind. Worthy of such viands
was the appetite of the guests, sharpened by the exercise and a day
spent chiefly in the open air, the keen, fresh, island atmosphere.

The host’s cellar, famous for age and quality in more than one colony,
aided the general cheerfulness. So that if any of the fortunate guests
at that memorable dinner had aught but praise for the food, the wines,
the company, or the conversation, they must have been exceptionally hard
to please. So thought Mr. Blount, who by and by joined the ladies,
feeling much satisfied with himself and all the surroundings. Not that
he had done more than justice to the host’s claret, madeira, and
super-excellent port. He was on all occasions a temperate person. But
there is no doubt that a few glasses of undeniably good wine, under
favourable conditions, such as the close of an admirable dinner, with a
dance of more than common interest to follow, may be considered to be an
aid to digestion, as well as an incentive to a cheerful outlook upon
life, which tends, physicians tell us, to longevity, with health of body
and mind.

It happened, fortunately, to be a moonlight night. The day had been one
of those of the early spring, which warm, even hot, in the afternoon,
presage, in the opinion of the weather-wise, an early summer, which
prediction is chiefly falsified. But while this short glimpse of
Paradise is granted to the sons of men, no phrase can more truly
describe it. Cloudless days, warmth, without oppressive heat, tempered
by the whispering ocean breeze, beseeching the permission of the wood
nymphs to invade their secret haunts, all flower, and leaf, and herb
life responsive to the thrilling charm—the witchery of the sea voices.

Such had been the day. That the drives and rides through the green
woodland, the hill parks, the meadow fields, had been absolutely perfect
all admitted. Now the evening air seemed to have gained an added
freshness. When the French windows of the ballroom were thrown open it
was predicted that many a couple would find the broad verandahs, or even
the dry and shaded garden paths, irresistibly enticing after the first
few dances.

Such, indeed, was the case. What with accidental and invited guests, the
number had been increased to nearly twenty couples, all young,
enthusiastic, fairly musical, and devoted to the dance.

The music, indeed, had been an anxiety to the hostess. The piano was a
fine instrument, luckily in perfect tune. Half the girls present could
play dance music effectively. But another instrument or two would be
_such_ an aid in support.

Then inquiry was made; Chester of Oaklands was a musical amateur, the
violin was his favourite instrument, he was so good-natured that he
could be counted upon. Then there was young Grant of Bendearg, who
played the cornet. So, messengers with polite notes were despatched on
horseback, and both gentlemen, being luckily found at home, were
secured. The band was complete. Mr. Blount, with proper precaution, had
secured the hand of Miss Laura Claremont at dinner, for two waltzes, a
polka, and the after-supper galop; among her sisters and the late
arrivals he had filled his card. These had been written out by volunteer
damsels during the after-dinner wait.

He had, therefore, no anxiety about his entertainment for the evening.
No time was lost after the conclusion of the dinner. The young ladies
from Cranstoun and Deepdene had, of course, brought the necessary
evening wear with them. Mr. Blount’s English war-paint had been stored
in Melbourne while he was learning something about gold-fields and
cattle-lifting, this last involuntarily. He was “accoutred proper,” and
as such, not troubled with anxiety about his personal appearance. The
Bowyers, of course, were resplendent in “the very latest” fashion; as to
canonicals, the other men were fairly up to the standard of British
evening toggery, and for the few who were not, allowances were made, as
is always the case in Australia. People can’t be expected to carry
portmanteaux about with them, especially on horseback, and as they were
among friends they got on quite as well in the matter of partners as the
others.

It certainly was a good dance. The music kept going nobly. The young
lady at the piano was replaced from time to time, but the male musicians
held on till supper time without a break. When that popular distraction
was announced half-an-hour’s interval for refreshments was declared,
after which a good-natured damsel stole in, and indulged the insatiable
juniors with a dreamy, interminable waltz. Then the two men recommenced
with the leading lady amateur, and a polka of irresistible swing and
abandonment soon filled the room.

Certainly a dance in the country in any part of Australia is an object
lesson as to the vigour and vitality of the race. All Australian girls
dance well—it would seem to be a natural gift. Chiefly slender, lissom,
yet vigorous in health, and sound in constitution, they dance on,
fleet-footed and tireless, as the fabled Nymphs and Oreads of ancient
Hellas. Hour after hour passed, still unwearied, unsated, were the
dancers, until the arrival of the soup suggested that the closure was
about to be applied. But the dawnlight was stealing over the summit of
the mountain range when the last galop had come to an end, and a few
couples were by way of cooling themselves in the verandah or the garden
paths. Here, and at this hour, Mr. Blount found himself alone with Laura
Claremont, who had indeed, in spite of faltering maiden remonstrance,
completed her fifth dance with him. He was not an unstable,
indiscriminate admirer, least of all a professional trifler with the
hearts of women, but he had been strongly attracted (perhaps interested
would be the more accurate word) by her quiet dignity, conjoined with
refinement and high intelligence.

She had read largely, and formed opinions on important questions with
greater thoroughness than is the habit of girls generally. Without being
a recognised beauty, she had a striking and distinguished appearance.
Her dark hair and eyes, the latter large and expressive, the delicate
complexion for which the women of Tasmania are noted, in combination
with a noble figure and graceful shape, would have given her a foremost
position by looks alone in any society. The expression of her features
was serious rather than gay, but when the humorous element was invoked a
ripple of genuine mirth spread over her countenance, the display of
which added to her modest, yet alluring array of charms.

Such was the woman with whom Blount had been thrown temporarily into
contact for the last few days, and this night had shown him more of her
inward thoughts and feelings, unveiled as they were by the accidents of
the dance and the driving party, than he had ever dreamed of. Returning
to the ballroom, the final adieus were made, and as he pressed her
yielding hand he felt (or was it fancy?) an answering clasp.

On the following day he had arranged to leave for Hobart, as he expected
to deal with propositions lately submitted for the amalgamation of the
original prospecting claim with those adjoining, thus to include a
larger area upon which to float a company to be placed upon the London
market, with an increased number of shares.

This had been done at the suggestion of Mr. Tregonwell, whose energetic
temperament was constantly urging him to cast about for improved
conditions of management, and a more profitable handling of the great
property which kind fortune had thrown into their hands.

“What is the sense,” he had asked in his last letter from the mine, “of
going on in the slow, old-fashioned way, just turning out a few thousand
ounces of silver monthly, and earning nothing more than a decent income,
this fabulously rich ore body lying idle, so to speak, for want of
organisation and enterprise? The specimens already sent home have
prepared the British investors for the flotation of a company, of which
a large proportion of the shares will be offered to the public. I
propose to call a meeting of the shareholders in Number One and Two,
North, and South, and submit a plan for their consideration at once.

“With our property thrown in we can increase the shares to five hundred
thousand one pound shares, resuming a hundred thousand paid up original
shares from the prospectors. You and I, Herbert and Clarke, pool the lot
and put them before the public, allotting so many to all applicants
before a certain day—after which the share allotment list will be
closed. With the increased capital, we can then carry out and complete
such improvements as are absolutely necessary for the working of the
mine on the most productive scale, ensuring a return of almost
incredible profits within a comparatively short period. In a series of
years, the price of silver may fall—the money market, in the event of
European wars, become restricted, and in fact the future, that unknown
friend or enemy to all mundane affairs, may blight the hopes and
expectations which now appear so promising.

“Everything is favourable _now_, the mine, the output, the market—money
easy, machinery available on fair terms. But we don’t know how soon a
cloud _may_ gather, a storm—financial or political—may burst upon us.
The directors in the great Comstock Mine in America looked at things in
that light—doubled their capital, quadrupled their plant, built a
railway, and within five years banked dollars enough to enable the four
original prospectors (I knew Flood and Mackay well—worked with them in
fact—when we were all poor men) to become and _remain_ millionaires to
the end of their lives. Meanwhile giving entertainments, and building
palaces, which astonished all Europe, and America as well—a more
difficult matter by far.

“Now, what do we want, you will ask, for all this development, this
Arabian Night’s treasure house? I say—and I am talking strict
business—that we must have, presuming that the ‘Great Tasmanian
Proprietary Comstock and Associated Silver Mines Company, Limited,’
comes off, and the shares will be over-applied for twice over—what do we
want, I repeat? A battery with the newest inventions and improvements—a
hundred stamps to begin with. It may be, of course, increased; we shall
provide for such a contingency.

“Secondly, we must have a railway—from the mine to the port—to carry our
men—materials, supplies generally. We can’t go back to this Peruvian
mode of transit-carrying—on men’s backs, at a frightful waste of time
and money. We can’t afford the _time_—it’s not a question so much of
money as of _time_, which is wasting money at compound interest. We want
a wharf at Strahan and a steamer of our own to take the ore to Callao.
She’ll pay for herself within the year. Is that all? I hear you asking
with your cynical drawl, which you affect, I know you, when you’re most
interested.

“No, _sir_! as we all learnt to say in the States—the best comes last.
We want a first-class American mining manager—a real boss—chock full of
scientific training from Freiberg, practical knowledge gathered from
joining the first crowd at Sutter’s Mill—and more important than all,
the knack of keeping a couple of thousand miners, of different creeds,
countries and colours, all pulling one way, and him keeping a cool head
in strikes and other devilries that’s bound to happen in every big mine
in the world, specially when she’s doin’ a heap better than common—see!
His price is £5,000 a year, not a cent less—if you want the finished
article!” Here, Mr. Tregonwell’s fiery eloquence, albeit confined to
cold pen and ink, led him into the mining American dialect, so easy to
acquire, so difficult to dislodge—which he had picked up in his early
experiences. In the class with which he had chiefly associated in
earlier years, and to which he belonged in right of birth, he could be
as punctiliously accurate in manner and speech, as if he had never
quitted it. With a certain reluctance, as of one committing himself to a
voyage upon an unknown sea, his more prudent, but less practical partner
gave a guarded consent to these daring propositions, premising, however,
that the company must be complete in legal formation and the shares duly
allotted, before a cheque was signed by Frampton Tregonwell and Company,
in aid of operations of such colossal magnificence.

Mr. Blount excused himself from accepting a pressing invitation to
remain another week at this very pleasant reproduction of English
country house life, on the plea of urgent private affairs, but he
acceded to Mr. Dereker’s suggestion that he should stay a night with him
at Holmby, on the way to Hobart, where he would undertake to land him an
hour or two before the coach could arrive. This was a happy conjunction
of business and pleasure, against which there was no valid argument. So,
with many regrets by guest and entertainers, and promises on the part of
the former to return at the earliest possible opportunity, he after
breakfast started in Mr. Dereker’s dog-cart from the hospitable
precincts of Hollywood Hall.

Holmby, the well-known headquarters of the sporting magnates of the
island, was reached just “within the light,” though, as the road was
exceptionally good—metalled, bridged, and accurately graded all
through—the hour of arrival was not of great consequence.

Mr. Dereker was a bachelor, and had mentioned something about bachelor’s
fare and pot luck generally, to which Mr. Blount, feeling equal to
either fortune, had made suitable reply. Rather to his surprise,
however, as his host had driven round to the stables they saw grooms and
helpers busy in taking out the team of a four-in-hand drag.

The equipage and appointments arrested his attention, and caused him to
utter an exclamation. They constituted indeed an uncommon turn-out. An
English-built coach—such as the Four-in-hand and the coaching clubs
produce on the first day of the season, for the annual procession, so
anxiously awaited, so enthusiastically watched,—complete with every
London adjunct, from hamper to horn, etc. The horses had just been
detached, and were, at Mr. Dereker’s order, detained for inspection.
Four flea-bitten greys, wonderfully matched, and sufficiently large and
powerful to warrant their easy action in front of so heavy a drag, as
the one in which they had been driven over. Their blood-like heads, and
striking forehands, not less than their rounded back ribs, and powerful
quarters, denoted the fortunate admixture of the two noblest equine
families—the Arab and the English thoroughbred: of size and strength
they had sufficient for all or any harness work, while their beauty and
faultless matching would have graced any show-ground in England.

“This team was bred by a relative of mine, who is a great amateur in the
coaching line, and is thought to be the best team in Australasia! His
place, Queenhoo Hall, is only fifteen miles off. He is a connection by
marriage: therefore we don’t stand on ceremony. I suspect he is giving
his team an airing before driving them to the Elwick Races next month,
where he always turns out in great style. You will not have a dull
evening, for his wife and a niece or two are sure to have accompanied
him.”

In passing through the outer hall, such an amount of mirthful
conversation reached the ear, as led to the belief in Mr. Blount’s mind,
that either the number of the Squire’s nieces had been under-stated, or
that, according to the custom of the country, the coach had been
reinforced on the way. So it proved to be—the hall was apparently half
full of men and maidens, unto whom had been added a few married people,
as well as a couple of subalterns from a regiment then quartered in
Hobart. The chaperons were not noticeably older than their unmarried
charges, so that the expectation of a dance was fully justified.

Mr. Blount was introduced to the “Squire,” as he was universally called,
as also to his nieces, two attractive-looking girls; and of course, to
all the other people, civil and military. He felt as he once did in the
west of Ireland, where he accepted so many invitations to spend a month,
that the number of months would have had to be increased if he had not
more than a year in which to keep holiday. He complimented the Squire,
with obvious sincerity, on his wonderful team, and promised, strictly
reserving compliance until after the flotation of the great mining
company, to visit him at Queenhoo Hall in the summer time now
approaching. The dinner and the dance were replicas of those he had
enjoyed at Hollywood. Here he had another opportunity of admiring the
lovely complexions, graceful figures, and perfect grace and fleetness of
the daughters of the land in the waltz or galop, and when he started for
Hobart soon after sunrise, the drive through the fresh morning air
dispelled all feelings of weariness, which, under the circumstances, he
might have felt, after hearing the cock crow two mornings running before
going to bed.

“Heaven knows how long this sort of thing might have lasted, if that
letter of Tregonwell’s had not turned up last night,” he told himself.
“There is a time for all things—and if I do not mistake, it is high time
now, as our pastors and masters used to say, to make a stern division
between work and play—‘poculatum est, condemnatum est,’ so ‘nunc est
agendum’ in good earnest.”


Hobart, reached two hours before the coach could have drawn up before
the post-office, reassured him as to Mr. Dereker’s guarantee holding
good. A cab from the nearest stand bore him and his luggage to the
Tasmanian Club, where, freed from the distractions of country houses, he
was able to collect his thoughts before attacking the great array of
letters and papers, which met his eye when he entered his room.

A copy of the morning paper reposing on the dressing-table disclosed the
fact in an aggressive headline that the Proprietary Tasmanian Comstock
and Associated Silver Mines Company (Limited) was already launched upon
the Australian mining world, and indeed upon that of Europe, and the
Universe generally.

“The Directors of this magnificent silver property, which includes the
original Comstock Claim—amalgamated with the Associated Silver Mines
Company we understand”—wrote the fluent pen of the Editor of the
_Tasmanian Times_—“have at length succumbed to outside pressure, and in
the interest of the British and Colonial Public, consented to form these
mines of unparalleled richness into a company. The Directors are Messrs.
Valentine Blount, Frampton Tregonwell, and Charles Herbert and John
Westerfield Clarke, names which will assure the shareholders of
honourable and straightforward dealing at the hands of those to whom
their pecuniary interests are committed. These names are well and
favourably known in England, in Mexico, in the United States of America,
and the Dominion of Canada. Comment is superfluous—they speak for
themselves.

“Wherever gold or silver mining is carried on the names of Clarke and
Tregonwell are familiar as ‘household words’ and always associated with
skilled treatment and successful operations. That this enterprise will
have a beneficial effect not only upon the mining, but on the
commercial, and all other industries of Tasmania, lifting her, with her
fertile soil, her equable climate, her adaptability for all agricultural
and pastoral products to her proper place in the front rank of
Australian colonies no sane man can henceforth doubt. A line of steamers
from Strahan to Hobart, a short though expensive railway, and a metalled
coach road, are among the indispensable enterprises which Mr. Tregonwell
assured our representative would be commenced without delay. Advance,
Tasmania!”

Looking hastily through the pile of unopened letters, but keeping
private-and-confidential-appearing correspondence strictly apart, and
relegating those in Mr. Tregonwell’s bold, rapid handwriting, to a more
convenient season, he started, and trembled, as his eye fell upon a
letter in Mrs. Bruce’s handwriting which bore the Marondah postmark. His
heart almost stopped beating, when an enclosed note fell out, still more
likely to affect his inmost soul. Yes! it was in the handwriting, so
closely scanned, so dearly treasured in the past, of Imogen Carrisforth.
For the moment, a spasm of regret, even remorse affected him painfully.
He stood self-convicted by his conscience of having lingered in
frivolous, social enjoyment, while uncertain of the welfare and feelings
of one who had aroused the deepest emotions of his being, nor had he
(with shame he reflected) taken all possible means to discover to what
circumstance it was that his letters had been apparently treated with
indifference or contempt.

Mrs. Bruce’s letter gave an explanation which, though not fully
comprehensive, cleared up a part of the mystery, as far as Imogen was
concerned. It ran as follows:—


“DEAR MR. BLOUNT,—I am afraid you must have thought us a very
ill-mannered set of people, as it seems by your letter of — that you
have not received _any answer_ to your letters written the night before
you left Bunjil for Melbourne. Yet, it was scarcely our fault. That poor
lad who was drowned in the flood, which rose on the _very day_ you left,
carried answers from me and Imogen; these, I think, you would have
considered friendly, and even in a sense apologetic for my husband’s
attitude in condemning you unheard. We both scolded him soundly for
deciding your case so hastily, in disregard of the laws of evidence.
_He_ particularly, who is looked upon as the best magistrate on the
Marondah bench. We got him to hear reason at last, and to write
expressing regret that he had made no allowance for your ignorance of
our bush population, and their ways with stock. This letter was in the
bags of the mail coach to Waroonga, and _it also_ was lost when two
horses were drowned at Garlung: the bridge being six feet under water.
None of the passengers were injured, but the coach was swept down the
stream with the mail bags, which have not been recovered. It certainly
was a most unlucky occurrence, for all concerned.

“When your letter from Melbourne arrived, poor Imogen was laid up with a
bad attack of influenza, from the effects of which she was confined to
bed for several weeks, her lungs having been attacked and pneumonia
supervening; so that what with nursing her, and Mr. Bruce having left on
a three months’ trip to Queensland, all correspondence was suspended for
a while. She was very nearly _dying_, and in fact was given up by two
out of three of the doctors who attended her!

“Her good constitution pulled her through, and she has regained her
former health, though not her spirits, poor girl!

“Then, after she was up, all these accounts of your wonderful success in
Tasmania, and large fortune derived from the Tasmanian Silver Mine (I
can’t recollect its name) were circulated in the district. On account of
this she did not write, as I wanted her to do, fearing (very foolishly,
as I told her) lest you might think her influenced by your altered
fortunes. She is not that sort of girl, I can safely assert. The man who
touched her heart would remain there installed, for richer, for poorer,
till death’s parting hour.

“Whether you have said more to her than she has told me—she is very
reserved about herself—I cannot say. I have written fully, perhaps too
much so, as to which I trust to your honour, but my sole intention has
been to clear up all doubts on your part, as to the feeling which
actuates us as a _family_, about the past misunderstanding. I enclose a
scrap which she gave me reluctantly.

                                                 “Yours sincerely,
                                                 “HILDEGARDE BRUCE.”


Mr. Blount picked up the half sheet of notepaper, which having kissed
reverently, and indeed twice repeated the action, he read as follows.
Very faint and irregular were the characters:—


“What a chapter of accidents since you left! Poor Johnny Doyle drowned!
my letter and Hilda’s lost. Your reply also never came.

“My illness, in which I was ‘like to die’ following closely.

“We thought you had left without troubling to answer our letters—at
least, _they_ did. My sister has written you _sheets_, so I need not
enlarge upon matters. Edward is still in Queensland. The weather is
lovely now, after the cold winter. If you can tear yourself away from
Hobart, you might see what Marondah looks like in early summer.

                                                          “Yours truly,
                                                          “IMOGEN.”


Mr. Blount’s reply, _by telegram_, was sent with no unnecessary loss of
time:—


“Leaving for Melbourne and Marondah by to-morrow’s steamer.”


Other letters, papers, circulars, requests, invitations in shoals lay
ready for inspection. All the tentative appeals, complimentary and
otherwise, which track the successful individual in war or peace, law,
letters, or commerce. A large proportion of these were transmitted to
the waste-paper basket—a piece of furniture now rendered necessary by
the volume of Mr. Blount’s correspondence.

He felt inclined to burn the whole lot, excepting those relative to the
development of the Tasmanian Comstock and Associated Silver Mines
Company (Limited), now stamped on a score of large and portentous
envelopes.

Making a final search, a letter was detached from a superincumbent mass,
the superscription of which had the Tumut and Bunjil postmarks. This was
sufficient to arrest his attention. The handwriting, too, was that of
Sheila Maguire, whose interest in his welfare did not seem to have
declined.


“DEAR MR. BLOUNT,—I little thought, when I used to get up at all hours
to make you comfortable in our back block shanty, that this humble
individual was ministering (that’s a good word, isn’t it? I’ve been
reading up at odd times) to the wants of a Director of the Great
Comstock Silver Mines Company. What a lark it seems, doesn’t it? And
you, that didn’t know the difference between quartz and alluvial then!

“Shows what a fine country Australia is, when a gentleman may be nearly
run in for ‘duffing’ one month, and the next have all the world bowing
and scraping to him as a millionaire! That’s not my line, though, is it?
The money, if you had ten times as much, wouldn’t make Sheila Maguire
more your friend—your _real friend_—than she is now. The other way on,
if anything. And there’s a young lady down the river—not that I even
myself with _her_, only she’s a ‘cornstalk’—one of the same brand, as
the saying is. _She_ don’t mind the dirty money—any fool can come by
that, or any man that’s contented to live like a black-fellow, and save
farthings till they mount up. He can’t help it. But who’d take him, with
his muck-rake?

“Great book, _Pilgrim’s Progress_, isn’t it? Just fell across it.

“‘What the devil’s the girl driving at?’ I hear you say. That’s not much
of a swear for Bunjil, is it? Well, you’ll see about it in the
postscript, by and by.

“First and foremost, I want a hundred shares in the Great Comstock
Associated. On the ground floor. _Original_, like the Broken Hill
Proprietary.

“An uncle of mine, old Barney Maguire, of Black Dog Creek, died a month
ago, and left us boys and girls five thousand apiece. _He_ couldn’t read
and write, but he had ten thousand acres of good freehold land, river
flats, too, and a tidy herd of cattle—every one knows the ‘B. M.’ brand.
Some good horses, too. Comes of saving and screwing. He lived by the
creek bank in an old bark hut with two rooms, never married, and never
gave one of us boys and girls the value of a neck-ribbon or a
saddle-strap while he was alive. I’m sending a cheque for the scrip, so
make your secretary post them at once. As you’re a director, you’ll have
to sign your _real_ name, so I’ll know what it is. I never was sure of
the other. You’re born lucky, and I’m going to back you right out.
Perhaps I am, too, and might rise in life; who knows? I’m going to work
up my education on the chance. What I learned at She-oak Flat’ll stick
to me. So we’ll see. And now for the postscript. I looked it out—derived
from _post scriptum_ (_written after_). Never thought what ‘P.S.’ meant
before. Easy enough when you know, isn’t it?

“Well, ‘let me see!’ says the blind man—oh! I forgot; that’s vulgar—no
more of that for Miss Sheila Maguire—one of the Maguires of Tumut. ‘Fine
gal, aw. Hear she’s got money, don’t yer know?’ Ha! ha! they won’t catch
me that way. ‘I’ve travelled,’ though it’s only on a bush track. False
start; come back to the post, all of you! The straight tip is this—‘a
dead cert.’ I had it from my cousin, Joe Macintyre, her that was maid to
Mrs. Bruce. Miss Imogen _hadn’t influenza_—only a bit of a cold; but she
was real bad and low, all the same, after a certain gentleman went away.
No word, and _no letters came back_. She’d sit and cry for hours. No
interest in anything; not a smile out of her for days. Then she got ill,
and no mistake; lower and lower—close up died. Doctors gave her up. Had
to go to Sydney for change. I saw her in the train at Wagga. My word! I
hardly knew her. She was that dog-poor and miserable, pale as a ghost, I
nearly cried. Now she’s home again, and looks better, Joe says.

“But if _some one_ doesn’t turn up before the summer’s well on, I shall
know what to think him who _was_ a man and a gentleman, but that no one
about here will call either the one or the other again, least of all,

                                            “His friend and well-wisher,
                                            “SHEILA MAGUIRE.

“P.S. No. 2.—Strikes me this isn’t very different to the Church Service,
which begins with ‘Dearly beloved,’ and ends with ‘amazement.’ What do
you think?”


Mr. Blount couldn’t help smiling at certain sentences in this frank and
characteristic epistle. But he looked grave enough at the concluding
one. This was the light then in which his conduct would appear to the
rural inhabitants of the township and district of Bunjil.

Simple and chiefly unlettered they might be, but shrewd and accurate to
a wonderful degree in their discernment of character.

It was evident that the false cavalier who “loved, and who rode away,”
would have small consideration shown him on the day when he might fall
in with half a dozen Upper Sturt men at annual show or race meeting.
There was a veiled threat in Sheila’s closing sentence, and though, in
his or any other defaulter’s case, retributive justice might be stayed
or wholly miscarry, yet it was not a pleasant thought that any act of
his should bear the interpretation of bad faith; or that sentence of
excommunication would, so to speak, be pronounced against him from one
end of the river and the great Upper Sturt district to the other. By
gentle and simple alike there would be unanimous agreement on that
score. From the “mountain men” of the Bogongs and Talbingo, to the
sun-burned plain-riders of the Darling, the vigorous English of the
Waste would be searched for epithets of scorn and execration.

In the old Saxon days of the first Christian King, the epithet of
“niddering” (worthless), which men committed suicide rather than endure,
would have been decreed. Even the rude miners of the West would feel
injured. From club to hotel, from the cool green, sunless forests of the
Alpine chain, where the snow-fed rills tinkled and gurgled the long,
bright summer through, to the burning, gold-strewn deserts of West
Australia, he would be a marked man, pointed at as the coward who won a
girl’s heart and “cleared out,” because he happened to “strike it rich”
in another colony.

Luckily for his state of mind and the condition of his business
prospects, Mr. Tregonwell happened to turn up a day earlier than he was
expected, so that by sitting far into the night in council with that
experienced though fervid operator, things were put into train; so that
he and the resident directors would, with the help of a power of
attorney, arrange all the advertising and scrip printing without further
aid from Valentine Blount.

There was not much need for pushing ahead the concerns of the Great
Tasmanian Comstock, by which name it was chiefly known and designated.
The whole island seemed to be in a ferment. The public and the share
market only needed restraining. It was, of course, only in the hurry and
crush of applications for scrip, in resemblance to the South Sea—well,
we’ll say, Excitement of old historic days. The blocks of silver ore,
“native silver,” malachite, and other specimens exhibited behind a huge
plate glass window in Davey Street, had driven the city wild. Crowds
collected around it, and a couple of stalwart policemen were specially
stationed there by the inspector to prevent unseemly crushing and riot.
In addition well-armed night watchmen were provided at the expense of
the Comstock Company for the nocturnal safety of the precious deposits.
The _Pateena_ was to leave for her customary conflict with the rough
waves of Bass’s Straits at 12 a.m. So, after a hard night’s work, the
“popular director” took a parting smoke and retired for what sleep was
likely to visit him by 8 a.m., when the two partners were to breakfast
together. Mr. Blount had not a tranquil experience of “tired nature’s
sweet restorer.” “Little-River-Jack,” the Sergeant, and Sheila Maguire
pursued one another through the Bunjil forest, accompanied by the doomed
mail-boy and Mr. Bruce. Sergeant Dayrell had apparently come to life
again, and was standing pistol in hand with the same devilish sneer on
his lips, face to face with Kate Lawless and Ned. Then the melancholy
_cortège_ moved across the scene, with the police riding slowly, as they
led the spare horses upon which was tied the dead inspector and the
wounded trooper. All things seemed sad, funereal, and out of keeping
with the enforced gaiety and cordial hospitality which he had lately
enjoyed. It was a relief on awakening to find, all unrefreshed as he
was, that he had ample time in which to recruit, by means of the shower
bath and matutinal coffee, his hardly-taxed mental and physical
energies. However, all was ready to respond to the breakfast bell,
specially ordered and arranged for, and when Mr. Tregonwell, looking as
if he had gone to bed early and was only anxious about the _Hobart
Courier_, entered the breakfast room, all tokens of despondency vanished
from Mr. Blount’s countenance.

Then only he realised that a creditably early start was feasible—was
actually in process of operation.

“Look here!” exclaimed that notoriously early bird, producing two copies
of the _Courier_, of which he handed his friend one, “Read this as a
preliminary, and keep the paper in your pocket for board-ship
literature.”

It was, indeed, something to look at, as the supplement displayed under
gigantic headlines this portentous announcement—


                 “THE TASMANIAN COMSTOCK AND ASSOCIATED
                     SILVER MINES COMPANY, LIMITED.

“Acting under legal advice, the Directors have decided to close the
share list of this unparalleled mine, of which the ore bodies at greater
depths are daily disclosing a state of _phenomenal richness_. All
applications for shares not sent in by the fifteenth day of the present
month will be returned. If over-applied for—of which information will be
furnished by the incoming English mail—applicants will have shares
allotted to them in the order of their priority.”


This was to Mr. Blount sufficient information for the present. The
future of the mine was assured, and he was merely nervously anxious that
no malignant interference with the normal course of events should
prevent his arriving in Melbourne on the following day, in time to take
his berth in the Sydney Express that afternoon—which indeed he had
telegraphed for the day before. The partners had arrived on board the
_Pateena_, now puffing angrily, with full steam up, a full half hour
before the advertised time, owing to Mr. Blount’s anxiety not to be
late, and were walking up and down the deck, Tregonwell in vain
attempting to get his fellow director to listen to details, and Blount
inwardly fuming at the delay and cursing the Tasmanian lack of
punctuality and general slackness, when two shabbily-dressed men stepped
on board, one of whom walked up to the friends, tapped Mr. Blount on the
shoulder, and producing a much crumpled piece of paper, said shortly, “I
arrest you in the Queen’s name, by virtue of this Warrant!”

To describe Mr. Blount’s state of mind at this moment is beyond the
resources of the English language—perhaps beyond those of any language.
Rage, mortification, surprise, despair almost, struggled together in his
mind, until his heart seemed bursting.

For a moment it seemed, as he threw off his captor with violence, and
faced the pair of myrmidons with murder in his eye, as if he intended
resistance in spite of law, order, and all the forces of civilisation.
But his companion, cooler in situations of absolute peril as he was more
impetuous in those of lighter responsibility, restrained him forcibly.

“Nonsense! keep calm, for God’s sake, and don’t make a scene. Just allow
me to look at the warrant,” he said to the apprehending constable. “I
wish to see if it is in order. I am a magistrate of the territory. I can
answer for my friend, who, though naturally disgusted, is not likely to
resist the law.”

The men were placated by this reasonable treatment of the position.

“The warrant seems in order,” said Tregonwell. “The strange part of it
is that it should not have been cancelled all this time, as we know that
no proceedings were taken by the police at Bunjil in consequence of the
non-appearance of the prosecution for the Crown. How this warrant got
here and has been forwarded for execution is the astonishing part of the
affair. Do you know,” he said, addressing the peace officer, “how this
warrant came into the hands of the Department here?”

“Forwarded for execution here, sir,” said the man civilly, “with a batch
of New South Wales warrants, chiefly for absconders, false pretences
men, and others who have a way of crossing the Straits. It oughtn’t to
have been allowed to run, as the case wasn’t gone on with. The acting
clerk of the bench there is a senior constable, not quite up in his
work; he has made a mistake, and got it mixed up with others. Most
likely it’s a mistake, but all the same, the gentleman must come with us
for the present.”

“All right, constable, we’ll go with you, and make no attempt to escape.
Bail will be forthcoming—in thousands, if necessary.”

The steamer’s bell began to sound, and after a few minutes, and a
hurried colloquy with the captain, who promised to see his unlucky
passenger’s luggage delivered at the Imperial Club, the friends
descended into the boat, and Tregonwell read out the warrant in his
hands. It was apparently in order:—


“To Senior Constable Evans and to all Police Officers and Constables in
the Colony of Victoria.—You are hereby commanded to arrest Valentine
Blount—known as ‘Jack Blunt,’ at present supposed to be working in the
‘Lady Julia’ claim, forty miles from Bunjil, on the Wild Horse Creek, in
company with Phelim and Patrick O’Hara, also George Dixon (known as
Lanky), and to bring him before me or any other Police Magistrate of
Victoria. This warrant is issued on the sworn information of Edward
Hamilton Bruce, J.P. of Marondah, on the Upper Sturt, and for such
action this shall be your warrant.

                                            “(_Signed_) H. BAYLEY, P.M.”


The sorely-tried lover felt much more inclined to fling himself into the
waters of the Derwent, and there remain, than to occupy for one moment
longer this ignominious position at the hands of the myrmidons of the
law. However, the next step, of course, was to interview the police
magistrate of Hobart at his Court House, and after having explained the
circumstances, to apply for bail, so that the period of detention might
be shortened as much as possible. This process of alleviation was
effected without unnecessary delay, the magistrate being a reasonable,
experienced person, and as such inclined to sympathise with the victim
of malign fate, obviously not of the class with which he had been for
years judicially occupied.

The officer briefly stated the case, produced the warrant, and delivered
up his prisoner, who was permitted to take a chair. Mr. Parker, P.M.,
scanned the warrant with keen and careful eye before committing himself
to an opinion. After which he bestowed a searching glance upon Mr.
Blount, and thus delivered himself:

“It appears,” he said, “that this warrant was issued, with several
others, upon the sworn information of Edward Hamilton Bruce, J.P., of
Marondah, Upper Sturt, who had reason to believe that the person
named—viz., Valentine Blount—generally known as ‘Jack Blunt,’ was
concerned with Phelim O’Hara, Patrick O’Hara, George Dixon (otherwise
Lanky), and John Carter, known as ‘Little-River-Jack,’ in stealing and
disposing of certain fat cattle branded E.H.B., the property of the said
Edward Hamilton Bruce. It is now the 20th of November,” said the worthy
P.M., “and I note that this warrant was signed on the 10th of September
last. By a curious coincidence I have this morning received a
communication from the Department of Justice in Victoria informing me
that separate warrants were issued for the persons named in the
information, but that, owing to deficiency of proof and difficulty of
identification of the stock suspected to have been killed or otherwise
disposed of, the Crown Solicitor has ordered a _Nolle Prosequi_ to be
entered. ‘In accordance with which decision, notices of such action were
signed by the bench of magistrates at Bunjil, Victoria, and the
warrants, in the names of Phelim O’Hara, Patrick O’Hara, George Dixon
(_alias_ Lanky), and John Carter (_alias_ Little-River-Jack), were
cancelled. But through inadvertence, the warrant in the name of
Valentine Blount (otherwise Jack Blunt) had been mislaid, and, with
other documents, forwarded to James Parker, Esq., P.M., Hobart. He is
requested to return the said warrant to the Department of Justice, and
if the said warrant has been by misadventure executed, to release at
once the said Valentine Blount, known as “Jack Blunt.”

                                        “‘I remain, sir,
                                        “‘Your obedient servant,
                                        “‘GEORGE B. HARRISON,
                                        “‘_Under Secretary of Justice_.’


“That being the case, I have the pleasure to congratulate you, sir, on
your escape from a very unpleasant position, and to apologise on behalf
of the Department with which I am connected, for the unfortunate
mistake, as well as for all consequences to which it may have led in
your case. Sergeant, let the accused be discharged.”

Thus, after undergoing tortures, as to which the same time spent on a
rack of the period—say in the time of His Most Christian Majesty, Philip
of Spain—would have been a trifling inconvenience, was our unlucky
_détenu_ restored to liberty.

After bowing to the genial P.M., who had seen so many discomfitures,
disasters, and disorders, that nothing was likely to cause him surprise
or disturb his serenity, the friends returned to their club to lunch, as
well as to make such arrangements for the morrow as might suffice for
clearing out to Melbourne with the least possible delay and public
disturbance. Fortunately, another steamer on a different line, just
arrived from Callao and the Islands, was due for an early start in the
morning. Mr. Blount resolved, after dining at the club, to spend the
night on board of her so as to have no bother about getting ready before
daylight, at which time the skipper promised departure. Frampton
Tregonwell, the friend in need, would bear him company and help to keep
up his spirits so rudely dashed until the time arrived for the partial
oblivion of bed, which, indeed, it was long before he found.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Next morning, however, the excitement of a gale took him out of his
self-consciousness for a few hours, and the unfamiliar companionship of
the passengers aided the cure. He was only partially recovered from a
state of shock and annoyance, but could not help being attracted by the
men and women; they were of rare and striking types, such as were around
him, in all directions.

They were certainly cosmopolitan—grizzled island traders, sea-captains,
and mates out of employment at present. Adventurers of every kind, sort,
and degree, with their wives and families of all shades of colour and
complexion. Speaking all languages indifferently ill, Spanish and
Portuguese, French, German and Italian, and, of course, English more or
less undefiled. The men were fine specimens physically, bold, frank,
hardy-looking, such as might be expected to reply with knife and
revolver to adverse argument. Handsome dark women and girls, with
flashing eyes and unrivalled teeth, who seemed perfectly at home, and
regarded the wildest weather with curiosity rather than with
apprehension. Sydney seemed familiar to many as their port of arrival
and departure, which, having reached, they were more free to find
passage to the ends of the earth.

Such a happy-go-lucky unconventional crowd of passengers, it had rarely
been Mr. Blount’s lot to encounter, far-travelled though he was. The
captain, mates and ship’s crew were, in their way, equally removed from
ordinary personages. One could imagine the captain—a spare, saturnine
American—a pirate, suddenly converted by a missionary bishop—bearing his
captives of the lower hold, previously doomed to torture and spoliation,
to a free port, there to be released, unharmed, with all their goods and
chattels scrupulously returned. Here was an opportunity altogether
unparalleled, presented to “an observer of human nature.”

But it was like many other gifts of the gods, presented to the dealer in
the souls and bodies of his fellow creatures (intellectually regarded),
at the precise time and place, when, from circumstances, he could make
no use of the situation. A banquet of the gods, and not the ghost of an
appetite wherewith to savour it!

In his present mood, had Helen of Troy, accompanied by Paris and
Achilles, with Briseis as “lady help,” been one of the strangely
assorted crowd (there _were_ half a dozen modern Greeks on board, miners
returning from an inspection of an alleged “mountain of tin”)—even then
he would not have listened with interest to their respectful
cross-examination of the “goddess moulded” as to her adventures since
the fall of Troy, or her well-grounded apprehension of her probable fate
under adverse feminine rule.

All romance, sympathy, curiosity even were dead within him for the
present. Fate had counter-checked him too often. He expected nothing,
hoped nothing, but feared everything—until his arrival at the homestead
on the Upper Sturt, when he could see Imogen, pale, perhaps, and more
fragile than when last she turned her impatient horse’s head
homeward—but infinitely lovely and dearer than all, as having proved her
loyalty to him, from their first meeting by the waters of the Great
River, in despite of doubt, calumny, and unjust accusation.

All these were gone and disposed of; now was the season of faith and
fruition—the reward of her love, and truth—of his constancy. Here his
complacent feeling of perhaps scarcely justified self-laudation faltered
somewhat. Yes! he _had_ been true—he _had_ been faithful—any other
feeling was merely involuntary deflection from his ideal, and he was now
going to claim his prize!

The wind stilled. The sea went down. The stars came out. The soft air of
the Great South Land, hidden away from the restless sea-rover for
centuries untold, until the keel of the great English captain floated
into the peerless haven, enveloped the wave-worn bark, as with a mantle
of peace and forgiveness; their voyage was practically, virtually, at an
end. Mr. Blount remained on deck smoking with the more hardened of the
foreign passengers, who apparently needed not sleep at all, until the
midnight hour; then wearily sought his cabin. Cabin indeed, he had none,
for, determined to get away at all hazards, he had expressed his total
indifference to such a luxury, and his willingness to sleep under the
cabin table, if necessary, only provided that he got a passage. The
captain said if that were so he could come, taking his chance of a bed
or sofa. However, he had been to sea before. A judicious _douceur_ to
the head steward procured him, after a certain hour, one of the saloon
lounges, and the privilege of dressing in that important functionary’s
cabin. Awake with the dawn, he found himself just in time to witness the
safe passage of the _Donna Inez_ through the tumultuous harbour entrance
of the “Rip,” and after a decent interval, to arrive, undisturbed by
anxiety about luggage, at the ever open door of the Imperial Club.

Here, with his property around him—apparently safe and uninjured—he
began to find himself an independent traveller of means and position
again. He had been relieved of the horrible uncertainty of delay—the
doubt and fear connected with a trial for a criminal offence, and all
the other disagreeables, if not dangers, of a discreditable position.
His railway ticket had already been taken for Waronga, whence the coach
on the ensuing morning, after a daylight breakfast, would take him on to
Marondah.

All went well. He saw again the rippling river, the friendly face of
Mrs. Bruce—he had always delighted in that dear woman—so refined, so
ladylike, and yet practical and steadfast. The ideal wife and
mother—remote from the metropolis, and the frivolous slaves of
fashion—yet how infinitely superior to them all. He saw the fair Imogen
coming to meet him, shyly repressing her joy and gratitude for the turn
which their fortunes had taken, but only refraining on account of the
spectators from throwing herself into his arms. This she confessed
afterwards, after a decent interval of explanation, and full confessions
on both sides. Neither of them would own to have been the most overjoyed
at the meeting, delayed as it had been by an apparent conspiracy of all
the powers of darkness.

Mr. Bruce had not as yet returned from the “Ultima Thule” of Western
Queensland, where he had a share in an immense cattle station. His stay
had been protracted and unsatisfactory. A dry season had set in—had
followed several rainless years, in fact—nothing could exceed the
frightful position of the squatters in that district.

The destruction of stock was awful, unparalleled. Never since the first
white man’s foot had touched Australia’s shore, had there been such
loss, and probable ruin (he wrote to his wife).

He should be glad to get back to Marondah, to see some decent grass
again, and hear the river rippling through the calm still night, and the
river-oaks murmuring to the stars. _That_ was something like a country.
He would take the first chance to sell out of Mount Trelawney, and never
go out of Victoria for an investment again.

So Edward Bruce had written in a peaceable mood. He supposed a general
amnesty must be declared, and all be forgiven and forgotten. By the way,
he met Jack Carter (Little-River-Jack) at a place not a hundred miles
from Roma (he wrote). “He was in a position to do me a service at a
critical juncture, and did it heartily and effectively. So all scores
are cleared between him and me. You mustn’t suppose, however, that I am
in danger of my life, or that bushranging, cattle-stealing, and an
occasional interchange of revolver shots, is part of the order of the
day. What I mention is exceptional, and I don’t wish it to go further
for several reasons.

“The Manager, Mackenzie, and I were riding along rather late one
evening, and a good twelve or fifteen miles from home. The weather (of
course) was fine, but the hour was late, and the sun, which had been
glaring at us all day, only just about to set.

“‘By George! that’s a big mob of horses,’ said Mac., ‘going fast too.
Coming from the back of Goornong and heading for Burnt Creek. Six men
and a black boy. Depend upon it, there’s something “cronk.” They might
see us yet. Yes, they do! They’ve halted. Left two men and the boy with
the mob, and the rest, four men, are coming across the plains to us.’

“‘Do you know who they are?’

“‘I can pretty well guess,’ he said. ‘They’re a part of that crowd that
we broke up last year, a very dangerous lot! The big man with the beard
is Joe Bradfield, the best bushman in all Queensland, and perhaps
Australia, to boot. The chap alongside him is “Jerry the Nut.” _He’s_ a
double-dyed scoundrel, if you like, twice tried for murder, and ought to
have been hanged years ago, if he’d got his rights. Supposed to have
shot “Jack the Cook,” who quarrelled with him, and started in for
Springsure to give the lot away, but never got there. Found dead in the
Oakey Creek with two bullets in him. Jerry was proved to have overtaken
him on the road; was the last man seen with him alive. Put on his
trial—a strong case against him, but not sufficient evidence. Here they
come. We’ve seen them in possession of stolen horses. I expect they’ve
duffed them from that Bank station, that was taken over last week. They
may think it safer to “rub us out.” They’re villains enough for
anything. You’re armed, and my “navy, No. 1” is pretty sure at close
quarters. Cut off by —! we may have to ride for it too—’ As he spoke,
three men emerged from a clump of brigalow at an angle from the line at
which the ‘horse thieves’ were riding. They also made towards us, and
riding at speed, seemed as if they desired to reach us at about the same
time as the others. Such, it appeared, would be the case.

“The four men that had left the mob of horses, rode at the station
overseer and me as if they would ride over us. Then pulled up with the
stock-horses’ sudden halt, not brought up on their haunches, like those
of the gaucho of Chile or the cowboy of the Western States, by the
merciless wrenching curb, but with the half pull of the plain snaffle,
the only bit the bushman knows, when with loose rein, and lowered head,
the Australian camp horse drives his fore-feet into the ground, and
stops dead as if nailed to the earth.

“‘What the h—l are you two doing here?’ shouted the tall man, a Hercules
in height and breadth of shoulder, yet sitting his horse with the ease
and closeness of early boyhood, though his beard and coal-black hair
were already streaked with grey. Tracking us down? My God! it’s the
worst lay you was ever on. Isn’t a man to ride across a plain in the
blasted squatters’ country without he has a pass from a magistrate?
That’s what it’s coming to. Well, you’re on the wrong lay this trip.
Come along back with us, or we’ll make yer.

“‘And look dashed quick about it, or ye’ll not come back at all. Bring
up the darbies, Joe! We’ll see how the bloomin’ swells like ’em.’

“As the last speaker uttered this threat, he and the other men raised
their revolvers.

“‘I’ll see you d—d first,’ I replied (excuse bad language). ‘We’re from
Trelawney this morning, and on our lawful business.’ Here I drew my
revolver.

“The encounter looked doubtful, when the three new arrivals rode up,
and, like the other bushmen, stopped dead, with their horses side by
side.

“‘No, yer don’t!’ said one of the new arrivals, a man as tall and
massive as the first ‘robber’ (for such he seemed). ‘I’m not goen’ to
stand by and see Mr. Bruce, of Marondah, double-banked by you Queensland
duffers while I’m round. There’s been trouble between him and our crowd;
but he’s a man and a gentleman, and I’m here to stand by him to the
bitter end. It’s five go four now, so fire away, and be d—d to you!’

“‘Who the devil are you?’

“‘I’m Phelim O’Hara, and this is Little-River-Jack, and my brother Pat.
We’ve come up, like the Proosians at Waterloo, rather late in the day;
but “better late than never.” You’re Joe Bradfield, that we’ve heard of,
and Jerry the Nut that murdered his mate, I suppose. So you’d better go
back to the French, and let the allies go their own way. No one’s goen’
to give you away, if your own foolishness doesn’t. We’re on our own
ground, so hear reason and clear out. I heard a big lot of police, and
Superintendent Gray, of Albany, was on yer track.’

“‘When did you hear that?’

“‘No later than yesterday. And you’re ridin’ straight into their
bloomin’ arms, if yer don’t get back the way yer kem’ in. Take a fool’s
advice, and get into the ranges again. This country’s too open for your
crowd, and you’ll have to do the gully-raker’s racket for a month or
two, till the “derry’s” toned down a bit.’

“This apparently reasonable advice seemed to have weight with the troop
of highly irregular horse, as, after a short colloquy, they rode back to
their companions in charge of the horses, and heading them towards the
distant ranges, disappeared shortly from sight.

“‘O’Hara!’ said I, ‘whatever you and your mates may have done in the
past—at any rate, as far as I am concerned—is now past and gone. I
freely forgive anything that there may have been to forgive, in
consequence of your manly conduct to-day. If you will come back with me
to the head station, I dare say Mr. Mackenzie can find you something to
do in this bad season. Unfortunately, we have only too many vacancies
for bushmen like yourselves and Jack Carter.’

“‘We’ll take your word for it, Mr. Bruce,’ said Little-River-Jack; ‘and,
if we come to terms, there’ll be no station on the Upper Sturt that’ll
lose fewer stock—barrin’ from the season—while we’re to the fore.’

“‘All right,’ said Mackenzie, ‘you’re just the chaps we want this awful
season; and, now you’re going straight, each of you will be worth half a
dozen ordinary men.’”


The day was still warm, not much change from the 110° in the shade which
the sunset-hour had registered, but a gradual coolness commenced to
o’erspread the heated landscape. “The stars rush out, at one strike
comes the dark,” making an appearance of coolness, to which the abnormal
dryness of the air in mid-Australia lends a perceptible relief.
Confident of a welcome, and the hospitable reception of a
head-station—always superior in comfort to the more casual arrangements
of the out-stations—the five horsemen rode steadily forward in peace and
amity; Mr. Mackenzie, as knowing every foot of the run, taking the lead
with the two O’Haras, while Mr. Bruce and Little-River-Jack followed
quietly in the rear.




                               CHAPTER IX


“‘I’D like to tell you, sir,’ said Carter, ‘how we first got acquainted,
me and Mr. Blount, to put him right with you, because I heard a whisper
that you thought he must be in with us, in the “cross” butchering line.’

“‘I don’t deny,’ I answered, ‘that I thought it very suspicious that a
man like him should be living with you fellows, and yet have no idea
that dishonest work was going on?’

“‘All right, Mr. Bruce, don’t spare us. It _was_ dishonest, there’s no
two ways about it, and we chaps ought to be ashamed of ourselves, as are
well able to get a living straight and square, and under fear of no man.
Now we’ve had a fright and been let off you’ll never hear another word
against us. But I wanted to have a word about Mr. Blount. If he had been
copped along with us, it would have been a cruel shame, a regular
murder, and him as innocent as the child unborn. His horse was knocked
up, or next door to it, when I came across him a few miles from the
“Lady Julia”; I’d a few cattle with me, and asked him to help me drive
them. He stayed at our place that night. The man I was selling them to
sent for them before daylight, and all he could hear was them being let
out of the yard.’

“‘He was a dividing mate after that, though?’ said I, knowing that such
mining agreements comprehend all knowledge in heaven and earth, and
under the sea.

“Carter answered my unspoken thought when he said, ‘He bought Tumberumba
Dick’s share, him as went to Coolgardie, and if he knew mullock from
wash dirt, then, it’s as much as he did. As for cattle, he hardly knew a
cow from a steer. Then he lost his moke and went down the river to get
word of him.’

“‘Yes!’ I said. ‘I met him then; he came on me just as I was shooting a
small mob of wild horses. I had been watching for them for months. They
seldom came so far in; but I dropped the stallion first shot, a noted
grey, said to be thoroughbred; the mares and foals wouldn’t leave him,
so I got them all, one by one.’

“‘Mr. Blount was astonished, I suppose? Seems a pity, too, they were a
well-bred lot. I’ve had many a gallop after the same lot, thinkin’ to
yard ’em, but they always got away. Anyhow, they’re no blessed good, if
you do yard ’em; mostly sulk and always clear the first chance. His cob,
it seems, joined your horses, and was run in to the paddock. So you put
him up for the night and sent him home on his own horse. Came part of
the way with him, you and the ladies, and Black Paddy. Nigh hand to the
“Lady Julia” you spotted your “E. H. B.” bullock with a fresh brand on.
And he never said nothen’. Next day Black Paddy ran our tracks to the
claim and the stockyard, found where the last bullocks had been driven
to the Back Creek slaughter yards. That was as plain as A B C, and we
had to clear. Phelim waited on to get his horse back that he’d lent him,
and start after Pat and Lanky, who were well on their way to Omeo.’

“‘All quite correct,’ I said; ‘but why didn’t he act straightforwardly
and tell me like a man that he had been working in your claim?’

“‘Because he didn’t want to give us away, and if he said what he knew,
but _didn’t understand_, the police would have been up next day and
collared the lot of us before we had a chance to cut it.’

“‘But why was he so tender about your party?’ I said. ‘You had deceived
him, and he might naturally have felt angry at being let in for aiding
and abetting cattle stealers, and all the more anxious to see you
punished.’

“‘That’s all right, Mr. Bruce; but you see there was another reason why
he stood by us, though he didn’t wait an hour after he knew we were on
the cross; wouldn’t take his share of the gold neither, which he’d
worked as hard for as any of us.’

“‘What _was_ the other reason?’

“‘Well, sir,’ rather shamefacedly, ‘he thought I’d _saved his life_, as
it were.’

“‘Saved his life? How could that be?’

“‘It was this way, sir.’ As he spoke, he looked quite sad and confused.
‘You know that Razor Back ridge on the short track to Bunjil?’

“‘Yes! I was over it once, and a brute of a track it was. That was where
Paddy Farrell was killed.’

“‘The same; well, when we was coming along it from Bunjil to the claim,
that cob of his—a flat-country horse—got frightened, and had half a mind
to back over the edge. I was thinkin’ of somethin’ else; when I looked
back I saw Mr. Blount was confused-like, he didn’t know how to stop him.
I slipped off, and held the cob, while he did the same, and started old
Keewah along the track, with the reins tied to the stirrup-iron. My old
moke trotted on, and the cob after him, till they came to the trap-yard,
where we found them when we came up, half an hour after. There wasn’t
much in it. Any man who’d lived in rangey country couldn’t have helped
doin’ it; but he chose to believe I’d saved his life. So it was chiefly
that that made him not let on to you about where he’d lived. Nothing
might have come of it; but it was a close shave, and no mistake.’

“‘I’m very glad to hear the explanation, Carter. I don’t see how he
could have acted differently, as a man or gentleman. I shall write and
tell him so. And now, a word with you; which you can pass on to your
mates. Make no mistake, you’ve got a fresh start in life! You three
fellows are young. Anything there is against you, as far as I know, is
over and done with. These warrants are just waste paper. But be careful
for the future. If you stick to the Nundooroo station till the drought’s
over, you’re made men. I’ll let the Inspector-General of Police know how
you behaved.’

“‘All right, sir; we’re on. We won’t go back on you,’ was his reply.

“‘You may expect to see me at Marondah, within the month, though
travelling through a desert, as this country is virtually now, is very
slow and unsatisfactory. I must pick up a riding camel, a “heirie,” such
as I’ve seen in the East, warranted to keep going for twenty-four hours
on end, without water or food. However, I suppose rain will come some
time or other.’”


Thus fully exonerated, it may be believed that Blount made the best use
of his time at Marondah, where he had the field all to himself with the
advantage of the most considerate of chaperons, in the person of Mrs.
Bruce, who had always been, as she told him, his staunch supporter, even
in the dark days, when her husband forbade his name to be mentioned, and
when from adverse circumstances no letters had arrived to clear his
character.

“_I_ never doubted you for a moment,” murmured Imogen, “but it must be
confessed, it was hard work holding to my trust in you, when so many
rumours were flying through the country. I never could make out why you
joined such people at all, or what you were to gain by it. If you wished
to know what a miner’s life was like, there are plenty of gentlemen glad
enough to go into any venture of the sort, with the aid of a little
capital—men such as you have described at the ‘Comstock’ or at Zeehan.”

“But how was I to find them?”

“Just the same way in which you would have done in England, through
introductions to men of mark out here. They would have advised you for
your good. And there would have been no risk of your being compromised
by any action of theirs.”

“No doubt it was indiscreet of me, but I wanted to see for myself, and
form my own opinion by personal experience of a society so different
from any I had known before.”

“That is where you conceited Englishmen”—here she held up a warning
finger—“make a mistake, indeed tons of mistakes. In vain we tell you
that there is no special difference here between the classes of society,
or the laws which rule them, and those of your own beloved country,
which we are proud to resemble.”

“But are they not different?”

“Not radically, by any means. Any departure from English manners and
customs is chiefly superficial. Your squire, or lord of the manor, says
‘Mornin’, Jones! crops doin’ so-so, too dry for the roots,’ and so on.
‘Nice four year old of yours. Looks as if he’d grow into a hunter.’ But
there’s no _real_ equality, nor can there be. Jones doesn’t expect it.”

“Mr. Bruce, I suppose, has much the same feeling for the farmers here,
and they meet on much the same terms. Except when the suspicion of
‘duffing’ comes in, eh? then—then—relations are strained, indeed, as
between the same classes, if poaching was discovered, and brought home
to the guilty ones.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

They had these, with many other, talks and disquisitions, such as are
interesting to lovers, and lovers only, in the long delicious evenings
and unquestioned idlesse which are the prerogatives of the halcyon days
which follow a declared engagement, and before the completed drama of
marriage.

The soft, mild months of the southern spring were now heralding the less
romantic season of the Australian summer. The sun god was daily
strengthening his power, without as yet the fierce noonday glare or
burning heat. Chiefly precious to them were the moonlight walks by the
river side when the shadows of the great willows which fringed the river
bank fell over the hurrying tide, when star sheen or moonrays glinted
through the close foliage or sparkled diamond bright on the rippling
bars. There was a winding path a few feet from the bank, accurately
marked by the cattle and horses, which roved unchecked through the great
meadows.

Here the lovers were at liberty to indulge in fullest confidences. He
told her that he had loved her from the very first moment that his eyes
fell upon her, when, not knowing that any other than Mrs. Bruce was in
the house he had been almost unconventional in the surprise of the
meeting and his instant admiration. “That moment sealed our destiny,” he
said, “or rather, would have left me a lifelong regret had I never set
eyes on you again. And what was your feeling, Imogen?” looking suddenly
into her eyes, which, lit up by a fairy moonray, seemed to his eager
gaze to glow with unearthly radiance. So, in old days did the fabled
Oread enthrall the heart of the doomed shepherd or woodsman, luring him
to follow into her enchanted bower, which he was fated never again to
discover, wasting life wandering through the forest aisles, wearing out
health, youth and passion, in the ever-fleeting, illusory pursuit.

“I think,” she answered softly, as her eyes fell before his ardent gaze,
“that I must have been similarly affected, why, I cannot tell, but the
fact remains that if you had never returned—and we had not much time for
love-making, had we, between that day and your return to the ‘Lady
Julia’ claim, and the fascinating society of Mr. Little-River-Jack?—I
should have ‘fallen into a sadness, then into a fast, thence into a
weakness,’ and so on. As it was, I was very melancholy and low for a
while, and between that and influenza, very nearly ‘went out,’ as my
maid, Josephine Macintyre, phrased it. Then, when I was coming round,
and reaching the stage of ‘the common air, the sea, the skies, to “her”
are opening Paradise,’ and would have written to you, we heard that you
had become a millionaire or a ‘silver king’ in Tasmania. It was foolish,
I know, but I thought it might look as if I wanted to recall you because
of your wealth—a vulgar idea, but still one that works for good or evil
in this silly life of ours. But now, all will be forgiven, ‘if this
should meet the eye,’ &c., as the advertisements say. You will forgive
me, and I will forgive you, and there will never be any more doubts or
despair, will there?”

That Mr. Blount made a short but impressive reply to this query may be
taken for granted. The river marge, the sighing, trailing willows, the
rippling murmuring stream, the friendly moon, all these were conditions
eminently favourable to “love’s young dream.” Nor did they fail in this
instance to ratify the solemn, irrevocable vow, often lightly, rashly,
falsely sworn, but in this instance repeated with all the passion of
ardent manhood, responded to with the heart’s best and truest affection,
the sacred, intensely glowing flame of the maiden’s love, imperishable,
immortal.

“You told me, the last time we met,” she whispered, “that some day I
should know why you came here to lead an aimless, wandering life. I
always thought there was some mystery about it. Will you tell me now? It
is lovely and mild, there could not be a better time. How clearly you
can hear the ripple in the shallows. Was there a woman in it?”

“Of course there was, but mind, it all happened seven years ago. So if
what I say may be used against me on my trial, I shall be dumb.”

“I’ve copied out depositions now and then, for Edward,” replied the
girl, archly. “Having heard the evidence, do you wish to say anything?
comes next. So I’ll promise not to take advantage of your voluntary
confession, if you make a clean breast of it, once for all. I have no
fear of the dear, dead women, whoever they were.”

“You need not,” said Blount, as he drew her more closely to him, “not if
Helen of Troy were of the company.”

On their return to the verandah, where they found Mrs. Bruce still
occupied with the needlework, which took up (so she said), fortunately,
so much of her time, Imogen pleaded fatigue and retired, leaving the
field free to her sister and the guest, who thereupon commenced a long,
and apparently serious conversation.

Mr. Blount spoke more unreservedly of his private affairs than he had
hitherto thought it expedient to do. Independently of his share in the
Great Comstock Company, for which he had already been offered a hundred
thousand pounds—he had a handsome allowance from his father—as also,
thinking it might be needed, a letter of credit upon the Imperial Bank
for five thousand pounds.

“It will always be a puzzle to me and Imogen,” said Mrs. Bruce, “how,
with all that money at your disposal, you should ever have run the risks
you did in this gipsy business, with the people we found you with, or
would have done, if you had remained a few days longer with them. You
didn’t want to learn their language, like Borrow—what other reason
_could_ there be?”

“My dear Mrs. Bruce,” he replied, “you have been so good, considerate,
and friendly to me, that I must make a clean breast of it. I have
already told Imogen all there is to tell of a by no means uncommon event
in a man’s life, when one of your adorable, yet fatal sex is mixed up
with it.”

“I see, I understand, the ‘eternal feminine’; we have not many romances
of the kind in these quiet hills, but of course they are not wholly
unknown, even in our sequestered lives. You are going to tell me of your
tragedy.”

“It was not far removed from the ordinary run of such adventures, though
there might easily have been a catastrophe. I was young, I said it was
seven years ago, since which I have industriously wasted life’s best
gifts, in trying to forget her. Beautiful, yes, as a dream maiden! a
recognised queen of society, flattered, worshipped, wherever her fairy
footsteps trod; but vain, ambitious and false as the Lorelei, or the
mermaiden, that lures the fated victim. More than one man had thrown
life, character, or fortune at her feet, unavailingly. I had heard this,
but with the reckless confidence of youth, I heeded not. I met her at
the quiet country house of a relative; men being scarce, she
condescended to play for so poor a stake as the heart of a younger son,
an undistinguished lover’s existence, and she won!

“How could it be otherwise? She turned the full battery of her charms
upon the undefended fort. We rode together, we fished the trout stream,
more dangerous still. We read in the old library, morning after morning,
and here my not unmarked university career served me well, as I thought.
I had been reading aloud from a novel of the hour, when, looking up
suddenly I saw a light in her eyes, which gave me hope, more than hope.
I took her hand, I poured out protestations, entreaties, vows of eternal
love; whatever man has distilled from the inward fires of soul and
sense, under the alembic of love at white heat, I found words for and
poured into her not unwilling ear.

“She was visibly agitated. Her cold nature, serenely lovely as she
always was, seemed to kindle into flame under the fire of my impetuous
avowal. I gained her other hand, I threw myself on my knees before her,
and drew her down to the level of my face. I clasped her yielding form,
and kissed her lips with soul-consuming ardour. To my surprise, she made
no resistance, her colour came and went, she might have been the veriest
country milkmaid, surprised into consent by her rustic lover’s
eagerness. ‘You are mine, say you are mine for ever!’ I whispered into
her shell-like ear as her loosened hair fell over her cheek.

“‘Yours,’ she said in a low intense murmur, ‘now and for ever.’ Then
gently, disengaging herself from my arms, ‘This is a foolish business. I
confess to being rather unprepared, but I suppose we must consider it
binding?’

“‘Binding,’ said I, shocked at the alteration of her tone and manner.
‘To the end of the world, and afterwards, in life, in death, my heart is
yours unalterably—to wear in true love’s circlet or to break and cast
beneath your feet.’

“‘Poor Val!’ said she, smoothing my hair with her dainty jewelled
fingers, ‘yet women have played false before now to their promises, as
fondly made, and men’s hearts have not been broken. They have lived to
smile, to wed, to enjoy life much as usual—or old tales are untrue.’

“‘Do not jest,’ said I, ‘a man’s life—a woman’s heart, are treasures too
precious to win—too perilous to lose; say you are not in earnest?’

“‘Perhaps not,’ she said, lightly. ‘Yes! you may have your good-night
kiss,’ and we parted. You would not think it was for ever.

“The house-party was not large at Kingswood, but it was as much
disturbed and excited when our engagement was given out, as if it had
been a much more exalted gathering.

“My devotion had not been unmarked, but the betting had been against me.
I was too young, too undistinguished—what had I done? not even in the
army—in literature, beyond a few tentative minor successes, I was
unknown. How had I presumed to propose to—indeed to win this belle of
the last two seasons—the admitted star of the most aristocratic,
exclusive, socially distinguished set? I was fairly good-looking—so much
was admitted—my family was unimpeachable, old and honoured, but where is
the money to come from to uphold the dignity and pay the bills of a
queen of beauty and fashion such as Adeline Montresor?

“She had not come down from her room next morning when we men adjourned
to the grounds for a smoke, and the usual after breakfast stroll.

“I was in the stable examining a strain which had lamed my hunter a few
days since, and which had accounted for my presence in the library on
the eventful afternoon, when my attention was attracted by an
observation made by one man to another who held out a morning paper for
his friend to see.

“‘I thought there was something “by ordinar,” as our Scotch gardener
says.

“‘Death of Sir Reginald Lutterworth, all his money and the lovely place
left to his nephew, Valentine Blount, the younger son of Lord
Fontenaye.’

“‘By Jove!’ said his friend. ‘What a throw in! This accounts for the
unaccountable, to put it mildly. The fair Adeline sees something beyond
the personal merits of our enthusiastic young friend.

“‘A house in town—a place in the country, etc., presented at Court,
Marlborough House in the future—what girl of the period could say no to
such a present—with a still more gorgeous perspective?’

“‘Certainly not Miss Montresor, nor any of her set. But what about
Colonel Delamere?’

“‘He’ll receive a neat, carefully worded note, which being interpreted,
needs only one word of translation, “farewell.”

“‘Perhaps to soften the blow, as the phrase runs, something like “my
people so badly off, pressure brought to bear—feelings unchanged—bow to
Fate, etc.”’

“‘Wonder if she saw it?’

“‘My man says it’s in all the evening papers, but we were so hard at
work at bridge, that no one thought of looking at them. She couldn’t
have seen it, unless the maid took it up to her room when she went to
dress for dinner. Ha! didn’t think of that.’

“On inquiry, I found that my enslaver and her maid had left for London
by the early train. A note had been left for me, containing only a few
words. ‘Dearest, I feel I _must_ go home. See you at Oldacres. Au
revoir.’

“I felt disappointed. Still I had no rational ground for distrust. It
was most natural that a girl under such circumstances should wish to go
home to her mother, and relieve her heart, when such an important step
had been decided upon. I sent a telegram in answer, and arranged to
leave for London, having to make certain arrangements in accordance with
what would doubtless be my altered position.

“We wrote to one another daily. The letters, though not particularly
ardent on her side, were affectionate and apparently sincere. A few days
passed in making necessary financial arrangements, in receiving
congratulations, freely tendered by friends and acquaintances.

“By my own family, I was regarded as a Spanish galleon, laden with
treasure, which had come to redeem the faded glories of the estate, and
to aid the wearer of a title, unsupported by an adequate income. Life
was roseate, radiant with dazzling splendour.

“What cared I for the wealth? Was I not the proud possessor of the heart
of the loveliest girl in England? I was invited to her father’s place in
the Midlands, for the forthcoming hunting season.

“The kindest, semi-maternal letter informed me that ‘darling Adeline’
had overtaxed her nervous system, and not been quite herself for the
last few days. I could understand _why_. However, she was looking her
best once more, and all impatience to greet me at Oldacres, next week,
when some of their more intimate neighbours would be able to pay their
respects. I made rather a wry face at the extra week’s delay, thus
imposed upon me, but suppressed any impatience as much as was possible,
while thinking of the rapturous delight awaiting me, at the end of the
probation. On the morning of the day on which I was to leave London, I
received another of the extra-legal, important-looking documents, with
which I had been so familiar lately. I was on the point of throwing it
into the drawer of my writing table to await my return when I should be
able to settle all formal matters in one morning’s work. Something,
however, urged me to open the bothering thing, and have done with it, so
as not to have it hanging over me when I was impatient of business of
any sort or kind.

“I read over the first page twice before I fully grasped its purport.


“‘MY DEAR SIR,—We regret deeply the unpleasant nature of the
communication which we are reluctantly compelled to make. We cannot
sufficiently express our surprise at the apparent carelessness of
Messrs. Steadman and Delve, who have been your uncle’s trusted lawyers
and agents for fifty years, and in point of fact acted in that capacity
for your grandfather, the late Lord Fontenaye, and we apologise, with
sincere regrets, for not having verified with greater care the precise
nature of Sir Reginald’s last will and testament.

“‘It now appears that the testator made _another will_ a year after the
one by which you were to benefit so largely. That other will has been
found in a secret drawer, and is now in the possession of Messrs.
Steadman and Delve. By it _all former wills_ are revoked, and there is a
total omission of your name as a beneficiary. With the exception of
comparatively trifling annuities and legacies, the whole of the
testator’s very large estates, together with the sum of £300,000
invested in the three per cents, is willed to your elder brother, the
present Lord Fontenaye.’


“This was a thunderclap; indeed, apart from the natural distaste felt by
most men at having been suddenly displaced from a position of wealth and
importance, my chief regret arose from the feeling of disappointment
which my change from wealth to moderate competence would cause to my
beloved Adeline.

“No doubt of her loyalty and good faith troubled me. A legacy from my
mother provided a sufficient, if not unusual income, as well as a fair
estate, upon which we could live in something more than moderate
comfort. Surely no girl would hesitate to declare her willingness to
share the fortunes of a man to whom she had plighted her troth, though
dissociated from the splendour which surrounded the former position. I
lost no time in telegraphing to her father the change in our
circumstances, at the same time writing a full explanation and
requesting a day’s delay before visiting Oldacres, on account of
necessary arrangements. But little time was lost in telegraphing an
answer to my communication. ‘Much shocked by your news. Please to await
letter. Miss Montresor much overcome.’

“The first news had been disastrous; the second intimation was
unpleasant in tone and suggestion. I could not but regard it as showing
a disposition to retreat from the engagement. But was this possible—even
probable? Could I think my adored one guilty of withdrawing from her
solemnly pledged troth-plight, _entirely_ on account of the change in my
fortunes from those of a rich man with an historic rent-roll and estates
hardly exceeded by those of any English proprietor? Was it then the
rents and the three per cents which this angel-seeming creature accepted
without reference to the man? It would appear so. My youth and
inexperience, how inferior in worldly wisdom had they shown me to be to
this calculating worldling in the garb of an angel of light.

“If so, of course it was not fully decided so far. Let the end try the
man. I trusted that I should be able to stand up to my fight, heavy and
crushing as might be the blow Fate had dealt me. But all light and
colour, all sympathy with and savour of pleasure, so-called, died out of
my life. My premonition was but too accurate. Following the statement in
my legal adviser’s letter, every paper in England had a more or less
sensational paragraph to the effect that the announcement of the late
Sir Reginald Lutterworth’s testamentary disposition was premature and
incorrect. The bulk of that gentleman’s property, his great estates, and
large deposits in the funds, goes to Lord Fontenaye, the head of the
house.

“Soon after this, through some channels of intelligence, came a harmless
looking paragraph in the personal column of the _Court Circular_:—‘We
are authorised to contradict the report of the engagement of Miss
Adeline Montresor to the Honourable Valentine Blount. The arrangement,
if any, was terminated by mutual consent.’ A note of studied politeness
from her mother left no doubt on my mind that her daughter’s engagement
to me, too hastily entered into in the opinion of Mr. Montresor and
herself, must now be regarded as finally terminated. ‘Mr. Blount would
understand that, as no good purpose would be served by an interchange of
letters or an interview, he would consult the feelings of the family by
refraining from requiring either.’

“Such, and so worded in effect, was my _congé_. It was a hard fall. In
more than one instance within my knowledge a fatal one.

“Last week, _fortunatus nimium_, I had stood on the very apex of human
happiness. Rich—more than rich, the possessor of historic estates, with
a commensurate rent-roll, above all ecstatically happy as the _fiancé_
of the loveliest girl in England—high-born, highly endowed, the envy of
my compeers, the admired of the crowd—a few short days saw me bereft of
all but a moderate fortune, reduced in position, socially disrated,
discarded by the woman of my passionate adoration.

“What remained, but as was suggested to the victim of an earlier inrush
of disasters? To curse God, and die? The teaching of my youth, combined
with a substratum of philosophic disdain of the ills of life, forbade
the ignominious surrender. I took counsel with my calmer self, with my
best friends, made no sign, arranged for regular remittances, and took
my passage for South America.

“How I lived among the wild people and wilder adventurers, whom debt and
dishonour, or Bohemian love of freedom had driven from the headquarters
of art, civilisation and luxury, may be told some day; sufficient to say
that during the five years I lived abroad much of my unhappiness and
despair of life wore off by the slow but sure attrition of new
occupations amongst strange companions. From time to time I sent home
articles to scientific societies which gave me a certain vogue in
literary circles. At length, and not until the end of the sixth year of
wandering had been reached, a desire arose to see England and my people
once more. Six months after my departure, Adeline had married an elderly
peer, when, as Lady Wandsborough, she gained the position and
consideration which I had been unable to offer her. Two years afterwards
another excitement was caused among the smart set by her elopement with
Colonel Delamere, ‘a distinguished military man,’ said the _Court
Circular_, concerning whom there had been a growing scandal. Socially
condemned, dropped and disowned, what was to be the end of the brilliant
woman, whose entertainments, dresses, jewels, and friendships, made up
so large a part of English and Continental chit-chat?

“Lord Wandsborough without loss of time obtained a divorce. There was no
appearance of the co-respondent. Since then, there had been no authentic
information about the arrant pair—neither, though I searched the fashion
journals with unusual industry, did I come across the marriage of
Colonel Delamere to the heroine of so many historiettes in high life. It
was not that I had any strong personal interest in her career, fallen as
she was now from her high estate finally and irrevocably.

“But I couldn’t attain to complete detachment from all human sympathy
for the fallen idol of my youthful dreams, though perhaps my strongest
sentiment connected with her was one of heartfelt gratitude for the
brusque manner in which she had discarded me, and so saved me from the
keenest—the most exquisitely cruel tortures to which the civilised man
can be subjected.

“Of all people in the world she was the last whom I expected, or indeed
desired, to see again; yet we were doomed to meet once more. I told you
that I came from Hobart, the day after my arrest (save the mark!), in a
vessel from Callao, of which the crew and passengers were strangely
mixed, various in character as in colour and nationality; South
Americans, Mexicans, Americans of the States, both Northerners and
Southerners. Among them I noted, although I was far from troubling
myself about their histories, a tall, handsome man, who bore on him the
impress of British military service. It was Colonel Delamere! I could
not be mistaken. I had formed a slight acquaintance with him in earlier
days; had watched him at cards, with some of the least villanous-looking
of the foreigners, to whose excitable manner and reckless language his
own offered so marked a contrast. I did not intend to make myself known
to him, but accident was stronger than inclination. Seeing a lady
struggling up the companion (the weather was still rough), I moved
forward and helped her to a seat. She turned to thank me, and after an
earnest surprised glance at my face—‘But, no! it can’t be! Am I so
changed?’ she said reproachfully, ‘that you don’t know Adeline
Montresor?’ She _was_ changed, oh! how sadly, and I had _not_ known her.
The second time, of course, I recognised the object of my youthful
adoration, the woman by whose heartless conduct I had been so rudely
disillusioned. She glanced at the Colonel, who, engrossed in the game,
had not observed her coming on deck, and motioned me to take a seat
beside her, saying, ‘How _you_ have changed since we last met! I treated
you shamefully—heartlessly, I confess, but it was all for your good, as
people say to children. You would never have been the man you are if
Fate and I had not sent you out into the world with a broken heart. Now
tell me all about yourself?’ she continued, with a glance which recalled
the spell of former witchery, harmless however, _now_, as summer
lightning. ‘You don’t wish to cut me, I hope?’

“‘Far from it,’ I replied, ‘you will always find me a friend. Is there
any way in which I can serve you? you have only to say. What is your
address?’ She looked over at the Colonel and his companions with a
melancholy air, and replied in a low voice, ‘We are travelling as
“Captain and Mrs. Winchester.” Poor fellow, he cannot marry me, though
he would do so to-morrow, if he were free from his wife, as I am from my
husband. But she will not go for a divorce, just to punish us; isn’t it
spiteful? You can see—’ here she touched her dress which was strictly
economical—‘that it is low water with us. I have tried the stage, and we
have been doing light comedy in Callao, and the coast towns. You have
seen me in the amateur business?’

“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘how I admired you!’

“‘I know that,’ and she smiled with a strangely mingled suggestion of
amusement and sadness; ‘you were a first-class lover in the proposal
scene, though a little too much in earnest. I really _was_ touched, and
if—if indeed—everything had been different, my heart, my previous
experiences, my insane love of society triumphs, dress, diamonds, etc.
These I thought I had secured, and so accepted your honest adoration.
But even then I was in love with poor Jack—never loved any one else in
fact. I have been his ruin, and he mine. I see he has finished his game,
and is coming over. You may as well know each other.’ The Colonel looked
at me fixedly, much wondering at our apparent friendly attitude, then
bowed politely and formally. ‘No, Jack, you don’t know him, though
you’ve seen him before. He’s an old friend of mine, though, to whom I
did a good turn, the best any one ever did him, when I broke our
engagement short off, after hearing he’d lost his money. Now you know.’

“‘You’re a queer woman,’ said he, putting out his hand in frank and
manly fashion, which I shook warmly. ‘I always said you treated him
brutally. It didn’t break his heart, though it might have suffered at
the time. We’re all fools; I nearly shot myself when I was just of age
over Clara Westbrook.’

“‘Yes, I know,’ assented ‘Mrs. Winchester,’ good-humouredly; ‘now she’s
eighteen stone and can hardly get into her carriage.’

“‘She was dashed handsome then,’ pleaded the Colonel; ‘but hang the
past, it’s the future we’ve got to look at—not a gay prospect, either.
Some people make money here, I suppose; we were nearly getting off the
boat at Hobart and trying our luck at that new silver mine, the
Cornstalk, or something like that. Do you know anything about it?’

“‘I’m a part proprietor, and so on,’ said I, trying vainly to divest my
manner of any trace of importance, cruel as was the contrast between my
position and that of this forlorn pair. ‘It was a chance investment when
I came out here.’

“‘The devil! Tregonwell, Blount, Herbert and Clarke. Forgotten your
name, you know. Why, they say you’re all worth £100,000 each?’

“‘At least!’ I said; ‘quite a fluke, though. My partner, Tregonwell, who
_is_ a good man of business, wanted to throw it up. I held on out of
pure obstinacy, and it turned up a “bonanza.”’

“‘Your luck was in, and ours is dead out,’ said ‘Mrs. Winchester,’
‘there’s no denying that, but ours may turn again some day. Where are we
going next, Jack?’

“‘Checked through to Coolgardie, West Australia,’ said the Colonel.
‘Know some fellows. Believe there are immensely rich gold mines there.
Saw some quartz specimens in a window in London, as much gold as
quartz.’

“‘Quite true. There have been wonderful yields there,’ said I; ‘it’s an
awful hot place, very primitive and rough. Still, the women—there _are_
ladies, too—manage to live and keep up their spirits.’

“‘What do you say, Addie, hadn’t you better stay behind for a while, at
any rate?’

“‘All places are alike to me now,’ said she wearily; ‘but where you go I
go. We’ll see it out together, Jack.’

“‘We’re to be in Melbourne to-night, the steward told me,’ said the
Colonel; ‘perhaps Mr. Blount will kindly recommend an hotel?’

“‘I know a good one,’ said I, ‘handy to your boat. I’ll see you on board
to-morrow. The _Marloo_ leaves in the afternoon. I can give you letters
to some people on “the field” as they call it.’

“We went to ‘Scott’s,’ where I arranged certain things with the
management. So that when the Colonel paid his bill next day, and we left
together in a cab for the _Marloo_, he told his wife that the charges
were most reasonable. She looked at me with a meaning glance and wrung
my hand as the Colonel hurried off with the luggage. ‘You’re a good
fellow,’ she said, ‘though it’s late in the day to find it out. You’ve
had your revenge, haven’t you? Are you going to get married?’

“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘next week.’

“‘I wish you joy, with all my heart, what there is of it, that is. Is
she beautiful, innocent, devoted to you?’

“‘All that,’ said I, ‘and more.’

“‘Then tell her my story, and when for vanity, pleasure, or the tinsel
trappings of society she is tempted to stray from the simple faith of
her youth (I had it once, strange to say), let her think of _me_ as I am
now, poverty-stricken, degraded, and, except for poor Jack, whom I have
dragged down to ruin with me, without a friend in the world.’

“‘While I live,’ said I, ‘you must not say that.’

“‘I know—I know,’ and the tears fell from her eyes, changed as she was,
from all that she had been in her day of pride. ‘But we can take nothing
from you, of all men. God bless you!’

“Here came the Colonel. ‘Come along, Addie, we shall be left behind.
Ta-ta, Blount, you’re a dashed good fellow, too good altogether, if you
ask me. We’ll let you know how we get on.’

                  *       *       *       *       *

“As the coasting steamer churned the far from limpid waters of the
Yarra, I waved my hand once and turned my head. They went their way. She
and her companion to a rude life and a cheerless future, I to love and
unclouded happiness, with fortune and social fame thrown in as
makeweights. So there you have the whole of it. Last dying speech and
confession of a sometime bachelor, but henceforth able to proudly
describe himself ‘as a mawwied man,’ like the swell in the witness-box,
‘faw-mally in the awmy!’”

Edward Bruce came back from Queensland, and for fear of accidents the
wedding was solemnised quietly, but with all due form and observance,
between Valentine FitzEustace Blount, bachelor, and Imogen Carrisforth,
spinster, of Marondah, in the parish of Tallawatta, district of Upper
Sturt, colony of Victoria, Australia. The day was one of those
transcendant glories of a summer land, which, as combining warmth with
the fresh dry air of the Great South Land, are absolutely peerless. The
lightly-wooded downs, verdant as in spring in this exceptional year,
were pleasing to the eye as they stretched away mile after mile to the
base of the mountain range. The exotic trees, oaks and elms, with a few
beeches, walnuts, and an ash-tree, hard by the back entrance were in
fullest leaf, most brilliant greenery. The great willows hung their
tresses over the river bank, swaying over the murmuring stream, while
they almost covered the channel with their trailing wreaths.

The glory of the wattle gold had departed; the graceful tender
fern-frond appearing chaplets were no longer intertwined with the lavish
spring gold which, following the windings of every streamlet and ravine,
seems to penetrate the dim grey woodlands with golden-threaded devices.
Herald and earliest note in tone and tendril of that manifold, divinest
harmony, the Voice of Spring. A souvenir of the ocean in the form of a
gladsome, whispering breeze came through the woodland at noon, tempering
the sun’s potent influence, until all comments and criticisms united in
one sincerest utterance, an absolutely perfect day, fitting, indeed, as
the youngest bridesmaid asserted, for such an ideal marriage.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Nothing went wrong with train or coach this time. Fate had done her
worst, and was minded to hold off from these persistent seekers after
happiness. Edward Bruce had arrived from Queensland, sunbrowned, rather
harder in condition than when he left home, but hale, strong, in good
spirits, and even jubilant, having heard by wire of a six-inch rainfall
since his departure.

Little-River-Jack and the O’Hara brothers had crowned themselves with
glory on Crichel Downs since they had been employed there. Energetic,
athletic, and miraculously learned in every department of bush lore,
they had thrown themselves into the work of the drought-stricken
district with an amount of enthusiasm that rejoiced the manager’s heart,
moving him to declare that they were worth their weight in gold, and had
saved the lives of sheep and cattle to the value of their wages six
times over. He was going to give Little-River-Jack the post of overseer
at a back outstation, and felt certain that no one would get hold of
calf, cow, or bullock with the Crichel Downs brand as long as he was in
charge. Phelim and Pat O’Hara were kept on the home station, and for
driving a weak flock of sheep at night, or “moonlighting” the outlying
scrub cattle, no one in all Queensland, except Jim Bradfield, was fit to
“hold a candle” to them.

It was for various reasons, the bride’s recent illness and other
considerations, that what is known as “a quiet wedding” took place, yet
were there certain additions to the family circle.

Pastoral neighbours, such as the MacRimmons, the Grants, the MacAulays,
the Chesters, the Waterdales, could not decently be left out. Besides
the seniors, they included large families of young men and maidens born
and reared among the forests and meadows of the Upper Sturt. The
climatic conditions of this Highland region proved its adaptability for
the development of the Anglo-Saxon and the Anglo-Celt, for finer
specimens of the race than these young people who rode and drove so
joyously to this popular function would have been difficult, if not
impossible, to find. The men, tall, stalwart, adepts in every manly
exercise; the girls, fresh-, high-spirited, full of the joyous
abandon of early youth, as yet unworn by care and with the instinctive
confidence of all healthy minded young people in the continuance of the
_joie de vivre_, of which they had inherited so large a share.

It was noticed by some of these whose eyes were sharp and general
intelligence by no means limited, that at the breakfast there was a new
damsel who assisted the waiting maid, Josephine Macintyre (chiefly known
as Joe Mac), a smart soubrette of prepossessing appearance.

With her the bride and bridegroom shook hands warmly before they
departed “for good.” Well and becomingly dressed, she was an object of
more than ordinary interest to some of the youthful squirearchy.

“Why, it’s Sheila Maguire, from Bunjil!” said one youngster to his
comrade. “Thought I’d seen her before, somewhere. Doesn’t she look
stunning?”

“My word,” was the reply. “They say she’s been left a lot of money by
old Barney, her uncle.”

“She’s a fine, straight, jolly girl, with no nonsense about her,”
declared the first speaker, “a man might do worse than make up to her,
if he had to live in the back blocks.”

“Why don’t you try the experiment?”

“Thanks, awfully! Hope I shall do as well—but I’m not ‘on the marry’
just yet. Want to see another Melbourne Cup or so first.”

There was no “marriage bell,” yet all went well without that obsolete
summons. Every one turned up at the right time, not even the best man
was absent. He came the evening before—a cool, unpretending person, very
correctly dressed, and with “soldier” written all over him—in spite of
the vain disguise of mufti. He was presented as Colonel Pelham Villiers,
D.S.O., Royal Engineers, just down from Northern India. That he had
“assisted” at such functions before was evident by the air of authority
with which he put the bridegroom through his facings, and even ordered
the bridesmaids about—“like a lot of chorus girls”—as Susie Allerton
observed.

She had (she said) “a great mind to refuse to obey,” but after once
meeting the look in a pair of stern grey eyes—hers were hazel—she
capitulated. He took her in to breakfast, it was noticed, where they
seemed excellent friends.

Punctually at three p.m. the drag came round with Edward Bruce on the
box—behind such a team as only one station on the Upper Sturt could turn
out. The leaders—own brothers—cheap at a hundred apiece, were a “dream,”
as an enthusiastic girl observed, while the solid pair of dark bays in
the wheel were scarcely behind them in value.

Out came the bride in travelling suit of grey, on the arm of “the
happiest man in Australia,” as he had that day professed himself to be.
Black Paddy noiselessly relinquished the rein of the nearside leader, a
fine tempered, but impatient animal, and like one horse, the
well-broken, high-mettled team moved off. The road was level, and smooth
for the first half mile, then came a long up grade pretty much against
collar, the team, at a touch of the rein, broke into a hand gallop,
which they kept up easily until the crown of the hill was reached. There
on the long down-grade—high above the river bank on one side, and
scooped out of the mountain side on the other, the powerful leg-brake
was applied, and the laden vehicle rolled steadily, and well controlled,
until the level track of the river meadow was reached. There was a full
quarter of an hour to spare when the railway station was neared, and
with the luggage checked through to Menzies Hotel, Melbourne, and an
engaged carriage for Imogen and himself, Mr. Blount decided that the
first stage of matrimonial happiness was reached.




                               CHAPTER X


HOBART, where it was decided to spend the honeymoon, from their joint
experience of its unequalled summer climate, and picturesque beauty, was
reached on the following day. A charming villa “by the sad sea waves”
had been secured for them, by a friend, the all-potential personage who
“ran,” so to speak, the social, sporting, and residential affairs of the
city, and whose dictum, at once suave and authoritative, no Tasmanian,
whether foreign visitor or native born, was found bold enough to
withstand. The bridegroom remembered driving there in a tandem cart,
drawn by a refractory pair, which he had reduced to subjection, doing
the twelve miles out, at a creditable pace, though not quite in time for
dinner. But the view, the isolation and the forest paths of this ideal
private paradise had imprinted themselves indelibly on his memory.

As it happened, the person in charge of the cottage was absent, but
refreshment was sent in by the housekeeper, which they were in a mood
thoroughly to enjoy, looking forward to the many divine repasts which
they would share in this enchanting retreat.

From the open window of the morning room, looking eastward, they gazed
over the south arm of the Derwent; a broad estuary having the cloud
effects and much of the spacious grandeur of the ocean. The headland, on
which the bungalow stood, commanded a wide and varied view, in which sea
and crag, land and water were romantically mingled. Scrambling down the
cliff by a precipitous path to the beach, they found to their great
delight that a raspberry plantation had been formed on the
cliff-sheltered <DW72>, much of which was in full bearing. The modified
English climate of Tasmania is eminently favourable to the production of
the smaller fruits, such as the currant, strawberry, gooseberry,
raspberry and blackberry—this last growing in wild profusion in hedges
and over fences.

“Oh! how delightful,” cried Imogen, as, seated on a large stone she
applied herself to the consumption of an enticing raspberry feast spread
upon a leaf platter, woven deftly by the hands of her husband. “Look at
the calm water—the fishing boats, the gulls, the small waves breaking on
the beach! Was there ever such an ideal honeymoon lodge? And these
lovely raspberries. We can get cream at the house. And what a leaf
platter! Where did you learn to make one, sir? you must have had
practice.”

“At Nuku-heva! I was stranded there for six months once. The girls
taught me.”

“Girls, indeed! That sounds very general and comprehensive. No savage
maiden in particular. Quite sure, now? No photograph?”

“If there was, I’ve forgotten all about her. I don’t keep photographs.
There’s only one damsel that is imperishably engraved upon heart and
soul—memory, aye, this mortal frame—by a totally new process. It has the
effect of destroying all former negatives—the best specimens of
photography are put to shame, and obliterated.

“And that is called—?”

“The last love of the mature man—the answering fondness of _the_
woman—the best love—the true love—the only love which survives the
burden of care, the agony of grief, the chances and changes of life. The
steady flame which burns even brighter in the dark depths of despair.”

“Oh! I daresay—fascinating creatures, I suppose—were they not?”

“I have forgotten all about them. There is one fascination for me,
henceforth, and one only. It will last me until my life ends or hers. I
pray that mine may be the first summons.”

“Men were deceivers, ever,” hummed Imogen. “But I must make the best of
it, now I have got you. The Fates were against us at first, were they
not? What a strange thing is a girl’s heart! How short a time it takes
to cast itself at a man’s feet. How long—long—endless, wretched,
unendurable are the days of doubt, grief, anguish unutterable, if he
prove faithless, or the girl has over-rated his attachment. It nearly
killed me, when I thought you had gone away without caring.”

“And suppose I _had_ never returned? I began to believe you had decided
not to answer my letters. That Edward had not relented. That _you_ did
not care—transient interest, and so on. It is so with many women.”

“Transient interest!” cried Imogen, jumping up and scattering the
raspberries in her excitement. “Why, there was not one single hour from
the time you left Marondah till I saw you again, that my heart was not
full of thoughts of you. Why should I not think of you? You told me you
loved me—though it was so short a time since we had met, and my every
sense cried out that your love was returned—redoubled in fervour and
volume.”

“How little we know of women and their deeper feelings,” mused Blount.
“How often you hear of a pair of lovers, that he or she has ‘changed
their mind.’ The ordinary platitudes are rehearsed to friends and
acquaintances. When they separate—perhaps for ever—the outside world
murmurs cynically, ‘better before marriage than after,’ and the incident
is closed.”

“Closed, yes,” answered Imogen, “because one heart is bleeding to
death.”

While rambling through the old house, which was handsomely furnished,
though not in modern fashion, they came upon a morning room, which had
evidently been regarded as a fitting apartment for treasures of art and
literature, etchings, etc.

In it was a bookcase, containing old and choice editions. The dates,
those of the last century, told a tale of the family fortunes,
presumably at a higher level of position than in these later days. A
“dower chest” of oak was rubbed over, and the inscription deciphered; a
few rare etchings were noted and appreciated. Through these the lovers
went carefully hand in hand, Blount, who was a connoisseur of
experience, pointing out to Imogen any special value, or acknowledged
excellence; when, suddenly letting go her hand, he rushed over to a dim
corner of the room, where he stopped in front of an oil painting,
evidently of greater age and value than the other pictures.

“Yes,” he said, first carefully removing the dust from the left hand
corner of the canvas, under which, though faint and indistinct, the name
of a once famous artist, with a date, could be distinguished.

“I thought so, it is a Romney. He was famed for his portraits. But what
a marvellous coincidence! Perfectly miraculous! I was told that in
Tasmania I should fall across curious survivals, as at one time the
emigration of retired military and naval officers was officially
stimulated by the English Government. The promise of cheap land and
labour (that of assigned servants, as they were called) in a British
colony with a mild climate and fertile soil, attracted to a
quasi-idyllic life those heads of families, whose moderate fortunes
forbade enterprise in Britain. Special districts, such as Westbury and
New Norfolk, were indicated as peculiarly adapted for fruit and dairy
farms.”

“I remember quite well,” said Imogen, “when I was here at school in
Hobart, that many of the girls belonged to families such as you mention.
Such nice people, with grand old names, but so very, very poor. The
parents were not the sort to get on in a new country, though the sons,
as they grew up, mostly altered that state of affairs. But they did not
remain in Tasmania. No! they went to Queensland, New Zealand, or
Victoria till they made money. Then they generally returned to marry an
old sweetheart and settle down for life near Launceston or Hobart. They
were very patriotic, and awfully fond of their dear little island. But
what is all this coincidence? You seem quite excited about it.”

“Will you have the goodness to look at this picture, Mrs. Blount?”

“I am looking,” said she. “It must be a very life-like portrait of
somebody. And how beautifully painted! Quite a gem, evidently. The more
you look at it the more life-like it appears. What lovely blue eyes! A
girl in the glory of her youthful graces; I mustn’t add airs, I suppose,
for fear of being thought cynical. But the expression must have been
caught with amazing fidelity. Stamped, as it were, for ever. I suppose
it is very valuable?”

“If it is the portrait which I have reason to believe it is its value is
great. The original was found in an old manor house belonging to the De
Cliffords. The house—once a king’s—though not untenanted, was let to
people unacquainted with art, and had been so neglected as to be almost
in ruins. The owner of the estate, an eccentric recluse, was a very old
man. He refused to have any of the furniture removed, or the paintings
taken down from the walls. At his death, people were permitted to view
the place, which was afterwards sold. The heir-at-law turned everything
he could into money, and emigrated to Tasmania.”

“Quite the proper thing to do. We did something of the same sort,
whereof the aforesaid Imogen (I was so described in my settlement) met
with one Blount, and marrying him, became the happiest girl in Australia
or out of it. Didn’t she?”

Blount responded appropriately; it would seem convincingly, for the
dialogue was resumed as they again went out. She desired to know why,
and wherefore, this particular portrait was so very precious. Other
young women, doubtless, in that long dead time, had had their portraits
painted.

“Because this is the _very_ picture, I am almost certain, which inspired
Robert Montgomery with those lovely lines of his: ‘To the Portrait of an
Unknown Lady.’ Have you never read them?”

“No! I have heard some one speak of them, though.”

“Well, the picture disappeared before the sale. The family would never
explain. There was evidently some mystery, painful or otherwise,
connected with it. Montgomery’s lines had made it famous. And it was a
disappointment to intending buyers, many of whom came long distances to
bid for it.”

“Rather a long story, but wildly interesting. To think that we should
have come across it on our wedding trip, and _here_ of all places. Well,
as a punishment for your taking so much interest in an unknown lady you
shall repeat the lines. I daresay you know them by heart.”

“I think I do. At any rate I know the leading ones. If there are more we
can read them together afterwards.

                “‘Image of one who lived of yore,
                    Hail to that lovely mien!
                Once quick and conscious, now no more
                    On land or ocean seen;
                Were all life’s breathing forms to pass
                Before me in Agrippa’s glass,
                Many as fair as thou might be,
                But oh! not one, not one _like thee_!’”

Here the girl’s head sank on her lover’s shoulder, and as her slender
form reclined with the unconscious abandon of a child against his
breast, while his arm wound closely and yet more closely around her
yielding waist, “Oh! go on, go on, my darling! let me hear it all,” she
murmured:

               “‘Thou art no child of fancy—thou
                   The very look dost wear
               That gave enchantment to a brow,
                   Wreathed with luxuriant hair—
               Lips of the morn, embalmed in dew,
               And eyes of evening’s starry blue,
               Of all that e’er enjoyed the sun,
               Thou art the image of but _one_!

               “‘And who was she in virgin prime
                   And May of womanhood,
               Whose roses here, unplucked by time,
                   In shadowy tints have stood?
               While many a winter’s withering blast
               Hath o’er the dark cold chamber passed,
               In which her once resplendent form
               Slumbered to dust beneath the storm.

               “‘Of gentle blood, upon her birth
                   Consenting planets smiled,
               And she had seen those days of mirth
                   Which frolic round the child:
               To bridal bloom her youth had sprung,
               Behold her beautiful and young;
               Lives there a record which hath told
               That she was wedded, widowed, old?

               “‘How long the date, ’twere vain to guess,
                   The pencil’s cunning art
               Can but one single glance express,
                   One motion of the heart,
               A smile, a blush, a transient grace
               Of air and attitude and face,
               One passion’s changing colour mix,
               One moment’s flight, for ages fix.

               “‘Where dwelt she? ask yon aged oak
                   Whose boughs embower the lawn,
               Whether the bird’s wild minstrelsy
                   Awoke her here at dawn?
               Whether beneath its youthful shade
               At noon, in infancy, she played?
               If from the oak no answer come
               Of her, all oracles are dumb!’

“There are more verses; I will show you the poem so that you may enjoy
the spirit of it. It was a favourite of mine, since boyhood. And now I
see the crests of the waves towards the southern skyline, rearing
higher. The sea breeze is often chill. Suppose we scramble up the path
and go inside?”

“What a lovely view! and what delicious verses,” cried the girl. “Shall
we always be as happy as we are now? I feel as if I did not deserve it.”

“And I am lost in wonder and admiration at the supernatural state of
bliss in which _I_ find myself,” answered Blount. “I ought to throw
something of value into the deep, to avert the anger of Nemesis. Here
goes,” and before Imogen could prevent him, he had unfastened a bangle
which he wore on his wrist, and hurled it far into the advancing tide.
“Let us hope that no fish will swallow it, and return it, through the
agency of the cookmaid.”

“Now, I call that wasteful and superstitious,” quoth Imogen, pretending
to be angry. “You will need all the silver in the South Pacific
Comstock, if you throw about jewellery in that reckless fashion. And who
gave you that bangle, may I ask? You never showed it to me.”

“I won it in a bet, long ago. The agreement was that whoever won was to
wear the bangle till he or she was married. After that, they might
dispose of it as they thought fit. I forgot all about it till to-day. So
this seemed an auspicious hour, and I sacrificed it to the malign
deities.”

“And this is man’s fidelity!” quoted Imogen. “For of course, it was a
woman. Confess! Didn’t your heart give a little throb, as you pitched
away the poor thing’s gift?”

“Hm! the poor thing, as you call her, is happily married ‘to a
first-class Earl, that keeps his carriage.’ I daresay she’s forgotten my
name, as I nearly did that of the possessor of the bangle.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

The allotted term of happiness passed at the Hermitage, for such had
been the name given to it by the original owner, who lived there for the
last remaining years of a long life, too quickly came to an end. For
happiness, it surely was, of the too rare, exquisitely attempered
quality, undisturbed by regrets for the past, or forebodings for the
future. Such wounds and bruises of the heart, as he had encountered,
though painful, even in a sense agonising, at the time, were of a nature
to be cured by the subtle medicaments of the old established family
physician, Time. They were not “his fault,” so to speak. Such sorrows
and smarts are not of the nature of incurable complaints. The agony
abates. The healthful appetite in youth for variety, for change of
scene, the solace of bodily exercise, and the competition with new
intelligences, extinguish morbid imaginings: thus leaving free the
immortal Genius of Youth to range amid the unexplored kingdoms of
Romance, where in defiance of giants and goblins, he is yet fated to
discover and carry off the fairy princess.

“And I did discover her, darling, didn’t I?” said he, fondly pressing
her hand which lay so lovingly surrendered to his own, as after a long
stroll through the fern-shadowed glades of the still untouched primeval
forest, they came in sight of the Hermitage, and halted to watch the
breakers rolling on the beach below the verandah, where during their
first delirium they had so often watched the moon rise over a summer
sea.

“All very well, sir,” replied Imogen, with the bright smile which
irradiated her countenance like that of a joyous child, “but the
‘carrying off’ ‘hung fire’ (to return to the prose of daily life), until
the princess became apprehensive, lest she might not be carried off at
all, and was minded to set out to reverse the process, and carry off the
knight. How would that have sounded? What a deathblow to all the legends
of chivalry! The page’s dress would be rather a difficulty, wouldn’t it?
Fancy me appearing amongst all those nice girls and men at Hollywood
Hall! Inquiring, too, for ‘a gentleman of the name of Blount!’ I hardly
_did_ know your name then, which would have been a drawback. I am tall
enough for a page, though, and could have arranged the ‘clustering
ringlets, rich and rare,’ like poor Constance de Beverley. How I wept
for her, when I was a school-girl, little thinking that I should have to
weep bitter tears for myself in days to come.”

“And did she weep, my heart’s treasure, in her true knight’s absence?”

“Weep?” cried she, while—in the midst of her mockery and simulated
grief, the true tears filled her eyes at the remembrance, “‘wept enough
to extinguish a beacon light’—I took to reading dear Sir Walter Scott
again in sheer desperation. _Ivanhoe_ and _Rob Roy_ saved my life, I
really believe, when I was recovering from that—hm—‘influenza.’ Oh, how
wretched I was! As the Sturt, that dear old river, flowed before my
window, more than once I thought what a release it would be from all but
unendurable pangs. I don’t wonder that women drown or hang themselves in
such a case. I knew of one—yes—two instances—poor things!”

“Any men?”

“Yes; two also. So the numbers are even. We don’t seem to be growing
cheerful, though, do we? I feel just a little tired; afternoon tea must
be nearly ready. There’s nothing left for us now (as Stevenson says),
‘not even suicide, only to be good,’ a fine resolve to finish up with.”

“Let us seal the contract, those who are in favour, etc. Carried
unanimously!”

The day’s post brought a letter from Mr. Tregonwell, which, like a stone
thrown into a pond, disturbed the smoothness of their idyllic life. An
incursion of the emissaries of Fate was imminent.

“Mr. Blount’s presence was absolutely, _urgently_ necessary at the mine.
There was industrial trouble brewing. The ‘wages men’—as those labourers
at a mine are called, who are not shareholders—had increased necessarily
to a large number; _they_ wanted higher pay, the weather being bad and
the discomforts considerable. The British shareholders were in a
majority on the London Board and were beginning to make their power
felt. No serious dispute, but better to arrange in time. Would have come
himself to Hobart, but thought it imprudent at present to leave the
mine. Very rich ore body just opened out. Prospects absolutely
wonderful. Sorry to bother him, but business urgent.”

“What a terrible man!” moaned Imogen. “Wherever we are he will always be
coming suddenly down upon us and destroying our peace of mind. I
suppose, however, that he is a necessary evil.”

“He is a first-rate worker and very prudent withal, but to show the
element of luck in these matters it is to _my_ decision, not his, that
we retained the share which is now likely to become a fortune.”

“Oh! but there must be some special quality among your bundle of
qualities which you are so fond of decrying,” said Imogen, with wifely
partiality; “some quick insight into the real value of things, which is
in so many cases superior to mere industry and perseverance.”

“There must be,” said Blount thoughtfully, accepting the compliment, “or
how should I have secured _one_ priceless treasure to which all the
mines of Golconda are but as pebbles and withered leaves.”

“What treasure? Oh, flatterer!” said the girl; “how you have capped my
poor but honest belief in you. Well, time alone must tell how this
particularly clever human investment is going to turn out. It won’t do
for this lady to ‘protest too much.’ Now where shall I stay until my
knight returns from the war?”

“In Hobart, I should say, most decidedly. It is a cheerful city at this
season of year. The coolness of the summer, the charm of the scenery,
the cheerfulness of the society—this being the play-place of six other
colonies. Any chance of Mrs. Bruce coming over? Suggest the idea.”

“Perhaps she might.”

“Tell her I have taken a cottage between Sandy Bay and Brown’s River for
her specially; one of the loveliest suburbs. If she’ll come over and
take care of you, I shall be eternally indebted to her for the _second_
time. You remember the first? How good she was. But for her —, etc.”

“She must come as our guest, and bring Black Paddy and Polly, and the
babies, for offside groom and nurserymaid—(that’s good Australian, isn’t
it? nearly equal to ‘Banjo’ Paterson).”

“Stuff and nonsense! Australians talk the purest English; rather better,
in fact, than the home-grown article. But oh! how I should love to have
her here and the dear chicks. Edward could come for her afterwards.”

So that was settled. Mrs. Bruce, replying, wrote that Edward had given
her leave to come for a couple of months. It was really getting very hot
and baby was pale. He, Edward, not the baby, was going to Sydney on
business; thought of selling out of Queensland, so would cross over and
spend the end of the visit with them.

                  *       *       *       *       *

These arrangements were carried out. Mrs. Bruce, with her servants and
children, were safely bestowed at the pretty villa at Sandy Bay, where
Black Paddy, as groom and coachman, and Polly, as under-nursemaid,
excited as much attention as Mrs. Huntingdon’s ayah from Madras. Mr.
Blount was free to depart for the South Pacific Comstock (Proprietary),
which included a decided change from these Arcadian habitudes. Arrived
at Strahan, he perceived various improvements, which he correctly
attributed to Tregonwell’s boundless energy and aroused imagination.

Long stretches of corduroy, regularly repaired, rendered the transit
business comparatively free from difficulty. Great gangs of men were
employed in clearing the track for the projected railway. The work of
piercing the forest was tremendous. The great size of the trees (a
scientist had measured one eighty feet in circumference), the density
and confused nature of the jungle, through which the way had almost to
be tunnelled, if such an expression can be applied to operations above
ground, retarded progress. The masses of fallen timber at the sides of
the track, the whole laborious task carried on under ceaseless rain, was
sufficient to over-task the energies of all but the stubborn, resistless
Anglo-Saxon.

But on the mining fields of Australasia, if but the precious metal,
gold, silver, or copper, be visible, or even believed to be within reach
in sufficient quantities, _no toil_, no hardship is sufficient to daunt
the resolute miner; neither heat, nor cold, the burning dust storms of
Broken Hill, the icy blasts that sweep from the solitudes of Cape Nome
over the frozen soil of Klondyke, have power to stay the conquering
march of the men, ay, of the women of our race, or slake the thirst for
adventure which is as the breath of their nostrils.

So, by the time Mr. Blount arrived on the scene, after a single day’s
journey from the coast, the melodramatic action of a progressive mining
town was “in full blast.”

The hotels and stores were comparatively palatial. Tall weatherboard
buildings with balconies, enabled the inmates to gaze over the waving
ocean of tree-tops and to mark where the jungle had been invaded by the
pioneer’s axe, that primary weapon of civilisation. The streets, miry
and deep-rutted, had yet side walks with wooden curbs, which
provisionally, at any rate, preserved the foot passengers from the
slough into which the ceaseless trampling of bullocks, horses and mules
had worn the track. As in all such places in their earlier stages, money
was plentiful. Wages were high, labour was scarce. The adventurers who
came to inspect the “field” necessarily brought capital with them. Under
the Mining Act and Regulations of the colony, allotments had been marked
out in the principal streets to be acquired by purchase or lease. Legal
occupation had succeeded the early scramble for possession. A Progress
Committee had been formed, precursor of municipal action, of which Mr.
Tregonwell, of course, was the elected President. Its members advised
the Government of the day of urgently necessary reforms, or demanded
such, with no lack of democratic earnestness. Behind all this life and
movement there was the encouraging certainty of the still-increasing
richness of the principal mine, the original shares in which rose to a
height almost unprecedented.

Among other necessities of civilisation, a newspaper had, of course,
been established. The _Comstock Clarion_ subserved its purpose by clean
type, smart local intelligence, and accurate reviews of all mining
enterprises from Australia to the ends of the earth. Having been waited
upon by the editor without loss of time, Mr. Blount found himself thus
presented to an intelligent and enterprising public:—


                       “A DISTINGUISHED VISITOR.

“Yesterday morning we had the honour of welcoming to our thriving
township a gentleman, to whose courage and enterprise the public of
Comstock are indebted for the inception of a great national industry,
the founding of a city fated to rival, if not surpass, in wealth and
population both Hobart and Launceston. Mr. Blount courteously supplied,
in answer to our request, the following interesting notes of his
original connection with the great mine in which he owns a controlling
interest.

“Visiting Tasmania _en route_ for England a few years since, he was
offered shares in a newly-prospected silver mine. Mr. Tregonwell was
then associated with him in mining ventures. The partners were offered a
half share in the claim newly taken up of four men’s ground, Messrs.
Herbert and Clarke owning the remainder. Mr. Tregonwell, though
experienced and sanguine—of which qualities we have ample proof before
our eyes—advised the rejection of the ‘show.’ Mr. Blount, for a reason
not stated, was firm in retaining it. He was in a position to find the
cash for payment of lease application, rents, and working expenses until
the discovery of the richest silver lode south of the line was an
accomplished fact. ‘Si monumentum queris, circumspice.’”


The Latin quotation was inappropriate, inasmuch as it was not proposed
to erect any kind of memorial structure in honour of Mr. Blount, but it
looked well, and few of the readers of the _Clarion_ were critical.
However, the article had the effect of directing all eyes to the
visitor, unobtrusively dressed as he was, whenever he appeared. He was,
of course, _fêted_ and invited to banquets given by leading citizens or
mining celebrities. The financial condition of the mine was eminently
satisfactory, even brilliant. It held a high place among British
investors and foreign syndicates. Members even of the British Parliament
did not disdain to take passages in the “P. and O.” or “Messageries’”
boats for the special purpose of inspecting the wonderful mine. They
returned laden with lumps of ore, being fragments of a silver mountain
which they had seen with their eyes and driven a pick into when
personally conducted by the American “mining Captain,” who received
£5,000 a year salary, and was promised another £1,000 should things
continue to go well.

As the season had advanced the weather even in that austere and dreadful
wilderness relaxed its icy grip. The forest trees, the giant eucalypts
and towering pines, “had a tinge of softer green.” The moss looked
bright “touched by the footsteps of spring,” haunting even that unlovely
wild. Mr. Blount, though loyally impatient to return to his Imogen and
the calm delights of Hobart, felt distinctly in better spirits. He even
took a mild gratification in marking the heterogeneous element of the
stranger hordes that arrived daily, gathered as they were from the ends
of the earth, of all nations apparently, and several colours. “Gentle
and simple,” forlorn workers and wayfarers from many a distant land,
mingled with derelicts of the classes akin to “Mr. and Mrs. Winchester.”
The men feverishly anxious to strike some lucky find or chance
investment, the women poorly dressed, working at the humblest household
tasks, all wearing the vague, yearning, half-despairing expression,
which comes of the heart-sickness of “hope deferred.” Theirs was the
harder lot. Still, with but few exceptions, they faced the rude living
and unaccustomed toil with the courage women invariably show when hard
fortune makes a call on their nobler attributes.

Nowhere is the ascent of the “up grade” of mining prosperity, when the
tide of fortune is flowing, and the financial barometer is “set fair,”
made easier than in Australasia. Rude as may be the earlier stages, the
change from the mining camp, the collection of rude cabins, to the town,
the city even, is magically rapid. To the gold or silver deposit, as the
case may be, everything is attracted with resistless force as by the
loadstone mountain of Sindbad. Time, distance, the rude approach by land
travel, the stormy seas, all are defied. And though delays and dangers
are so thickly strewn before the path of the adventurer, he and his like
invariably arrive at their goal and would get there somehow, if behind
every tree stood an armed robber, and were every trickling creek a
turbulent river.

Mr. Tregonwell had proved himself capable of carrying out the rather
extensive programme, financial and otherwise, which he had produced for
the inspection of his partners on their first meeting at the mine. The
manager of world-wide experience and unequalled reputation _had_ been
procured from America; had been paid the liberal salary; had proved
himself more than worthy of his fame. The railway to Strahan was in
process of completion. Contracts, let at many different points, were
nearing one another with startling rapidity.

The price of provisions had fallen. Wages were high—yet the contractors
were making as much money as the shareholders. With the exception of the
very poor and the chronic cases of ill-luck from which no community is,
ever has been, or ever will be free, the Great Silver Field was the
modern exemplar of a place where every one had all that he wanted now,
and was satisfied that such would be the case for the future.

The wages misunderstanding had been settled, an arrangement made with
one of the most stable banks in Australia, by which the Directors agreed
to cash Mr. Tregonwell’s drafts for all reasonable, and, indeed,
unreasonable, amounts, as some over-cautious, narrow-minded people
considered. The predominant partner began to revolve the question of an
early departure. The juniors, Charlie Herbert and Jack Clarke, had
earned golden opinions from Tregonwell as cheerful workers and
high-couraged comrades. He willingly agreed to their holidays at
Christmas time, now drawing nigh, if one would remain with him for
company, and perhaps assistance in time of need, while the other enjoyed
himself among his relatives and friends in one of the charming country
houses of his native land. As for himself, he did not require change or
recreation, his duty was to the shareholders, who had entrusted him with
such uncontrolled powers of dictatorship.

Mr. Blount would be within easy reach of telegrams at Hobart, whence he
could come up for a week when a difficult point or question of further
outlay needed to be settled. Comstock was not such a very uncomfortable
place now, and would be less so in the near future, and Frampton
Tregonwell had lived and thriven amid worse surroundings.

So, as the short summer of the West Coast crept slowly on towards the
“great Festival” which heralds “Peace on Earth, and good will towards
men,” all things seemed moving in a tranquil orderly manner towards
organised success and permanent prosperity. The big mill with the newest
improvements, and a high-grade German scientist from Freiburg in
command, had just been completed and was turning out unprecedented
returns. Everything went smoothly, socially and otherwise. Although so
near to what had once been an accumulation of the most desperate
criminals the world could show, only kept under by the merciless
uniformity of a severe administration—the present crime record was
curiously low, and trifling in extent. Labour was well paid, well fed
and lodged. All men had, moreover, the hope of even greater benefits, as
results from their toil. Under these circumstances the list of offences
is invariably light. The inducements to crime were so small, as almost
to lead to an optimistic belief that incursions on the goods and persons
of neighbours would at an early date cease and determine. The dream of
the philanthropist would at last be fulfilled.

Perhaps, also, that other dream of a socialistic division of labour with
equal partition of the fruits of the earth, and the partition of the
fruits of labour (chiefly _other men’s_ labour) for the benefit of the
poor but honest worker would be an accomplished fact.

So, in the ordering of things mundane, it came to pass that Mr. Blount,
to his great contentment and satisfaction, had everything arranged and
“fixed up,” as Tregonwell expressed it (culling his phrases from all
nations and many tongues), and departing via Strahan, bade farewell for
the present to Macquarie Harbour, Hell’s Gates, and the other lonely and
more or less historic localities. The passage, for a wonder, was smooth,
the wind fair, and it was with joy and satisfaction, which he could
hardly forbear expressing in a shout of exultation, that he found
himself once more in Hobart, within arm’s length, so to speak, of Imogen
and his “kingdom by the sea.”

That young woman had kept herself well informed as to the time when the
Strahan steamer might be expected, and appeared at the wharf driving the
mail phaeton. Black Paddy was beside her on the box; in front was the
bay mare, “Matchless,” with her mate “Graceful,” in top condition, and
ready to jump out of their skins, with rest and good keep. This valuable
animal, formerly hard worked, with but little rest, and far from
luxurious fare, had been contented to rattle up and down the hills
between Hobart and Brown’s River and the Huon, without so much as a hint
from the whip. Under present circumstances, she naturally took a little
holding.

But Imogen and Mrs. Bruce had been accustomed to ride and drive almost
as soon as they could walk. With great nerve and full experience, fine
hands, an unequalled knowledge of the tempers and dispositions,
management and control, of all sorts and conditions of horses, very few
secrets of the noble animal, whether in saddle or harness, were hidden
from them. So when Imogen drove up to the Tasmanian Club, where her
husband had temporarily deposited himself, his specimens and belongings
generally, he had no misgivings as to the competency of his charioteer,
nor did he offer, as most men would have done, to take the reins
himself.

“How well they look,” he remarked, after the first greeting,
“‘Matchless’ has fallen on her legs in coming to this establishment.
Does she give any trouble in her altered condition?”

“Hardly any, only she doesn’t like waiting, now there is no cab behind
her. Burra burrai, Paddy! Mine thinkit mare plenty saucy direckaly.”

That swart retainer understood the position, and helping the club
servant with the heaviest trunk on to the back seat, stepped up beside
it with noiseless agility, while at the same moment “Matchless” and
“Graceful” moved off with regulated speed, which soon landed them at
“home”—a word which Mr. Blount pleased himself by repeating more than
once.

“Hilda looks just as she did,” said he, “when I first saw her at
Marondah. I admired her then. I admire her now—how little I thought that
I should see her again, as a sister-in-law! or that a certain ‘vision of
delight was to burst upon my sight’ so soon afterwards.”

“I remember how you stared,” said Imogen; “almost rudely, indeed. Didn’t
you?”

“First of all, I didn’t know that Mrs. Bruce had a sister in the house.
Secondly, when the girl aforesaid appeared, unexpectedly in all her
fresh and smiling loveliness—pardon my partiality—I was completely
knocked over, so to speak, and couldn’t help a sort of rapt gaze—as at a
wood nymph, which you unkindly call staring. I fell in love—at first
sight as men say—deep, deeper, miles deep next morning, and so will
remain till my life’s end.”

“I am afraid it goes rather like that with me, if I must confess,”
admitted Imogen, “though the heroine of a modern novel would never have
behaved so badly, now would she?”

“All’s well that ends well,” said the returned voyager. “I’ll hold the
horses while you run in, Paddy!”

The luggage having been taken in, Paddy ascended nimbly, and drove
soberly round to the stable.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Christmas having actually arrived, it was the commencement of the
“season” in Hobart and Tasmania generally. The dear little island, so
true an epitome of the ancestral isle in the climatic conditions, in the
stubborn independence of the population, in the incurious, unambitious
lives of the rural inhabitants, was filled with strangers and pilgrims
from every colony in Australasia.

Persons in search of health, haggard men from the Queensland “Never
Never” country, the far “Bulloo,” and “The Gulf,” where hostile blacks
and fever decimated the pioneers! Outworn prospectors from West
Australia—a rainless, red-hot, dust-tormented region, where, incredible
as it may appear, the water is charged for separately as well as the
whisky.

Commercial, pastoral and legal magnates, whose over-taxed brain craved
little save rest and coolness—contented to lie about inhaling the
evening breeze—to read, to fish, to muse, to think maybe, of a heaven,
where lawyers’ clerks, even with briefs, were not admitted. Sailors too,
from the half dozen men of war from the South Pacific fleet, having a
run ashore, and playing their part nobly, as is their wont on land, in
all picnics, balls and cricket matches, even in drives to the Huon River
nearly fifty miles out and back. This was rather an object lesson for
British tourists, as to the capabilities of Australian horses, and
Australian drivers, inasmuch as the leading drag with four horses, hired
from a well-known livery stable proprietor, and driven by a native-born
Tasmanian, negotiated the fifty-mile stage, allowing two hours for
luncheon and boating on the river, between breakfast time and dusk, the
whole being performed not only without distress to the well-bred team,
but with “safety to the passenger, and satisfaction to the looker on.”
The road was by no means of average description, far from level, indeed,
having shuddering deeps, where it wound along hillsides, and sudden
turns, and twisted at right angles, when the leaders ran across a dip in
the gully, which crossed the road, and the wheelers had their heads
turned at right angles to the leaders. Then the down grade towards the
sea, on the return trip, when the heavily laden coach rolled, lurching
at times near the edge of the precipice, and the “boldest held their
breath for a time.” But through every change, and doubtful seeming
adventure, in darksome forest, and ferny glade, where the light of
heaven was obscured, the watchful eye and sure hand of the charioteer
guided team and coach, with practised ease and assured safety.

Then the race meeting, to which you went by land or water, as taste
inclined. The deep sea fishing in the harbour, or the streams so clear
and cold in summer, where the trout lay under bridge or bank, and when
skies were dull, took the fly much as in Britain.

The hunting with country packs, the shooting, the long walks over hill
and dale—the halts, when a peep through the forest glades showed a
distant view of the foam-crested ocean! What joyous days were those,
when with Imogen by his side, who walked as well as she rode and drove,
they started with a few picked friends for that exceptional piece of
exercise, which includes the ascent of Mount Wellington. It is an Alpine
feat, only to be attempted by the young and vigorous, in the springtime
of life. “The way is long, the mountain steep,” and if limbs and lungs
are not in good order, the pedestrian is sure to tire half way, to
collapse ingloriously before the summit is reached. Rough in some places
is the track—over the ploughed field’s (so called) painful march. A
sprained ankle may easily result, from a slip, or worse even, a
dislocated knee, most tedious and troublesome of the minor injuries, and
which has lamed for life ere now the too confident pedestrian. Another
danger to be feared, is the sudden envelopment by the mountain mist,
under the confusing conditions of which more than one person has lost
his way and his life, perishing in some unnamed retreat. No such dangers
affrighted Imogen and her husband. They reached the summit, and standing
there, hand in hand, beheld the unrivalled scene. High over forest and
valley they gazed o’er the boundless ocean plain—so still and shining,
three thousand feet below them. The forest, with apparently a level
surface above its umbrageous eucalypts, looked like a toy shrubbery. The
city nestled between the sea wall and the enormous mountain bulk, under
whose shadow it lay.

The busy population looked small as the denizens of a populous anthill.
“It is a still day, ‘Grâce à Dieu,’” said Blount; “there’s no tyrannous
south wind from the ocean—coming apparently straight from the ice fields
of the Pole, to chill us to the bone, and cause the poor forest trees to
cry and groan aloud in their anguish. Wind has its good points,
probably, but I confess to a prejudice against the Euroclydon variety.
Especially when we are doing this Alpine business. By the way, there is
Mr. Wendover’s delightful woodland châlet—only a mile away. Suppose we
make a call there.”

“I scorn to acknowledge myself tired,” said Imogen; “but raspberries and
cream—this _is_ the season—would be an appropriate incident on this day
of days. They recall the Hermitage, do they not? I can’t say more.”

“And Mrs. Wendover is so charmingly hospitable,” said a girl companion.
“She has always the newest books, and music too, which, with the
before-mentioned raspberries, takes one far in the pursuit of
happiness.”

“While youth, and the good digestion which waits on appetite, last,”
said a middle-aged person with a bright eye and generally alert
expression. “Youth is the great secret. Heaven forbid that any of this
good company should confess to a hint of middle age, but _I_ have a
haunting dread lest the world’s best joys should be stealing away from
me.”

“Are there not compensations, Captain Warrender?” asked a lady, whose
refined, intellectual cast of countenance suggested literature. “Think
how delightful to hear of one’s last new book being rushed for new
editions, and simply being devoured all over the world.”

“Success is pleasant in whatever state of life it comes to one, but were
I allowed to choose between reading and writing, my vote would be
distinctly in favour of the former. The delightful self-complacency with
his task which the author of a successful book is supposed to feel is
over-rated, I assure you. It becomes a task, like all other compulsory
labour, and there are so many times and seasons when one would much
rather do something else. The chief, almost the only valuable result to
the producer (except the money, which, of course, is not despised) is,
that the reputation of successful authorship brings with it a host of
agreeable acquaintances, and even some true and lifelong friendships.”

“Have you found other authors free from envy, malice, and so forth?”
asked Mrs. Allendale.

“I can truly say that I have, with the rarest exceptions. Now and then a
man writing on party lines will administer a dose of unkind, perhaps
unfair, criticism which he calls ‘slating’ your book. But there is
little real ill-nature in the article, however much you may feel annoyed
at the time. And the freemasonry which exists among literary people,
great and small, makes on the whole for friendly relations. A man says:
‘Oh, you wrote _Cocoanuts and Cannibals_, didn’t you? Had rather a run
when it came out. Queer place to live in, I should think.’ Then you
foregather, and become, as it were, the honorary member of a club. Not
that one volunteers this information, but it leaks out.”

“Oh, here is the châlet gate, and I see Mrs. Wendover’s pet Jersey cow,
‘Lily Langtry,’” said Miss Chetwynde. “How nice she looks among the red
and white clover. Puts one in mind of dear old England, doesn’t it?”

“Where you never were,” laughed another maiden of the happy isle.

“I know that, but I’ve read so much about the grand old country that I
can fancy everything. Dear Miss Mitford! what a lovely touch she has! I
shall go there some day if I live. In the meantime here comes Mrs.
Wendover, all smiles, welcome, and a picture hat, dear creature! I
wonder what Miss Mitford would have thought of this forest, which comes
up so close to the house, if she had seen it. I should be afraid of a
fire some day.”

“Oh! our forests don’t burn so badly, even when they are on fire; this
place is safe enough. Sunburn is our worst danger just now, and there’s
the naval ball this evening. My cheeks _are_ on fire, just feel them.”

“Oh, certainly, Miss Chetwynd!” said a small middy, who was of the
party. “Anything else I can do for you?”

“I was not speaking to you, Mr. Harcourt. I was replying to Clara
Mildmay, and I shall cancel that dance I promised you this evening if
you’re not more respectful.”

“Oh, here you are!” cried Mrs. Wendover, in accents of genuine welcome.
“This is the most lucky chance. You must all positively stay to lunch. I
was getting tired of my own company for once in a way. John had sent a
messenger to say that he would not come out till the evening. So you are
evidently sent by Allah to cheer my loneliness.”

“We should all be charmed,” replied Imogen, taking her place as chief
chaperon, “but it is simply impossible. Captain Warrender will tell you
that we are all going to the naval ball this evening, and by the time we
get to Hobart we sha’n’t have a minute to spare, to dress in time and
get the sunburn off our faces.”

“Then you must come in and have raspberries and cream. It’s quite a
charity to take them off our hands. Walter and Nora and I are going to
the ball too, so I must insist.”

Cooled and refreshed, indeed invigorated by the raspberries and Jersey
cream, with suitable accompaniments, the jocund crew bade adieu to their
hostess, and trooped off to the Fairy Bower, that fern-shaded trysting
place in the heart of the forest, dear to so many generations of holiday
folk, where the four-in-hand drag awaited them by the fountain, and bore
them safely to their several destinations. The naval ball was a
pronounced success. Could it be otherwise “manned” by the officers of
the half-dozen men-of-war then in harbour? The band, the waiters at the
buffet, the assistants who held the dividing line in the ball-room, the
attendants at the doors of the supper-room, were all in uniform, while
the epaulettes and profusion of gold lace lit up the mass of civilian
costumes. It was a contention seriously debated at the time, and never
satisfactorily settled, as to whom the honour of being the belle of the
ball should be awarded. But all agreed that the crown of the Queen of
Beauty, if there had been a tournament, as in the days of chivalry, at
which to present it, should have been awarded either to Mrs. Blount
(_née_ Imogen Carrisforth) or to Miss Leslie, a native-born Tasmanian,
whose complexion was held to be unapproachable south of the Line, and
whose pre-eminence in loveliness had never before been disputed.

Each had their partisans, sworn admirers and liegemen. Each was declared
to be the prettiest girl, or the handsomest woman in Australasia—for the
New Zealand competitor “took a lot of beating,” as an ardent youthful
admirer phrased it. It remained, however, undecided, and will probably
be revived, like other vexed questions from time to time, with similar
lack of finality. As to one thing, however, the unanimity was pronounced
and decisive—the success of the entertainment. When “God Save the Queen”
was played, it was nearer three o’clock in the morning than two, and all
but the most inveterate dancers had had enough of it. Some of the junior
division indeed petitioned for just one more waltz and a galop; but
discipline being the soul of the navy, as well as the army, the
Admiral’s fiat had decided the matter irrevocably. Carriages were
ordered, shawls and wraps were donned by the matrons and maids who had
“seen it out,” as their partners expressed it, and the curtain fell upon
one of the most successful comedies or melodramas, as the case may be,
still popular, as in old historic days, on the mirthful, mournful, but
ever mysterious stage of human life.

After this crowning joy came a succession of _fêtes_. Meetings of the
Racing and Polo Clubs, with a gymkhana arranged by the latter society,
also picnics and private parties, the Garden Party in the lovely grounds
of Government House, where that befitting architectural ornament
overlooks the broad winding reaches of the Derwent. All these had to be
attended and availed of. The great events of the Polo Club, in “potato
and bucket” race, when the competitors were compelled to dismount, pick
up a potato from the ground and deposit the same in a bucket, placed for
the purpose; as also the tandem race, when the aspirant riding one
horse, had to drive another, with long reins, before him, also to
negotiate a winding in and out course, before returning to the starting
point, were both won by an active young squatter from the Upper Sturt,
to the unconcealed joy of Mrs. Bruce and Imogen, the latter race,
indeed, after a very close finish with a naval officer, who was the
recognised champion at this and other gymkhana contests. But won it was,
by the pastoral champion, though only by a nose. So after an inquiry
meeting by the committee of the club, it was to him adjudged, and the
trophy borne off in triumph. It is not to be supposed that the
squirearchy of the land was unrepresented at these Isthmian Games, or
that under such circumstances they left their wives and daughters, aunts
and cousins behind; or, if such an unnatural piece of selfishness had
been for a moment contemplated, that the women of the land would not
have organised a revolt, declared a republic, elected a president, and
marched down with banners flying to invest the capital, and make their
own terms with the terrified Government of the day. No such Amazonian
action was, happily, rendered necessary by sins of omission or
commission on the part of their liege lords or legal protectors.

That they had sufficient courage and martial spirit for such an
_émeute_, no one doubted. But with the exception of a quasi-warlike
observation by a Tasmanian girl, on beholding the phalanx of alien
beauty arrayed at the naval ball, that on the next occasion of the sort
she intended to bring her gun and shoot a girl or two “from across the
Straits” by way of warning, no specific action was taken.

So the old antagonism (veiled, of course, and conventional) that has
existed between the home-grown and the imported feminine product, was
conducted with discreet diplomacy, and the admirers of Helen or Briseis
had to content themselves with displaying personal or conversational
superiority in lieu of lethal weapons.

So on the ground in drags, mail phaetons, buggies and dogcarts of the
period, the female contingent arrived, chiefly before the first gun of
the engagement metaphorically aroused the echoes in the glens and forest
glades around Mount Wellington. The Hollywood Hall family was fully
represented, the Claremonts, the Bowyers. The magnate of Holmby, Mr.
Dick Dereker, in all his glory, had deposited himself and his most
intimate friend, John Hampden, a new arrival from England, at the club,
and was daily to be viewed by the admiring population of Hobart in Davey
or Macquarie Street in company with other stars of the social firmament.
Mr. Blount noticed with interest the extraordinary popularity which
encircled this favourite of fortune in the chief city of his native
land. As he walked down the street it was a kind of royal progress. He
was the people’s idol, the uncrowned king of the happy isle. Men of note
and standing crossed over to greet and shake hands with him. Even the
shady characters had a soft spot in their hardened hearts for “Dicky
Dereker.” Why was this adulation? Other country gentlemen were handsome
and chivalrous. All of them rode, drove, shot well; they, like him, had
been born “in the island,” and as such had the claims of a patriot for
the suffrages of their countrymen.

But the difficulty was to find all these virtues, personal
recommendations, gifts and graces, centred in one individual. The
popular verdict so declared it. And if the “classes and the masses” in
Tasmania had been polled as to his fitness for any post of eminence,
from the vice-regal administrator of the government downward, every man,
woman and child in the island would have gone “solid” for “Dicky
Dereker.”

Of this resistless, all-conquering sway, Mr. Blount was shortly to have
proof and confirmation, had such been needed. Sooth to say, he felt more
than slight misgivings; indeed, something near to what is called an
accusing conscience, with respect to his marked attentions to and
quasi-friendship for Laura Claremont on the occasion of his last visit
to Hollywood Hall. He was then (it may be stated for the defence) in the
somewhat perilous position of having been warned off, as he considered
it, by the family at Marondah, and was thus unprovided with an
attraction of counterbalancing interest. “Full many a heart is caught on
the rebound,” and doubtless the sympathetic manner and intellectual
superiority of Laura Claremont, combined with her personal endowments,
constituted a strong case for the unattached, unprotected stranger. When
he returned to Tasmania, bringing his bride with him radiant with the
overflowing happiness of the recent honeymoon, would the sympathetic
“friend” in whose society he had so openly delighted look coldly upon
him? Would _her_ friends and compatriots combine to denounce him as an
unworthy trifler, who, after paying compromising attentions, not only
“rode away,” but married a former flame, not even permitting a decent
interval to elapse between his preference for the old love and desertion
of the new?

Much troubled by these considerations he had even thought over an
indirect way of breaking the news, in a non-committal way, to the young
lady, and her (perhaps) justly incensed family and friends.

But _qui s’excuse s’accuse_ recurred to his mind with painful
promptitude. So, fortunately (as it turned out), he decided to trust to
time and chance for extrication from the dilemma. For, as he was
entering the hospitable portal of the Tasmanian Club, with a view to
luncheon and the later news items, he was joined by Claude Clinton, who
at once questioned him as to subscriptions for the forthcoming ball,
given by the members and players of the polo club. “How many tickets
shall I send you? They’re a guinea for men and half as much for ladies;
and have you heard the last engagement? No? It was only given out this
morning. Laura Claremont has made up her mind at last; Dick Dereker is
the happy man!”

“Send me a dozen tickets,” said Mr. Blount, who felt like John Bunyan
after his burden of sins had been removed. “They have my heartiest
congratulations.”

“All right,” said the omnipotent Secretary for Home Affairs; “by the
way, wasn’t the fair Laura rather a friend of yours? The Tenby girls
thought you were making strong running at the Hollywood Ball.”

“Every man of sense and taste must admire Miss Claremont,” he replied
with diplomatic gravity, masking, however, emotions of such intensity
that he had some difficulty in preserving calmness. “I was no exception
to the rule, that was all.”

“Perhaps it helped to bring Master Dick to the scratch—the affair has
been going on for years; if so, you did her a service. Dick is a
splendid fellow, but when a man has a whole island to pick from he feels
inclined to dally with a decision. However, they are to be married at
once—before the House meets—not to let the honeymoon interfere with his
legislative duties.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” Mr. Blount affirmed, with such evident
sincerity that Mr. Clinton departed to overtake his multifarious duties,
with the conviction that he was a fine, large-hearted, generous
personage, as well in the matter of ball subscriptions as in the more
romantic passages of life’s mystery. The young lady referred to had not
come down to the naval ball for reasons of her own, or otherwise, the
Squire’s health requiring her attendance upon him at the Hall. Such, at
any rate, was the explanation given by the family friends:—“Dear Laura
was _so_ attached to her father, and so self-denying and conscientious
in the discharge of her duties.”

Some of the frivolous division, perhaps a trifle impatient of perpetual
proclamation of “Aristides the Just,” hinted that there _is_ such a
device known to the female heart—inscrutable as are its myriad emotions
and minor tendencies—as the encouragement of a fervent admirer, up to a
certain point, for the stimulation of a laggard lover, the adorer No. 2
being known in the unstudied phrase as the “runner up.” However that may
have been, Mr. Blount took care to communicate the momentous
intelligence to his wife and sister-in-law immediately upon his arrival
at home. Mrs. Blount, with natural curiosity, expressed a wish to see
this wonderful Laura Claremont—whom everybody praised and indeed
referred to as one of the few girls in the island worthy of Dick
Dereker. “I suspect _you_ flirted with her on that driving tour—and at
the ball too—you lost your card, I remember. Now confess!”

“She is a very fine girl—dark, and stately-looking. Every one admires
her, but as for comparing her, _et cetera_, the idea is preposterous.”

“He hadn’t got our letters then, poor fellow!” said Imogen, who,
fortunately, was not of a jealous disposition. “So if he made ever such
a little swerve from what is called the path of duty I suppose I must
forgive him. You won’t do so again, sir, I’ll see to that!”

“I hope you and Miss Claremont will be _great_ friends. She is just the
sort of woman you would like. I’ll make a point of introducing you at
the Polo Ball. Here are the tickets, and a few to spare.”

“You have been most generous,” said Mrs. Bruce. “I’ll keep three for
Edward, myself, and a friend, if one turns up. I daresay we shall find
one or two.”

“No, take half; I bought them for the family. Perhaps some of the Upper
Sturt people may turn up.”

“Quite likely,” said Imogen; “perhaps even from Bunjil! Oh, dear! what
fun that would be!”

“I know what you are laughing at,” said her sister. “Do you see her
joke, Val?”

“Not in the least. Let us share it, Mrs. Bruce.”

“It is a good joke,” said that merry matron, going off again into fits
of laughter; “but I shall not tell you just yet. It is a secret.”

The male relative looked puzzled, admitting that the solution was beyond
him; at which stage it seemed destined to remain.




                               CHAPTER XI


A DESCRIPTION of “the season” in Hobart, whether regarded as a summer
land for tourists, a safe run ashore for the men and officers of the
South Pacific “fleet in being” detailed at Hobart, or as an object
lesson for untravelled inhabitants—would seem to consist mainly of a
record of recreational events. A list of picnics and pleasure parties,
driving and fishing excursions, with pedestrian rambles—chiefly by day,
but occasionally _au clair de la lune_.

The rivers named after Messrs. Brown and Huon, long dead celebrities,
received more than their share of patronage, it would seem, in the
entertainment of reckless revellers, whose polo meets and gymkhanas
alternated with the legitimate annual races and steeplechases.

There must have been business transactions, but they were eluded or
postponed—the only exception being the Great Silver Bonanza, which kept
its bond-slaves hard at work, by means of remuneration on the higher
scale. Night and day, work proceeded with the regularity of one of its
own steam-engines. The Hobart weather was delightful—occasionally
threatening rain but chiefly relenting, and ending towards the close of
day with soft and cooling sea breezes, which refreshed the
pleasure-driven crowds to the inmost fibre of the nervous system.

In all these ingenious projects for lessening the strain upon the minds
and bodies of ordinary humanity the officers and men of H.M. Royal Navy
were conspicuously effective. At all aristocratic entertainments
“Man-of-War Jack” was utilised to keep the gangways clear, to hold the
rope of division in the ball-room, and otherwise, as “the handy man,” in
spotless array, to display his disciplined alertness. Even the naval
Church parade was attended by the fair ones of perhaps the last night’s
entertainment. On each Sunday morning, therefore, boat-loads of
worshippers, in silk or muslin, might be descried crossing the waters of
the harbour, rowed by an ample crew, under the charge of an
all-important middy, to the flag-ship or frigate, where divine service
was celebrated by the Chaplain of the Fleet, or other amphibious
clergyman, provided by the Lords of the Admiralty.

In this sense, perhaps, the gay season of Hobart constituted a social
federation of the Australasian States, when other matters, not of
ephemeral weight, might be suitably discussed. From the wave-beaten
isles of New Zealand, where the mountain-crested billows rolled on their
stormy march from the ice-fields of the ultimate pole, to the
mangrove-bordered marshes of Northern Queensland; from the “Never-Never
country” and the “back blocks”; from “the Gulf” and the buffalo lands of
Essington and Darwin, came languid, fever-stricken squatters, to breathe
the cool air of this southern Lotus Land, differing among themselves in
minor respects as to manner, accent, stature and ordinary habitude, but
in heart and brain, British to the core. Roving sons of the Great Mother
Land, holding God’s Commission of the strong hand, the steadfast brain,
to occupy the Waste Places of the earth and develop their inborn trend
towards justice and mercy, law and order. With such inherited gifts,
going forth conquering, and to conquer, to weld into one solid, enduring
fabric, the Empire of Britain. Thus, handing down to their children’s
children lands of freedom “broad-based upon the people’s will,” where
equal laws administered with moderation and mercy are to be the heritage
of England’s sons. The Greater Britains of the South, for all time; and
whether in peace or war, loyal, self-contained, immovable, one and
indivisible.

The great event of the season was to be the Polo Ball, looked forward to
with almost feverish eagerness, not only by the young men and maidens of
the Happy Isle, but by the large important contingents from abroad,
which exceeded in number, and social value, those of any previous year.
Hence applications for tickets were beyond all calculation.

Requests, even entreaties poured in, almost until the opening of the
doors of the great hall secured for the function. Claude Clinton was, as
he said, “walked off his legs,” having indeed hardly time to dress and
eat his dinner, while the committee, who had the onerous and responsible
task of deciding upon the fitness of applicants, had to improvise a late
sitting, so as not to disappoint the arrivals by the train from
Launceston, just landed from the New Zealand Company’s extra service
boat, the _Rotorua_. The funds of the Club, however, would be benefited
to such an extent, that the secretary and committee worked loyally till
the last moment, and when Mr. Clinton had given a last authoritative
order, and made a final inspection of the decorations, he sat down to
his dinner at the Travellers’ Club, and drank his pint of champagne with
a conviction that everything had been done to deserve success, and that
the issue lay with Fate.

Imogen had condescended to inform her relations that a friend of hers
had arrived from Melbourne, who, having made up her mind at the last
moment, would dress and join their party after dining at the Orient
Hotel, where rooms had been secured for her previously.

She had written confidentially to Mr. Clinton and had her name properly
submitted to and passed by the committee. All was arranged, and she
would go under Imogen’s chaperonage to the ball, and perhaps stay with
them all night.

“What is her name? Do I know her, Imogen?” inquired her husband. “You
are very mysterious, my dear!”

“You have seen her, she tells me, but I am not certain whether you will
recognise her. She comes from some place near Adelong in New South
Wales; her people used to live in Tumut.”

“Then the probability is that she will be good-looking,” said Mr.
Blount. “Some of the handsomest girls I ever saw came from that
sequestered spot. However, we must wait till she shows up. Was she a
schoolfellow of yours?”

“No, not exactly, but I knew her when she was younger. You will know all
about her when the time comes. I feel desperately hungry, after this
exciting day. Oh, I hear the dinner gong.”

The dinner was not unduly prolonged, as any one of experience in the
anxieties and precautions which precede such an important function will
understand. So that after an adjournment to the drawing-room, when,
about nine o’clock, the maid delivered a message, _sotto voce_, to Mrs.
Imogen, who forthwith left the room, everyone revolved great
expectations. These were chiefly realised, when the hostess reappeared,
accompanied by a tall, handsome, exceedingly well-dressed girl, who
blushed and smiled, as she was introduced to the company as “Miss
Maguire of Warranbeen.” “Very pleased to meet you, Miss Maguire,” began
Blount, but, with a sudden alteration of tone and manner, “Why, it’s
Sheila! by all the Powers, what a transformation!” as Mrs. Bruce shook
her warmly by the hand, while Imogen stood by her charge, apparently
charmed with the metamorphosis which leisure, the use and reputation of
“money” had effected in the unformed country girl, so lately the “maid
of the Inn,” at the secluded village of Bunjil, on the Upper Sturt.

“You didn’t know me, Mr. Blount, I could see that. I had half a mind to
ask you what you’d like for breakfast. I’m turned into a young lady,
nowadays, you see! And Mrs. Blount, in her great kindness, persuaded me
to come to the ball to-night, with her and Mrs. Bruce. I’ve been to the
Show Ball at Wagga, and one or two in Tumut, by way of a start. But this
is such a grand affair; I feel frightened.”

“I am sure, Sheila, you have no cause to be,” said Mrs. Bruce,
reassuringly; “you native girls can all dance—it seems an instinct; your
dress is charming, and you will gather confidence as the ball goes
on—and your card is filled. You are a mysterious stranger, for the
present. That alone will be an attraction. We’ll see to your
introductions; and there are naval men in profusion.”

“I like sailors,” said Sheila, “they are so unaffected and jolly, put on
no side” (she had been at a country ball at the age of sixteen, to which
the officers of a man-of-war, then in Sydney, had been bidden by a
liberal-minded squatter, who had invited the whole of the “township”
inhabitants, in one act, and a great success it was), for Sheila bore
about with her for all time the memory of two polkas, a waltz, and a
galop danced with the Honourable Mr. de Bracy, midshipman of the period,
to their mutual satisfaction and enjoyment.

“I think you will have your share of partners, Sheila,” said her
hostess; “you certainly do credit to your dressmaker, and the Upper
Sturt complexion will give you a chance with these Tasmanian girls, who
are justly celebrated for theirs.”

“What a transformation!” said Blount to his wife, before they put on
their wraps. “I never could have believed it. Of course she has fined
down since the Bunjil days. I believe old Barney sold a Queensland
station, with 30,000 head of cattle, just before the seasons turned dry.
So she and her sister are considerable heiresses. She has, as you see,
self-possession, and sense enough to avoid anything _outré_.”

“You’ll see she’ll get on quite well—make a success, indeed. People say
money isn’t everything; but it goes a long way in this, or any other
country, especially combined with looks, and other good qualities. You
had better dance the opening set of lancers with her for a start.”

Mrs. Imogen’s predictions were verified. There was a certain amount of
romantic interest attached to the fresh-looking, handsome stranger,
reputed wealthy, and who danced so well. “Came, too” (people said),
“with that nice, high-bred-looking Mrs. Bruce and the bride.” She danced
the first lancers with Mr. Blount, and while exhibiting familiarity with
the figures, moved with the graceful indifference which has succeeded
the erstwhile precision with which the “steps” were anciently performed.
Mr. Blount managed to secure an early waltz, and the naval men coming by
shiploads, as it appeared to her, Sheila’s programme was filled in no
time.

That there could not have been a better ball, all the authorities
combined to declare. The ever-successful secretary and plenipotentiary
had once more covered himself with glory; the arrangements were perfect,
the supper was “a dream,” and when Sheila found herself taken in by the
Captain of the flag-ship, the Admiral and the Governor being in the
immediate vicinity, she wondered whether she was likely to fall down in
a fit, or if some other kind of death would result from such an
overflowing flood of triumphant, ecstatic bliss.

However, she did not die, or indeed was she likely to perish of nervous
excitement consequent on pure, unadulterated pleasure; the early
bush-training, together with a naturally good constitution, would always
preserve her from such an untimely fate.

Imogen was carefully, prudently, introduced to Miss Laura Claremont, who
prophesied that they would be great friends, and invited her and her
sister to Hollywood. Both of which Imogen accepted conditionally on her
husband’s—she laid a slight emphasis upon that very possessive word—“on
her husband’s not being hurried away by Mr. Frampton to that horrid
Zeehan.” The Upper Sturt party, as we may for convenience describe them,
got their full share of partners it may be believed, being all of the
age when, if there be an ear for music, and a terpsichorean taste “what
time the raving polka spins adown the rocking floor,” with good music,
suitable partners, and a smooth surface, nothing much better among the
lighter enjoyments of life is to be found. With Miss Claremont Blount
had danced before, when their steps appeared to suit extremely well. On
this occasion, he saw no reason why he should deny himself the fleeting
indulgence of once more gliding and sliding about with her in the
accepted fashion.

She graciously acceded to his request for an after supper dance, and in
one of the partly deserted side-rooms they came to a mutual
understanding, which each felt was more or less needed.

“I owe you a few words,” she said, “if our friendship is to continue—and
I should be sorry for it to end abruptly. It appears to me that we were
both in an exceptional state of mind when we met at Hollywood for the
first time, and if something had not happened—which _did_ happen—one of
us would have felt a right to blame the other.”

“You have stated the position most fairly,” he said.

“I hope you don’t think I am so logical,” she replied, “as to be
deficient in feeling. Believe me when I tell you”—and here her dark eyes
glowed with a transient gleam of hidden fire, which he had never before
noticed in them—“I don’t exaggerate when I say that it was a fateful
crisis, such as I had never before experienced.”

“It was most truly a supreme moment in _my_ destiny,” he replied, as she
faltered and then stopped, overcome by emotion.

“But, let me go on, I entreat, to make open and full confession, for I
can never recur to the subject, and I trust you to make a similar
promise.”

“It is given,” said Blount in all sincerity.

“Then,” said Miss Claremont, “I will not deny that I was attracted to
you at our first meeting, more, perhaps, than towards any man whom I had
ever met, with one exception. You were different from any one with whom
I had previously come into contact. This impression was confirmed as we
saw more of each other. I recognised your mental qualities. I approved
highly of your opinions, your personal attributes and general character
appealed to me strongly. My heart was in an unsettled state; I was weary
of waiting, and began to doubt whether Richard Dereker, with whom I had
been in love ever since I could remember, intended to declare himself. I
am not believed to be impulsive, but, under certain conditions, am very
much so.”

“All women are,” interjected Blount.

“Possibly; but let me finish;” and she hurried on—her voice changed from
the deliberate calmness with which she usually spoke, to a hurried
monotone—“If you had proposed to me that night, I should have consented,
I believe. But your departure next morning gave me time to reflect;
saved me, most likely, both of us, from life-long incompleteness, which,
to a woman at least, means settled unhappiness. Then, just after you
left, my fairy prince ‘made up his mind,’ as people say, and I am the
happiest girl in Tasmania. I need not ask about your feeling—it is
written in large print over both of you, and—here she comes! I don’t
wonder.”

“I was in a most forlorn and wretched state,” said Blount, “when you
took pity on me and healed my wounds by your sympathetic kindness. Never
think you could have done me an injury—and you must let me say, even
under our changed conditions, that _I_ should not have been a life-long
sufferer. But, as in your case, the fairy princess was persuaded of her
knight’s fidelity; the falsehoods set about by enemies were disproved,
and the castle rang with troubadour ballads, and the usual merry-making,
when the ‘traitours and faitours’ were put in their proper places; and
so the incident is closed, and in all gratitude and enduring friendship
it is a case of ‘as you were.’”

“Yes; I know, I know,” said the fair Laura; “no more protestations, or
else your wife will require explanations, too. Who is the very handsome
damsel she has with her?”

“Well; a great friend of mine, who stood by me staunchly in my
tribulations and rendered me timely aid. She is a New South Wales
heiress. I will tell you about her another time.”

“We have been looking for you, Miss Claremont,” said Imogen. “I was
anxious to introduce my friend, Miss Maguire, a friend of my husband’s,
too, who did him important service at a critical juncture without which
(between you and me) things might have turned out differently.”

“Mr. Blount gave me to understand as much,” said Miss Claremont, “and I
am most happy to welcome any friend of yours or his to our island home.
I hope you have enjoyed yourself, Miss Maguire?”

“More than I ever did in my life before,” said Sheila, with such evident
sincerity, that no one could help smiling. “I think the people here are
the kindest and pleasantest I ever met. I have often heard of Hobart
hospitality, but never expected to find it anything like this.”

“I hope we shall continue to deserve such a good character. Strangers do
generally approve of us, and there is no doubt we are always delighted
to see them. I suppose we ought to make a move, Mrs. Blount, I see
Richard looking out anxiously for me. We must all go and thank Claude
Clinton if he isn’t dead with fatigue. We owe a great deal to him.”

“That we do,” said Sheila, naïvely, “he told me he had been hard at work
since daylight, arranging thousands of things. Poor fellow! I quite
pitied him. I was nearly offering to help with the supper—I am supposed
to be clever in that line.”

“You might have come off as well as the girl who volunteered to take the
parlourmaid’s place when her sister was short of one at a big dinner,
and afterwards married a baronet with ten thousand a year, who thought
she said ‘Sherry, sir?’ so nicely!”

“I see Claude Clinton over there,” interposed Blount, who thought the
situation was becoming critical. “He’ll be fast asleep if we don’t go
and pelt him with congratulations. Say something nice to him, Sheila!”

“That I will,” said she, with effusion, “I quite love him for his
kind-heartedness.”

“You’re not the only grateful one,” said Miss Claremont, “but you’ll
have to wait your turn. Dick must make a speech, and we’ll all say
Amen.”

“I’ll do anything if you’ll come home,” said that gentleman. “You girls
would stay till daylight, I believe. Claude, my boy! come here and be
publicly thanked. These ladies have constituted themselves a deputation
and wish to assure you that this is the best ball they ever were at in
their lives; that it wouldn’t have been half as good but for you; that
they will be everlastingly grateful for the perfect arrangements you
have made. Miss Maguire can’t express her feelings in words, but is most
anxious to—”

“Oh! Mr. Dereker!” cried Sheila, blushing to the roots of her hair,
“pray don’t—Oh!”

“Don’t interrupt. She’s most anxious to say ‘Amen.’”

“Amen!” said Sheila, gravely, and evidently much relieved.

“For what we have received, etc., etc.,” continued Mr. Dereker. “Now for
shawls and the carriage. Can we set you down at the club, Claude? And
you can make a suitable reply on the way.”

Possibly he did, as he was wedged in, close to Sheila, and what he had
to say was in a softly, murmurous tone; akin to that of the surges on
the shore, which the silence of the summer night made clearly audible.

                  *       *       *       *       *

After the triumphant success of the ball, other entertainments followed
in quick succession, in which the visitors, civil, naval and military,
vied with each other in keeping up the excitement, so that the season of
18— was long known as the most successful, harmonious, and generally
mirthful period recorded in Tasmanian annals. Races, regattas, picnics,
gymkhanas, were in turn attended by crowds of visitors from all the
colonies.

Of four-in-hand drags there was quite a procession. Agriculture was
prospering. Stock was high in price and quality. Mining operations and
investments not only in this, but in all the other colonies, were
phenomenally payable. The financial glow shed by the ever increasing,
almost fabulous yield of the Comstock, and of the great copper and tin
mines, Mount Lyell and Mount Bischoff, gave a magical lustre to all
monetary transactions. A kind of Arabian Nights’ glamour was cast over
the existence of the dwellers in the land, and of all the excited crowds
who had hurried to the favoured isle, where Aladdin’s Cave seemed
suddenly to have opened its treasure chambers in real life and in broad
day, to the favoured inhabitants of the Far South Isle.

Foremost among the gay throngs who seemed bent upon taking fullest
advantage of the revelries of the period—so appropriate, so suitable, so
thoroughly in harmony with the spirit of the hour, were the festive
celebrities of the Victorian party, by which name they began to be
known.

Mr. Blount had no notion of receiving all the benefits of his newly
acquired possessions without doing something in requital. His liberality
was unbounded. He subscribed generously to all charitable societies and
local institutions. He gave picnics, dances and fishing parties. He even
went the length of chartering a steamer and carrying off a large
fashionable party to the weird, gloomy solitudes of Macquarie Harbour.

Here the frolic-minded crowd found their spirits lowered, and their
imagination darkly disturbed, as they roamed amid the ruinous
prison-houses, where rotting timbers told the tale of long neglect; of
fast-fading memories of crime and suffering. They gazed on the immense,
tenantless buildings, with hundreds of cubicles, the mouldering walls,
roofless and ivy-grown, the church where it was deemed that the wretches
whose lives were one long foretaste of hell, might be turned to hopes of
Heaven, after completing a life of imprisonment, torture and despair.
Vehicles were in attendance, besides saddle-horses and guides, under
whose safe conduct the revellers made their way to the silent, deserted
settlement, whence long ago the ghastly procession of chained men
marched at morn to commence each day—a day in which they cursed their
birth hour at dawn and eve, ending it by trusting that each night might
be their last. The visitors trod the rotting planks of the stage, where
fierce dogs had bayed and torn at their chains, as they scented the
escaping convict—where more than one such desperate felon had been
literally torn in pieces, or escaped the hounds to die a more terrible
death amid the sharks which swarmed around the pier. These and other
relics of the bad old days of mystery and fear, having been shudderingly
regarded by the awed and whispering company, the _Albatross_ departed
with a fair wind, a smooth sea, and her much relieved visitors, who,

                 “Ignorant of ‘man’s’ cruelty,
                 Marvelled such relics here should be.”

Yet as the stars came out and sat upon thrones, looking with sleepless
eyes upon the shadowy outlines of the darksome forest and the savage
coast, a wailing nightwind arose sounding as a ghostly accompaniment to
the dirge-like murmur of the great army of the dead—buried and
unburied—around the accursed charnel-houses, which had polluted even
that Dantean wilderness!

“Oh! let us get away from this dreadful place!” said Imogen, clinging to
her husband’s arm, “and I vote against seeing any other Chamber of
Horrors. We come to Hobart for rest and pleasure while this halcyon
season lasts. Let us not sadden our souls by one thought of the terrors
in which this place is steeped. I should like to blot out their very
memory and consume the relics off the face of the earth.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

It must not be considered, either, that the “Truce of God” (as cessation
of siege or battle was medievally termed), which the Happy Isle
proclaimed to the war-worn denizens of other colonies, less happily
situated for rest and recreation, was entirely devoted to Play. This
year was the session, wisely ordained as fitting in with the general
vacation, for the meeting of the Society for the Advancement of Science.

Hither came, therefore, to leaven the ordinary frivolities, learned
professors from Australasian universities, legal luminaries, judges, the
Q.C. and the rising barrister, mercantile magnates, statisticians of
world-wide fame, even, indeed, Sir Gregory Gifford, also Sir Harold
Harfager, an ex-Proconsul of our Indian empire. They were vice-regal
guests. Minor luminaries, such as authors, war correspondents,
politicians, home-grown and foreign—in fact almost all the men of “light
and leading” were represented at this unique gathering. Missionaries
from far Pacific Isles, who had faced cannibal hordes, and heard the
yell from crowded war canoes, when poisoned arrows were in the air. They
had their philological treasures and hard-won trophies to exhibit. The
crowded lecture rooms testified to the interest taken in the soldiers of
the Army of Peace. To add to the satisfaction with which the various
excitements and entertainments were availed of by the party from the
Upper Sturt, it so chanced that, in consequence of the favourable
seasons Edward Bruce was enabled to join them a month earlier than he
had expected. He was, moreover, in excellent spirits, openly avowing his
intention to devote his stay in Hobart to pleasure unalloyed, as
compensation for his late pastoral anxieties. He was not contented,
however, after a fortnight’s “idlesse,” without organising a trip to The
Mine, which had lately so developed in wealth, prestige, and reputation,
that it was difficult to say whether it belonged to Tasmania or Tasmania
belonged to it.

Everything and everybody appeared to be in a state of unprecedented
prosperity in that happy and care-free _annus mirabilis_ if ever there
was one. Mrs. Bruce and Imogen mildly reproached Bruce for being in such
a hurry to leave his family after so long an absence, and what was
worse, carrying off Imogen’s husband. However, he, a man of unresting
energy and enterprise, declared that he could not stand any more of this
lotus-eating life, and that if he did not get away out to the mine, he
would have to return to Marondah.

At this dreadful threat Mrs. Bruce capitulated, fearing a premature
departure from this land of Utopian delights, where the children were
improving so fast, and gaining a reserve of vigour impossible in a
hotter climate. This consideration, in the devoted mother’s eyes,
overbore all others, and caused her to look philosophically upon the
proposed expedition—which was accordingly decided upon, and a day fixed
for the start, the which came off without accident or delay.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It may be doubted whether, except in theatrical stage life, anything
surpasses in rapidity of transformation the change from a fragment of
the primeval wilderness into a thickly populated town, founded on a gold
or silver field of proved richness. Macadamised streets and level
footpaths take the place of miry dray tracks and sloughs of despond. So
was it in the city of Comstock. Handsome hotels and shop fronts, with
plate glass windows, had succeeded weatherboard and slab shanties with
bark roofs. The electric light in globe and street lamps shed its
searching radiance through main thoroughfare and alley.

The diurnal coach, by which our travellers arrived, was well horsed and
punctual to a fault. The police magistrate and warden of goldfields,
assisted by a strong body of police, preserved order and punished
evil-doers with such deterrent strictness that offences against the laws
were almost unknown. A municipality, with mayor, councillors, and
aldermen had been formed after the British pattern. Thus the foundations
of earliest English law had been laid, and as the erstwhile barren,
hopeless lodge in the wilderness increased in wealth and population, so
the State, “broad based upon the people’s will,” emerged ready made,
only awaiting that gradual development which comes instinctively in
Anglo-Saxon communities, to pass from the rude stage of the mining camp
to the perfected organisation of the city. It was soon made apparent to
the party that Hobart was not the only place where public entertainments
and festive gatherings were to be found. The mayor and corporation of
Comstock, waiting upon the distinguished visitors, whose arrival was
duly chronicled in the _Clarion_, invited them to a formal banquet,
where champagne in profusion was exhibited, and the health of their
guests proposed by the mayor, Mr. Frampton Tregonwell, who made
honourable mention of that distinguished pastoralist and explorer, Mr.
Edward Hamilton Bruce.

Before this function they had been taken to the lower levels of the
mine, when the “drives” being lighted up, and a few judiciously selected
masses of “native silver” and malachite looked up for the occasion, Mr.
Bruce formed the opinion that he stood in a “quarry” of one of the chief
precious metals. Being a man of business habits, as well as of pastoral
experience, he took the opportunity, under Mr. Tregonwell’s authority,
to inspect the accounts of the Company, and, after examining the
astonishing values of crude and treated ore, he came to the conclusion
that his sister-in-law (untoward as had been the early stages of their
acquaintance) had displayed the unerring instinct with which her sex is
credited in her venture in the matrimonial lottery. The audit
demonstrated the cheering fact that an income of from ten to twenty
thousand a year was assured to each of the four original shareholders in
this most fortunate enterprise.

“I suppose you and Imogen will be taking a trip home in a few months?”
he said. “With all this money, and the prospects of the season in
London, Australia will lose some of its interest.”

“Such is our intention; unless anything unforeseen comes in the way
after the Hobart season has come to an end and you good folks have
wended your way back to the Upper Sturt, I think of taking our passage
by the first P. and O. steamer from Sydney.”

“Won’t it be rather cold to arrive in England so early in the year?”

“We propose to stay a month or two in Cairo on the way, refreshing our
memories of the _Arabian Nights_; trans-shipping by the Brindisi route,
and after a week or two in Paris, reaching London in May, in time for
Imogen to hear her first nightingale.”

“A very sensible programme, I wish we were going with you. However,
later on, if the seasons and the stock keep up, we may come and stay at
your country seat.”

“It was the most fortunate day of my life when I stayed at yours, though
appearances were against me, I confess. However, I look forward to
seeing you and Hilda in my native county, which is not wholly without
interest, especially in shooting, hunting, and fishing. However, I think
it’s drawing on to feeding time. Champagne goes better _after_
subterranean experiences than before.”

The banquet was a success. Blount found himself referred to, not only as
the original capitalist in the formation of the great Mineral Property,
which had advanced Tasmania by half a century, socially, commercially,
and mineralogically (the last word a trifle slurred), but as “a patron
of the fine arts, a generous supporter of local charities, and a citizen
of whom they would all be proud, and would remember gratefully in days
to come. They trusted that even in the splendid pageantry of the old and
venerated society, in which he and his amiable wife were so soon to
share, the humble, but heartfelt hospitality of the ‘tight little
island,’ called Tasmania would not be wholly forgotten. Their honoured
guests had accepted invitations to be present at a ball to be given that
evening for the purpose of supplementing the funds of the local
hospital, and all hoped to meet them there. They knew that there were
several representative institutions, including the library, of which
they were justly proud, to inspect. They would not detain the guests by
making further remarks.”

Mr. Blount had no hesitation in saying that he was never more genuinely
surprised than by witnessing the astonishing, he might say unparalleled,
progress made by the town and district since his last visit. In the
formation of the streets, in the water service, in the installation of
electric lighting, in the hospital and library, Comstock was ahead of
many old-established country towns in Britain. Personally, he should
always take a deep interest in the municipal, as well as the material,
progress of the city, and feel genuine pride in having contributed to
its inception and development.

A general inspection of the local institutions filled up the afternoon.
The free library attracted much attention. It had been commenced by
subscription, and with private donations, supplemented by books from
tourists and visitors, who generally left any they brought to read by
train or steamer on the journey up. It was a heterogenous collection,
ranging from _very_ light fiction to works on metallurgy, theology, and
civil engineering. However, there was no lack of works of solid value,
so that the miner who wished to improve or distract his mind had no
difficulty in finding books to suit his taste. At the hospital, apart
from typhoid fever and dysentery patients, the cases were mostly
fractures and other injuries resulting from mining accidents. This
establishment, as at all gold and silver fields, was most liberally
supported, irrespective of race, creed, or colour. No working miner knew
whose turn it might be the next to be carried there in agony or
insensibility. Many were the gifts, unostentatiously bestowed, by former
patients in the shape of necessaries or luxuries for convalescents.
These duty visits performed, dinner was undertaken at the Palace Hotel,
a stately three-storeyed building, with a verandah nearly twenty feet
wide and balconies to match. After a more or less sumptuous repast in
the _salle à manger_, electric lighted, where they were served by
well-dressed waiters, with wines of undoubted excellence, and a _menu_
almost extravagant in variety, and but sparingly partaken of; Messrs.
Bruce, Blount, and Tregonwell sallied forth accompanied by a dozen
dignitaries to the Town Hall. In this imposing building, a crowd of
dancers in “plain or fancy” dress were already in the full swing of
pleasurable excitement.




                              CHAPTER XII


A GOLD or silver field of decent rank and reputation must always compare
favourably in its amusements with a town. In the wide range of his
experiences, in war and peace, on land and water, British or foreign,
the roving miner may challenge comparison with all sorts and conditions
of men. Thus, he is never at a loss for a character to represent, a
costume in which to disguise, or to heighten his personal attractions.
The same rule applies to the women of the family, who have followed his
wanderings, sharing in his privations or triumphs, as the case may be.
Bearing with exemplary patience the inevitable hardships, they are none
the less eager to recoup themselves when legitimate opportunities arise
for amusement.

When Messrs. Bruce, Blount, and other magnates arrived on the scene,
they were accommodated with seats on the daïs, where they sat proudly in
full public view, reflecting how sharply contrasted was the scene before
them with any possible gathering on the site of the “Comstock Claim”—“of
four men’s ground”—little more than a year ago! The great hall, seventy
feet in length, by thirty in width, was brilliantly lighted, draped with
flags of all nations, above which, surmounting the daïs, the Union Jack
reigned supreme. Upon the satin-like Huon pine floor strolled a motley
crowd. Pirates and princes, peasants and brigands, ballerinas and
matadors, mingled with dairy maids and broom girls, flower sellers and
fishwives (whose “caller herrin’” had the smack of the well-remembered
cry), while dowagers and duchesses, grisettes, tricoteuses, shepherds
and sundowners, jostled here and there, in the dance, with a Red Indian,
a cow-boy, or even an aboriginal in his blanket.

“The distinguished visitors,” so described in the morning’s _Clarion_,
paid due respect to their municipal and other entertainers. They stood
high in the estimation of their partners, whose looks and enthusiasm for
the dance they would have been indeed hypercritical to have criticised.
Charlie Herbert and Jack Clarke, the latter having got rid of his
unfortunate lameness, were habited as a bushranger and a stock-rider,
respectively. They remained till supper was over, during which
exceedingly festive refection, Mr. Blount’s health, as a fearless
explorer, was enthusiastically toasted, while Mr. Tregonwell was
referred to as a world-renowned mining captain, and the father of the
field. Charlie Herbert was eulogised as a worthy son of the soil, who,
like Mr. Dereker—the speaker must say “Dick” Dereker (cheers)—was an
honour to his native land, and like him, destined to make a name in the
great world. Here every one rose, and cheered to the echo. The speeches
in requital of this courtesy were brief but pointed; and long before the
conclusion of the function, Messrs. Bruce and Blount quietly departed
and soon after sunrise were on the way back to Hobart, accompanied by
Charlie Herbert and Clarke, who deemed themselves to have a just claim
to exceptional recreation after their pioneer experiences. Moreover,
they explained that they could afford to enjoy themselves with a clear
conscience, while Mr. Tregonwell remained on guard—a man never known to
sleep on his post. So these young men chartered a four-in-hand drag, a
few miles out of Hobart, and having borrowed a coach-horn, entered that
city with all proper pomp and circumstance. When Charlie Herbert
proceeded to “swing his reefing leaders,” and pull up at the General
Post-Office, quite a crowd had assembled, eager to gaze on, and to
welcome the prospectors of the wondrous Comstock mine.

After depositing themselves and their belongings at the Tasmanian Club,
the junior shareholders stated with decision that, having had a fair
allowance of hard work and hard living, they were now going to enjoy
themselves; also to make some return for the hospitality they had
enjoyed in former years. As pleasant detrimentals, though suspiciously
regarded by cautious matrons, they had always, on the whole, been
popular, their want of capital being overlooked in favour of their
engaging manners and family connections. Now, as original shareholders
in the great mining property of the day, they were princes, paladins,
long-lost brothers; in fact, most desirable and distinguished.
Everybody, from the Supreme Court judges downward, called on and made
much of them. Without them no party was complete. At the polo meets they
were conspicuous; they rode splendidly, every one said, as indeed they
did, but not having been able to keep ponies in former years, this was
their first opportunity of exhibiting that accomplishment in public.

Of course, they were not long in letting people know that they wanted to
give their friends, and more particularly the ladies of Hobart, some
kind of entertainment; the question now being of what pattern and
dimensions it should consist. To this end grave consultations were held;
of balls and parties there had been nearly enough—the young people were,
strange to say, beginning to be tired of dancing.

Laura Claremont talked of going home to Hollywood soon. If not earlier,
certainly next week. Mr. Bruce was becoming impatient; he began to think
about mustering those polled Angus bullocks in the river paddocks for
the Melbourne market, when a chance remark by Mrs. Blount settled the
matter, and decided the character of the entertainment.

“How would it be to have a picnic party to the Hermitage?” she inquired,
with an air of much innocence and simplicity. “There is a lovely road by
Brown’s River, and such a view! No one is at the Bungalow now but a
caretaker. There is one fine large room, and a grand verandah looking
out to sea. The eatables, etc., could be arranged early in the day, and
if we were a little late coming home, the nights are so lovely. We can
have all the men-of-war people, and just in time, too; I heard they were
to be off to the islands soon.”

“Magnificent!” cried out Charlie Herbert and Jack Clarke in one breath.
“Mrs. Blount, you have saved our lives. Jack and I were getting quite
low-spirited and suicidal. We could think of nothing worth while. Balls
are played out. The races at Elwick were about the last excitement. A
picnic on a vast and comprehensive scale is the very thing. Miss
Maguire, when does the Admiral give the order for Nukuheva?”

Sheila blushed, and seemed taken aback, but rallying, answered, “‘The
captain bold does not confide in any foremast hand, Matilda!’ Isn’t that
in one of the Bab Ballads?”

“Oh! I thought Vernon Harcourt might have told you,” said Charlie. “You
and he seemed so confidential the other evening.”

“Suppose you ask him yourself, Mr. Herbert? But, at any rate, it won’t
be till the week after next.” Here everybody laughed, and the girl,
seeing that she had “given herself away,” looked confused.

“Tell him not to be rude, Sheila. What business is it of his? Say you
won’t go to his picnic, and then it will be a dismal failure.” Mrs.
Blount stood alongside her _protégée_ and looked threateningly at Master
Charlie, who pretended to be shocked at his _faux pas_, and went down on
one knee to Sheila to implore forgiveness.

“I’ve a great mind to box your ears, Mr. Herbert!” she said, as her face
lighted up with a smile of genuine mirth, “but I suppose I must forgive
you this time. Now, what about this picnic? that’s the real question,
and where is it to be?”

“I vote for the Hermitage,” said Imogen. “Don’t you, Hilda? I drove you
there one day with ‘Matchless.’”

“A lovely spot,” said Mrs. Bruce; “only I was afraid the mare would jump
over the cliff once. The road is lovely; I feel sure all the world will
come. We must have half-a-dozen four-in-hands—Imogen and I will be
chaperons. I suppose you young men can forage up two more?”

“Miss Claremont!” suggested Jack Clarke. “She _is_ so nice.”

“Quite agree with you,” said Imogen; “but she is not married yet.
Suppose you ask Mrs. Wendover, of the Châlet, she is so kind, and, at
the same time, capable of keeping order, which is necessary, Mr.
Herbert, isn’t it?”

“Now, don’t be severe, Mrs. Blount! All you young married women get so
dreadfully proper, and talk alarmingly about your husbands. I’ll find
security for good behaviour.”

“Only my fun,” said Imogen. “But I’m afraid you’ve hurt Sheila’s
feelings. Has she forgiven you?”

“Oh! Mrs. Blount, don’t tease him any more,” cried Sheila. “He looks
really sorry. It was all my fault, for taking his chaff seriously.”

“What do you think of Lady Wood?” said Mrs. Bruce, “from West
Australia?”

“The very one,” cried out all the council. “She has a habit of
authority, as the wife of the Premier of the Golden West Colony—(“and,
though this is a silver mine, ‘Shivoo,’ the relationship is obvious,”
this interpolation was Mr. Jack Clarke’s). Those who are in favour, hold
up your hands! Against it, nobody. The resolution is carried.”

“Now for ways and means,” said Charles Herbert. “First of all, the
four-in-hand drags—there mustn’t be fewer than half-a-dozen, with power
to add to their number; the men, too, must be able to drive. Claude
Clinton and I will see to that. Of course we make him an honorary member
of the committee of management. The affair wouldn’t be complete without
him.”

“Of course not. (Chorus) ‘For he’s etc. etc.’”

“Isn’t it rather early for a song?” queried Mrs. Bruce.

“Not at all, when two such voices as yours and Mrs. Blount’s are
available, and this is such a grand room to sing in. Music after
breakfast—when you’ve nothing to do afterwards, is simply delicious.”

“Well, only one verse—Sheila and I will join in,” said Mrs. Bruce. “If
Edward comes in, he’ll think we’re going out of our minds.”

The tribute to Mr. Clinton’s merits having been rendered with feeling,
Sheila’s fresh voice holding a good position, the council went on to
strict business.

“The drags first,” said Mr. Herbert, “the affair must be started
properly—now, who are there? There’s Gerald Branksome from W.A., _he_
can drive, I know—he won the tandem race at the Polo Gymkhana, and the
Victoria Cross race at Hurlingham last year. He can be guaranteed.
There’s Jim Allanson just down from Sydney, a well-known whip, I’ve seen
him drive to Randwick from the Union Club. The Quorn Hall drag with its
four greys will take some beating. I wired to Dick Dereker, he’ll turn
up. Jack, are you good for the brake, with that off leg of yours? It’s a
responsible position.”

“Count me in,” said that gentleman, who had been to San Francisco; “Joe
Bowman will help with the brake business.”

“That’s good enough,” said Herbert, “Joe will keep an eye on you going
down hill. I’ll have one, if I have to wire to Melbourne for a team,
that makes the half-dozen, doesn’t it? I daresay there’ll be another or
two by and by. Buggies, tandem carts, and private carriages may be left
to their own discretion, or that of their owners—there’ll be no lack of
them, I daresay.”

Once the great event was decided upon, neither difficulties nor delays
were considered worthy of notice. The date was fixed: the invitations
were sent out next morning. The social status of the entertainment being
exceptional, no one dreamed of refusing. Rumours of the scale of
magnificence upon which it was to be carried out commenced to
circulate—for one of the conditions of unparalleled advantage in such
affairs, an unrestricted bank balance, was in this case notorious.

Money being no object to these youthful Monte Christos, they were able
to indulge, therefore, all the fancies of generous dispositions, with
excited imaginations. No expense was spared; no thoughtful kindness
omitted. A large proportion of the hackney carriages and other livery
stable vehicles were secured. As at a contested election, they plied
from the General Post-Office to the Hermitage, with free transit for all
holders of invitation cards. The arrangements were complete and
successful, beyond all previous holiday experiences, and when Charlie
Herbert took the lead with an impressive team, and the belle of Hobart
on the box seat of his drag, life, it may be confidently stated, had few
richer moments, or more dazzling triumphs in store for _him_.

If he did not quote “let Fate do her worst,” there could be no doubt
that he felt, deep down in his heart, the delicious, ever new, ever
fresh sentiment of the poet.

Next in order came Edward Bruce, with Sheila on the box beside him, wild
with joy and the excitement of such a position, of which, except in a
dream fairy tale, she had never realised the possibility. Imogen, beside
her, had insisted on relinquishing the place of honour. “No, Sheila, my
dear! My fortune is told, your turn has yet to come, and you have all
our best wishes, you know.”

“You are too good, Miss Imogen, Mrs. Blount, I mean! Really I don’t know
what I am saying.”

“Well, you’re looking your best to-day, Sheila! Your dress couldn’t be
better, and this lovely day has sent all the roses to your cheeks. Why,
you might pass for a Tasmanian girl, really—and we know what that
means.”

“Now, you girls!” said Edward Bruce, in accents of veiled command, “keep
your eyes about you, going down this hill. It’s trying with a heavy
load, and I’ve heard of accidents. Imogen, put your foot on the brake
that side, and give me the least bit of help. Now, we’re on the level
again. Isn’t that view of the sea lovely?”

Reginald Vernon Harcourt, R.N., Flag Lieutenant of H.M.S. _Orlando_, was
understood to be of that opinion, as he leaned forward from his seat in
the body of the coach, immediately behind the two young women aforesaid,
and remarked as much. This was not the only statement he made before the
procession pulled up at the Sandy Bay Hotel, at the base of the hill
immediately below the Hermitage. And it did not go unnoted, that, being
favourably situated for talking to Sheila over her right shoulder, he
made prompt use of the position, as a naval strategist of experience,
while Imogen and Jack Clarke similarly situated, did not appear to be
quite so eager for conversation.

The enumeration of the drags and traps following would resemble that of
the Greek ships at the siege of Troy. It will be sufficient to say that
Mr. Dereker’s grey team was held to be the best, as to matching and
style; Dick Dereker, the most finished exponent of the coaching
science—worthy of the great annual pageant in Hyde Park. There were a
few dissentients, who thought the Quorn Hall team and drag faultless.
But the opposition votes were too powerful. He was “Dick Dereker,”
therefore unapproachable in love, war, sport, and every other form of
manly excellence. There was nothing more to be said. His name settled
the matter.

As it happened, nothing could possibly have been more deliciously
perfect than the weather. Warm, without oppressive heat or sultry
feeling, the faint sea breeze, the murmuring lazy surge-roll, completed
the magic spell, which invited to sensuous enjoyment, the happy
possessors of unworn youth—in which class, the greater proportion of the
guests were fortunately included.

The day, the season, the environment and attendant circumstances being
propitious, so was the gathering, which was beyond all precedent
successful. All the four-in-hands had turned up; there was such a crowd
at the General Post-Office, that traffic was temporarily impeded. But
that did not matter in Hobart, as it certainly would have done in
Melbourne or Sydney—where indignation would have been aroused. The
Tasmanian population is kindly and forbearing, especially to the
stranger within their gates, through whom, in the season, it must be
admitted, their revenues are substantially benefited. So, as the
four-in-hands passed in single file down Davey Street, cheers rent the
air, and hearty popular enthusiasm was evoked. The hill below the
Hermitage was long and steep, so it was arranged that the drags and
carriages were to be left at the hotel, where adequate accommodation had
been provided, as well for the horses, as for the grooms and drivers to
them appertaining. The walk up hill was neither long nor unduly
fatiguing; providing also for reasonable deviations into the forest
paths, whence more extended views might be enjoyed, or confidential
communications exchanged. This arrangement seemed to suit the majority
of the guests, who might, without loss of time, have been seen scattered
over the sides and summit of the forest hill. At the sound of the great
Chinese gong, a fragment of loot from the Summer Palace at Pekin, in the
half-forgotten Chinese war, a strong converging force prepared to invest
the Hermitage. Here were seen tables on trestles in the principal room,
laden with all the good things which a very active, well-paid caterer
had been able to collect. Haunches of venison, barons of beef, saddles
of mutton, turkeys of great size and amplitude, wild fowl of all
descriptions, lake trout, fresh salmon (frozen), grouse and pheasant,
from the same miraculous arrangement, rendered the choice of viands
difficult, and the taste of the most fastidious “gourmet,” easy to
satisfy. With the popping of the first champagne corks, the conversation
began to strike the note of cheerfulness proper to the occasion, after
which the “crescendo” was maintained at an uninterruptedly joyous, even
vivacious level.

Speeches were sternly deprecated; an immediate adjournment to the beach
was proposed and promptly carried out. The shining sands invited to
every kind of game and dance suitable to an open air revel. Sets of
lancers were formed; games such as “twos and threes,” “oranges and
lemons,” “hide and seek,” found enthusiastic supporters, while those
pairs who had anything particular to say to each other found quiet paths
and shady nooks in the forest fringe, which lay so conveniently close to
the beaches and headlands.

There was, apparently, no lack of mutual entertainment, or necessity for
the givers of the feast to invent fresh frolics, for, just as the low
sun gave warning, and the last game of “rounders” came to an end—in
which, by the way, Sheila, who was as active as a mountain colt, had
particularly distinguished herself—the recall bugle was sounded. A late
afternoon tea was served, and a descent made to the lower level, where
the drags, carriages, buggies and dog-carts stood, with horses harnessed
up, ready to start. Among these last-mentioned vehicles was one, a
dog-cart, which was originally intended to accommodate more than one
pair. The driver regretted his inability to take up a third person for
want of room. It subsequently came out that, being a youth of foresight,
he had removed the back seat before leaving Hobart, holding the ancient
averment, “two’s company, three’s none,” still to be in force and
acceptation. However, after the inevitable amount of bustle and
occasional contention of ostlers, all the teams were duly mustered and
loaded up in the same order as before.

There were, of course, certain reconstructions, among which it was noted
that Mrs. Blount had relinquished her seat next to Miss Maguire, in
favour of the Flag-Lieutenant of the _Orlando_, alleging preference for
the higher seat behind, as by this removal she commanded a more
extensive view of the glorious landscape, spread out by sea and shore,
below and around. Sheila and Lieutenant Harcourt did not appear to be so
deeply interested in scenery—at least, on this occasion—as they kept
their heads down mostly, and spoke, though uninterruptedly, in rather a
low tone during the homeward drive.

On one occasion, however, they looked up suddenly as a fresh young voice
commenced the opening verse of a well-known song, and before the magical
couplet of “The ship is trim and ready, and the jolly days are done,”
was well over, the whole of the occupants of the drag, as well as those
of the one immediately behind, joined in with tremendous enthusiasm,
until, when the comprehensive statement that “They all love Jack” was
reached, the very sea-gulls on the beach were startled, and flapped away
with faint cries of remonstrance. Then, for one moment, the
Flag-Lieutenant and Sheila looked into one another’s eyes, and read
there something not wholly subversive of the sentiment.

The moon had risen, illumining the broad estuary, over which, in
shimmering gleams, lustrous lines of fairy pathways stretched to the
silvery mist of the horizon; star-fretted patches of lambent flame
traversed the wavelets, which ever and anon raised a glittering spray
upward, while from time to time the low but distinct rhythmic roll of
the surges fell on the ear. Higher and higher rose the moon in the dark
blue, cloudless sky—the surroundings were distinctly favourable to those
avowals which the moon has, from time immemorial, had under her
immediate favour and protection. If some of the merry maidens of the
day’s _festa_ listened to vows more ardent than are born of the prosaic
duties of every-day life, what wonder? Next morning there was great
excitement at the clubs, and among all the inner circles of Hobart
society. Two engagements were “given out,” one being that of Lieutenant
Vernon Harcourt, of the _Orlando_, to Miss Sheila Maguire, of Tumut
Park, New South Wales, and the other of Mr. Charles Herbert, and a young
lady to whom he had long been attached, though circumstances had
hitherto delayed his declaration. Suspicions had been aroused as to Mr.
Jack Clarke and another fair maid, but nothing was as yet “known for a
fact.” Of course, little was done on the day following this stupendous
entertainment. Everybody was too tired, or declared themselves to be so.
The members of the Polo Club got up a scratch match, however, just to
“shake off the effects of a late sitting at whist.”

A few ladies rode out to this affair, the ground being situated
picturesquely on the bank of the broad Derwent. Among these Dianas was
Sheila, riding a handsome thoroughbred, and escorted by Mr. Bruce, also
exceptionally well mounted. Mr. Harcourt was observed to join them from
time to time, when his “quarter” was up at polo. He was the show player
of the fleet; always in a foremost position at the gymkhana. In this
particular match, Sheila was observed to take great interest, turning
pale, indeed, on one occasion when he was knocked off his horse in a
violent passage at arms.

His opponent was adjudged to have been in the wrong, and well scolded by
the captain of his side; the game went on, and Sheila recovered her
roses—her spirits also, sufficiently to join in the cheering when
Lieutenant Harcourt’s side won the match by a goal and two behinds.

Both of the engagements met with general approbation. The Tasmanian
young lady and her lover belonged to (so to speak) “county” families,
known from childhood to all the squirearchy of the island—always general
favourites. So everybody congratulated sincerely and wished them luck.
The over-sea couple were, of course, strangers, and under other
circumstances, local jealousy might have been aroused by a girl from
another colony carrying off a handsome naval officer, always a prize in
colonial cities. But Sheila’s simple, kindly, unaffected manner had
commended her to even the severe critics of her own sex, the more
sensible members excusing his invidious preference among so many
good-looking, well-turned-out damsels, something after this fashion:

“You see, he’s only a lieutenant; it may be years before he gets a ship.
He couldn’t afford to marry yet, without money. They say she has tons of
it, and she is certainly very good-looking, and nice in her manner. So
Mr. Harcourt hasn’t done himself so badly.” One person was slightly
dissatisfied. That was his captain. “He is my sailing-master, and a very
good one, too,” he said, in an ill-used tone of voice. “He’ll always be
thinking of her now, and counting the days till he can leave the
service. Suppose the ship runs on a rock, I get my promotion stopped,
and all because of this confounded girl.” Different point of view!

As for Sheila and her lieutenant, they were perfectly, genuinely,
unmistakably happy. They were both young, she just twenty, he not quite
arrived at thirty. He was a rising man in his profession, and Sheila’s
money, which was, very properly, to be settled upon herself, would allow
them to live most comfortably while he was on shore; besides aiding—as
money always does, directly or indirectly—in his promotion. So the
immediate prospect was bright. Sheila declared that she had always loved
sailors since that eventful ball, where she had joined in the dance on
equal terms with the nobility of Britain. What a fortunate girl she was,
to have such friends; and how much more fortunate she had become since!

This memorable picnic, often referred to in after years, was considered
to be virtually, if not officially declared, the closing event of the
season. The fleet was to sail in a week or ten days for “the islands,” a
comprehensive term for a general look round the lands and seas of the
South Pacific, in the interests of British subjects. They would be back
in Sydney in three or four months, at the end of which time—a
terrifically long and wearisome period Sheila thought—she and her sailor
were to be married. The Admiral’s ship and officers would then return to
England, after a month’s stay in Hobart and Sydney—the time of his
commission having expired—and another Admiral, with another
flag-lieutenant, would replace them. Sheila would also go to England,
but not in the _Orlando_, modern regulations having put a stop to that
pleasing privilege. But she could take passage in a P. and O. steamer,
leaving about the same time, and be in England ready to receive him in a
pretty house of their own—their very own—where they would be as happy as
princes—happier indeed than some! After the departure of the fleet, a
certain calmness—not exactly a dullness, but bordering on something of
that nature—began to settle upon the Isle of Rest and Recreation. The
Queenslanders, the New South Wales division, the Victorians, South
Australians, and New Zealanders were taking their passages. Edward Bruce
began to get more and more fidgety—he was certain that he was wanted at
the station; really, if his wife and Imogen could not make up their
minds to leave, he must go home and leave them to follow.

Matters were in this unsettled state, when suddenly in the cable column
appeared the startling announcement, “The Earl of Fontenaye died
suddenly yesterday, at Lutterworth, soon after hearing the news of his
eldest son’s death at Malta from an accident at polo. The title and
estates devolve upon the younger son, the Honourable Robert Valentine
Blount, at present in Australia.”

This news, it may well be imagined, was received with mingled feelings
by the people most nearly concerned. The Earl had been in failing health
for years past; but as a confirmed invalid, had not aroused apprehension
of a sudden termination to his succession of ailments. Blount and his
father had been on excellent terms; their only serious disagreement had
been on the subject of the younger son’s unreasonable wandering—as the
old man termed it—to far countries and among strange people. He had not
gone the length of prohibition, however, and his last letter had assured
the errant cadet of his father’s satisfaction at his marriage, and of
his anxiety to welcome the bride to the home of their race. Now all this
was over. Blount would never behold the kind face lighting up with the
joy of recognition, or have the pride of presenting Imogen in all her
grace and beauty to the head of his ancient house. His brother Falkland
too, who used to laugh at his pilgrimages, as he called them, and ask to
be shown his staff and scrip, with the last news of the Unholy Land, as
he persisted in naming Australia. What good chums they were, and had
always been! His brother had never married; in that respect only
withstanding his father’s admonitions, but promising an early
compliance. Now, of course, in default of a baby heir Blount was Lord
Fontenaye, the inheritor of one of the oldest historic titles and
estates of the realm—a position to which he had never dreamed of
succeeding; the thought of which, if it had ever crossed his mind, was
dismissed as equivalent in probability to the proverbial “Château en
Espagne.” Perhaps his most powerful consolation, independently of the
change involved in becoming an English nobleman, with historical titles
and a seat in the House of Lords, was the contemplation of Imogen as
Lady Fontenaye.

To her, the feeling at first was painful rather than otherwise. She
sympathised too deeply in all her husband’s mental conditions, not to
share his grief for the sudden loss of a father and brother to whom he
had been warmly attached. He would never be able to tell that father
_now_ how deeply he regretted the careless disregard of his feelings and
opinions. Nor could he share with his brother, in the old home, those
sports to which both had been so attached since boyhood’s day. The pride
of proving that in a far land, and among men of his own blood, he had
been able to carve out a fortune for himself, and to acquire an income,
far from inconsiderable even in that land of great fortunes: even this
satisfaction was now denied him. Imogen too, dreading always an
inevitable separation from her sister, felt now that their absences must
necessarily be greater, more lengthened, until at last a correspondence
by letter at intervals would be all that was left to them of the happy
old days in which they had so delighted.

Why could not Fate indeed have left them where they were, provided with
a good Australian fortune, which they could have spent, and enjoyed
among their own people, where Valentine would have, in time, become an
Australian country gentleman, bought a place on the Upper Sturt, and
lived like a king, going of course to Hobart in the summer, and running
down to Melbourne now and then? Why indeed should they have this
greatness thrust upon them?

So when Imogen was called upon by various friends, ostensibly to
inquire, but really to see “how she took it,” and whether she showed any
foreshadowing of the dignities, and calmness of exalted rank, they were
surprised to see from red eyes, and other signs, that the young woman
upon whom all these choice gifts had been showered had evidently been
having what is known in feminine circles, as “a good cry,” and was far
from being uplifted by the rank and fame to which she had been promoted.

This state of matters was considered to be so unwise, unnatural, and in
a sense ungrateful, to the Giver of all good gifts, that they set
themselves to rate her for the improper state of depression into which
she had allowed herself to fall. She was enjoined to think of her duty
to society, her rank, her position among the aristocracy of the proudest
nobility in the world. Of course it was natural for her husband to be
grieved at the death of his father and his brother. But time would
soften that sorrow, and as she had never seen them, it would not be
expected of her to go into deep mourning or to wear it very long. In the
face of these, and other practical considerations, Imogen felt that
there would be a flavour of affectation in the appearance of settled
grief, and allowed her friends to think that they had succeeded in
clearing away shadows. But she confided to Mrs. Bruce, in the confidence
of the retiring hour, that Val and she would always look back to their
quiet days at Marondah, and their holiday, lotus-eating season in
Hobart, as part of the _real_ luxuries and enjoyments of their past
life.

“However, you will have to come and see me at Fontenaye!—how strangely
it sounds—with Edward and the dear children, and we must get Mr.
Tregonwell to make something happen to the Tasmanian Comstock, so that
_we_ will come out like a shot. But, oh! my dear old Australia! how I
shall grieve at parting with you for ever!”

Then the sisters kissed, and wept in each other’s arms, and were
comforted—so women are soothed in time of trial. On the next morning
Imogen appeared at breakfast with an unruffled countenance, talking
soberly to her husband and brother-in-law about the wonderful change in
their future lives, and their departure by the next mail steamer.

This, of course, was imperative. The situation became urgent. Mr. Bruce
agreed to remain until the P. and O. _Rome_, R.M.S. came for her load of
so many thousand cases of Tasmanian apples, and with incidental
passengers steamed away for Albany, Colombo, Aden, Cairo, and the
East—that gorgeous, shadowy name of wonder and romance. Then would the
Australian family return to their quiet home by the rippling, winding
waters of the Sturt, and the English division return to become an
integral portion of the rank and fashion, the “might, majesty and
dominion” of the world-wide Empire which has stood so many assaults, and
which still unfurls to every wind of Heaven the “flag that’s braved a
thousand years, the battle and the breeze.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

It came to pass during one of the necessary conversations relative to
the voyage, that Lord Fontenaye said to her ladyship, “Does anything
occur to you, relative to Sheila Maguire, my dear Imogen?”

“Indeed, I have been thinking about her a great deal, lately,” said the
youthful countess. “She can’t be married until Lieutenant Harcourt and
the fleet return from the Islands. Till then, she will have to stay in
Hobart.”

“Won’t that be a little awkward for her? She has no friends, that is to
say, intimate friends, over here—though, of course, we could get her
efficient chaperonage—eh?”

“I know what you are thinking of, Val! It would be the very thing—and
oh! how kind of you.”

“What am I thinking of, and why am I so kind—have I married a thought
reader, my dear Imogen?”

“Why, of course, you are intending to ask her to go home with us, and to
be married from Fontenaye. It is a splendid idea. It would be
unspeakably nice for her, and she would be such a help and comfort to
me, on our travels.”

“The very thing! Do you think she will like the idea?”

“Like it? She will be charmed. He will come to England with the men of
the _Orlando_, who are to be replaced, and they can be married as soon
as she can get her trousseau together. We shall go to England much about
the same time as the Admiral, so that Mr. Harcourt will be on full pay
the whole time. I dare say it will be two or three months before he gets
another ship. Poor dear Sheila, she never dreamed of being married from
a castle, any more than I did of living in one after I was married.”

“Or that I should give her away, as I suppose I shall have to do,”
rejoined her husband. “‘Giving agreeable girls away,’” he hummed—“I
shall feel like the Lord Chancellor in _Iolanthe_.”

When this deep-laid plot was unfolded to Sheila, she entered into the
spirit of it with enthusiasm, expressing the deepest gratitude, as with
tears in her eyes, she thanked her tried friends for their thoughtful
kindness. “I _was_ rather down about being left alone here,” she
confessed. “It was all very well when I belonged to your party, but
being here by myself till the fleet returned, and fancying all sorts of
things in Mr. Harcourt’s absence, was different.”

“The advantage is not altogether on your side, Sheila. You will be
company for me when my husband is away. We’re both Australians, you see,
and there are many things in common between us; old bush memories and
adventures, that an English friend, however nice she was, wouldn’t
understand. Really I feel quite cheered up, now I know you’re coming
with us.”

“And what do _I_ feel?” cried Sheila—“but I won’t describe it.” Her
colour deepened, and her dark grey eyes glowed, as she stood up and
looked at her benefactress with passionate emotion in every line of her
expressive face. “Yes! I feel that I could die for you”—she clasped
Imogen’s hand as she spoke, and kissing it again and again, rushed from
the room.

“Her Irish blood came out there,” said Blount; “how handsome the girl
has grown, and what a figure she has! She’ll rather astonish our
untravelled friends in England. You’re quite right, though, as to her
being a comfort to you in foreign parts, and you can talk about the
Upper Sturt, and dear old Marondah together, when you feel
low-spirited.”

“Dear Marondah!” said Imogen, softly; “I wonder when we shall see the
old river again, and the willows, dipping their branches into its clear
waters.”

“Oh! you mustn’t let yourself run down, that way. Bruce will be home
next summer, if bullocks keep up and the price of wool. Think how
they’ll enjoy coming to stay with us, and what shooting and hunting he
and I can have together. Sheila can hunt too. I’ll smoke a cigar in the
garden, and you’d better go to bed, my dear.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

But little more remains to be told concerning the fortunes of Imogen and
her husband, now Lord and Lady Fontenaye. They decided on a month’s
sojourn in Cairo, where they revelled in the mild climate, and the daily
marvels and miraculous sights and sounds—the enchanted Arabian Nights’
surroundings, the veiled women, the Arab horses, the balconies, almost
touching across the narrow streets. The old-world presentment of the
East was inexpressibly fascinating to Imogen and Sheila, seen for the
first time.

They “did” Egypt more or less thoroughly, as they planned not to reach
England before April—Imogen declaring that “the cold winds of March”
would lay her in an early grave. So they went up the Nile as far as
Philæ, filling their minds with such glories and marvels as might
suffice for the mental digestion of a lifetime. They rode and explored
to their hearts’ content, “Royal Thebes, Egyptian treasure-house of
boundless wealth, that boasts her hundred gates”; Luxor, with its
labyrinth of courts, and superb colonnades; Karnak, that darkens the
horizon with a world of portals, pyramids, and palaces.

“Perhaps we may never see these wonders again,” said Imogen. “But I
shall revel in their memories as long as I live. What do you say,
Sheila?”

“I feel as if I was just born,” said the excited damsel, “and was just
opening my eyes on a new world. Awakening in Heaven, if it’s not wrong
to say so, must be something like this.”

“What a charming way of getting over the winter,” said Imogen. “One sees
so much of the world in the process, besides meeting people of mark and
distinction. Val tells me we may have a fortnight in Paris, for hats and
dresses, before arriving in dear old England some time in April, which
is a lovely month, if the spring is early. And this year they say it
is.”

“‘Oh! to be in England, now that April’s here’,” quoted Lord Fontenaye,
who now joined the party; “we shall be comfortably settled in Fontenaye,
I hope, before the ‘merry month of May,’ when I shall have the honour of
showing you two ‘Cornstalks’ what a London season is like.”

“Oh! and shall we able to ride in the Park?” quoth Sheila, with great
eagerness. “I do so long to see the wonderful English horses that one
hears so much about—the Four-in-hand and Coaching Clubs too! What a
sight it must be! I must have a horse worth looking at, price no
object—new saddle, and habit too. Oh! what fun it will be! And you’ll
give Mrs. Bl—I mean, her ladyship—a horse too, won’t you?”

“You’re a true Australian, Sheila,” said he. “I believe you all care
more about horses, than anything else in the world. Now that the
‘Comstock’ is so encouraging in the way of dividends, I believe it will
run to a hundred-and-fifty-guinea hackney or two—with a new landau, a
brougham, and other suitable equipages.”

These rose- anticipations were duly realised. A wire was sent
from Paris, and the “wandering heir” was duly received and welcomed in
the halls of his ancestors. The time-honoured feasting of tenants and
“fêting” of the whole countryside was transacted—a comprehensive
programme having been arranged by the land steward, a man of great
experience and organising faculty. The younger son of the house, it was
explained, had always been the more popular one. And now that he had
“come to his own,” as the people said, their joy was unbounded.
Everything was done on a most liberal scale. Correspondents came down
“special” from the great London dailies, by whom full and particular
descriptions were sent through all Britain and her colonies, as well as
to the ends of the earth generally.

The beauty and gracious demeanour of Lady Fontenaye, and her friend Miss
Sheila Maguire, an Australian heiress of fabulous wealth, were descanted
upon and set forth in glowing colours. Archives were ransacked for the
ancestors of all the Marmions, from the days of Flodden and those
earlier times when Robert de Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye in Normandy,
followed the Conqueror to England, and after Hastings obtained a grant
of the castle and town of Tamworth, and also the manor of Scrivelbaye,
in Lincolnshire. Harry Blount, Marmion’s attendant squire, was,
according to the custom of the day, a cadet of the house, and being
knighted with FitzEustace for gallantry at Flodden, attained to wealth
and distinction; eventually through marriage with one of the
co-heiresses of the house of Marmion, extinct in default of male heirs,
became possessed of the title and estates. Hence, Robert Valentine
Blount, the present Lord Fontenaye, has duly succeeded to the ancient
tower and town, amid appropriate festivities and rejoicings. We are not
aware that his Lordship presented a gold “chain of twelve mark weight”
to the pursuivants, or the gentlemen of the press, but that the
hospitality was thoughtful, delicate, and unbounded in liberality, no
one honoured by its exercise will deny; while the beauty and gracious
demeanour of the Lady of the Castle, so efficiently supported in her
duties by her friend, the handsome Australian heiress, Miss Maguire of
Tumut Park, lent additional lustre to the entertainment.

There for a while we may leave them, in the enjoyment of youth, health,
and historic rank. If such gifts do not confer unclouded happiness, it
must be admitted that but few of the elements of which it is supposed to
be compounded were wanting.

Some delay in Sheila’s marriage, however, took place. The _Orlando_,
after having been ordered to China, to the dismay of the captain, and at
least two of the senior officers, who had private reasons for not
desiring to explore the Flowery Land, either in peace or war, was as
suddenly recalled, and the cruiser _Candace_ ordered to take her place.
The _Orlando_ was paid off, and the _Royal Alfred_, with a new crew and
officers put into commission, and despatched to the Australian station
at short notice. A telegram from Fontenaye caused Commander Harcourt,
R.N., to betake himself to that vicinity at once. He had been promoted
to the rank of Commander for a dashing exploit in bringing off a boat’s
crew at Guadalcanar, in the teeth of tremendous odds, and a shower of
poisoned arrows. There was no need for delay now—Sheila had her
trousseau ready weeks before, and the Lieutenant—I beg his pardon, the
Captain—didn’t require much time to make _his_ preparations.

So there was another entertainment at Fontenaye, of comparative
splendour and more true kindness and genuine friendship. All the
neighbouring gentry were bidden to the feast, as well as the brother
officers of the bridegroom. Lord Fontenaye gave away the bride, and made
a feeling speech at the breakfast. When Commander Harcourt, R.N., and
his lovely bride—for Sheila, in a “confection” from Paris, looked
beautiful exceedingly—walked down the aisle of the old Abbey church, a
girl of the period said “it put her in mind of Lord Marmion and Lady
Clare, only that Marmion was a soldier, and not a sailor, and (now that
she remembered) he turned out badly, didn’t marry Clare after all, was
killed, indeed, at Flodden, and ought to have married poor Clare, who
did not do so badly, nor Lord Wilton either, after recovering his lands,
his lady-love, and his position in society.”

After this momentous function, Lord Fontenaye one fine morning looked up
from the _Times_, which, after the fashion of secure husbands, he read
during breakfast, with a sudden exclamation that caused Imogen to
inquire what it was about.

“The death of Mrs. Delamere, poor thing! _That_ will make a difference.”

“Difference to whom?” inquired Imogen. “Oh! I see—now, those two can get
married. Have you heard from them since they went to West Australia?
Yes, I know, you showed me her letter.”

“I heard _of_ them later on, from a man I knew, that the Colonel had
bought into the ‘Golden Hoof,’ or some such name, and was likely to make
a big rise out of it, as he expressed it. What a turn of the wheel it
would be, wouldn’t it? He was ‘dry-blowing’ after they got to West
Australia.”

“What in the world’s that?”

“A primitive way of extracting gold from auriferous earth, partly by
sifting it, and then by blowing away the lighter dust particles, when
the gold, if there is any, remains behind. Then, their tent caught fire
one day, when she was away for an hour marketing (fancy Adeline buying
soap and candles at a digging!), and everything they had in the world
was burned, except what ‘they stood up in,’ as my informant phrased it.”

“But you will send them something, poor things! How I pity them. Oh! how
stupid I am! You _did_—I know you.”

“Yes! and she sent it back—a decent cheque too.”

“Quite right—they couldn’t take it from you—_you_ of all men. What did
you do then?”

“I ‘worked it,’ as ‘Tumbarumba Dick’ would say. He was one of the
partners in the Lady Julia claim. I sent Dick the cheque; told him to
get the diggers round about to form a relief committee, and to let them
subscribe their share, then spread mine out in small amounts among the
genuine ones. They couldn’t refuse the honest miners’ and their wives’
assistance. No people are so generous in cases of accident or distress.
Thus my money ‘got there just the same,’ and helped to give the forlorn
ones a fresh start.”

“Quite another romance—I suppose you have a slight _tendresse_ in that
direction still?”

“Not more than a man always has for a woman he has once loved, however
badly she treated him; and that is a very mild, strictly rational
sentiment; but _you_ ought to have.”

“Why, I should like to know?”

“Because, of course, when she broke my heart, and sent me out into the
world drifting purposeless, I fell across one Imogen Carrisforth, who
towed the derelict into port—made prize of him, indeed, for ever and
ever.”

“Well, I suppose she did shape our destiny, as you say—without the least
intending it; and now I suspect she’ll shape the Colonel’s for good and
all. They will be remarried quietly, live in the south of France, and
the gay world will hear no more of them.”

                  *       *       *       *       *
                  *       *       *       *       *

Fontenaye was always reasonably gay and truly hospitable; to the
Australian division notably. Not unduly splendid, but comfortably and
reasonably fine, on occasion. The nearest pack of hounds always met
there on the first day of the season, when sometimes Lady Fontenaye,
sometimes Mrs. Vernon Harcourt, appeared, superbly mounted and among the
front rankers, after the throw off. Sheila was a frequent guest in her
husband’s necessary absences at sea. Imogen was a little slow to
accustom herself to be addressed and referred to as “your ladyship” and
“her ladyship” at every turn, but took to it by degrees.

“Now, what became of Kate Lawless and her brother Dick?” asks an eager
youthful patron of this veracious romance (not by any means wholly
untrue, dear reader, though a little mixed up).

“And the roan pony mare ‘Wallaby’ that carried Kate ninety miles in a
day to warn the police about Trevenna,” screams a still younger student.
“You mustn’t leave _her_ out.”

As might be expected, my dear boys, they came to a sad end. Dick and his
sister disappeared after the fight at “the Ghost Camp.” They were
rumoured to have been seen on the Georgina River, in the Gulf country.
There were warrants out for both, yet they had not been arrested. But
one day, word came to the police station at Monaro, that near a grave,
at a deserted hut between Omeo and the Running Creek, something was
wrong. The Sergeant, taking one trooper who drove a light waggonette,
rode to the spot. “This is where Mrs. Trevenna’s child was buried, the
little chap that was drowned,” said the trooper, “under that swamp oak.
I was stationed here then and went over. She _was_ wild, poor thing! I
wonder if that’s her lying across the grave.”

It was even so. A haggard woman, poorly dressed, showing signs of
privation and far travel, lay face downward on the little mound. “Lift
her up, Jackson!” said the Sergeant; “poor thing! I’d hardly have known
her. She came _here_ to shoot herself, look about for the revolver. Just
on the temple, what a small hole it made! Shot the mare too! best thing
for both of ’em, I expect. So that’s the end of Kate Lawless! Who’d have
thought it, when that flash crowd was at Ballarat! Handsome girl she was
then, full of life and spirits too!”

“She never did no good after the boy was drowned,” said the trooper.

“No! nor before, either. But it wasn’t all _her_ fault. Let’s lift her
into the trap. She don’t weigh much. There’ll be the inquest, and she’ll
have Christian burial. They can’t prevent _that_ in this country. And
she’s suffered enough to make a dozen women shoot themselves, or men
either.”

So the dead woman came into the little township, and after the coroner’s
jury had brought in their verdict that the deceased had died by her own
hand, but that there was no evidence to show her state of mind at the
time, poor Kate Trevenna (or Lawless) was buried among more or less
respectable people.

There was a slight difference of opinion as to the identification of the
woman’s corpse, but none whatever as to that of the mare, among the
horse-loving bystanders around the grave, which was several times
visited during the following days. “That’s old Wallaby, safe enough,”
deposed one grizzled stockrider. “Reg’lar mountain mare, skip over them
rocks like a billy-goat; couldn’t throw her down no ways. Ain’t she
dog-poor, too? Kate and she’s had hard times lately. What say, boys,
s’pose we bury her? the ground’s middlin’ soft, and if she don’t ought
to be buried decent, no one does.”

The idea caught on, and a pick and spade contingent driving out next
day, a grave was dug and a stone put up, on which was roughly chiselled—

                            “WALLABY—died——”


                                THE END.




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                               Price 6s.

                       Marietta: a Maid of Venice

_THE TIMES._—“A good story, as is usual with Mr. Crawford. Custom does
not stale him; ‘the tea is not weak,’ as an experienced novelist
admitted was the case with his own productions.”

_PUNCH._—“Marion Crawford is at his very best in ‘Marietta: A Maid of
Venice.’ It is a powerfully dramatic story of Venice under ‘The Ten,’
told in a series of picturesque scenes described in strikingly artistic
word-painting, the action being carried on by well-imagined, clearly
defined characters. Perfect is the description of Venice, and of the
hour of _Ave Maria_. Hero and heroine are skilfully drawn types; while
the quaint old salt Pasquale, retired from active naval service and now
gate-porter to Beroviero, the celebrated glass-blower, is drawn with the
keenest sense of humour.”

_THE ATHENÆUM._—“Here is a story of Italy, and Italy in full
Renaissance, which offends neither by sentimental maundering, nor by
affected diction, nor by leering ‘naturalism’—not a hint of ‘the erotic,
the neurotic, or the tommy-rotic’—just a healthy, straightforward
romance of the old school, with plenty of adventure, and ending as it
should, told in good English without any straining after phrases.”

_THE SKETCH._—“No one who has ever visited Venice and come under its
spell, can afford to miss ‘Marietta.’”

_THE DAILY MAIL._—“The reviewer too rarely comes across so charming a
tale as Mr. F. Marion Crawford’s ‘Marietta: A Maid of Venice.’”

_THE MORNING POST._—“‘Marietta’ is one of the more daintily charming of
Mr. Crawford’s stories, and deserves the recognition it will undoubtedly
receive.”


                              “ELIZABETH”

“Triumphantly successful.”

                                                    —Mr. W. L. COURTNEY.

“Delightful from beginning to end.”

                                                        —_The Standard._

                          Crown 8vo. Gilt Top

                               Price 6s.

                            The Benefactress

                            By the Author of

                   “Elizabeth and her German Garden”

_THE SPECTATOR._—“If ‘Elizabeth’s’ satire is somewhat cruel, it is in
the main justified by the situation and the results. For the moral of
the story is as sound as the wit is mordant. ‘The Benefactress,’ in a
word, combines the rare qualities of being at once wholesome, agreeably
malicious, and in full accord with the principles of the Charity
Organisation Society.”

Mr. W. L. COURTNEY in the _DAILY TELEGRAPH_.—“It is difficult to
describe by any single epithet the peculiar charm which surrounds the
work of the authoress of ‘Elizabeth and her German Garden.’... Quiet,
tender, incisive, humorous.... Triumphantly successful.”

_LITERATURE._—“Fully equal to ‘Elizabeth and her German Garden.’...
Maintains its interest throughout, and is full of well drawn
characters.”

_STANDARD._—“Delightful from beginning to end. It is wholesome, full of
charm and joyousness.”

_WORLD._—“The writer holds the reader, not to lose her hold while a line
of the book remains to be read and read again. Every character is a
living individuality, and every incident is a necessity.”

_MORNING POST._—“An excellent piece of work.... The most amusing reading
which has come our way for some time.”

_DAILY NEWS._—“One of the most attractive novels we have read for a long
time.”


                             EGERTON CASTLE

[Illustration: author portrait]

                               Price 6s.

                           The Secret Orchard

                                   By

                             Egerton Castle

_GLOBE._—“The story, as a whole, is eminently effective, eminently
readable, and can be recommended cordially to all and sundry.”

_WORLD._—“The persons are all well drawn, and the interest is great.”

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“A very clever and a very good book.”

_DAILY CHRONICLE._—“We expected much.... ‘The Secret Orchard’ does more
than rise to our expectations.... We follow the rapid development of the
tragedy with a sympathetic interest which never flags.”

_DAILY MAIL._—“A novel of signal distinction and beauty.”

_ACADEMY._—“The style and manner of telling the story is of the easy
luminous character that we associate with the authors of ‘The Bath
Comedy.’”

_MORNING POST._—“There can be no doubt of the dramatic force with which
it is told or of the interest it inspires.”

_THE TIMES._—“A finished piece of work.”


                           A. C. FARQUHARSON

“The story is absorbing.”

                                                        —_The Athenæum._

“Altogether worth reading.”

                                             —_The Westminster Gazette._

                          Crown 8vo. Gilt Top

                               Price 6s.

                              St. Nazarius

                                   By

                           A. C. Farquharson

_ATHENÆUM._—“It is a rare pleasure to find a book which is satisfactory
in almost all respects. ‘St. Nazarius’ is such a book. The story is
absorbing; its treatment is admirable, especially in restraint; and the
tone is one of unusual distinction.... The deep thought of the book, its
essential sanity, its presentation of a high religious ideal, interest
us in the work of the author.”

_WESTMINSTER GAZETTE._—“A novel out of the common.... Altogether worth
reading.”

_ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE._—“Should give delight to many readers who do not
as a rule trouble themselves to cut the leaves of ordinary novels. The
writer has dared to probe the depths and to scale the heights.... The
story is clothed in language perfectly suited to its mysterious charm.”

_OUTLOOK._—“Mr. Farquharson has grip, and his story is well worked out.”

_SCOTSMAN._—“A striking story and one in which the reader’s interest and
admiration strengthen, from a somewhat formal opening, to an end which
is unconventionally fine and sad.”


                             STEPHEN GWYNN

[Illustration: author portrait]

                               Price 6s.

                           The Old Knowledge

                                   By

                             Stephen Gwynn

_WESTMINSTER GAZETTE._—“It is long since it has been our good fortune to
meet with a novel so fresh, breezy, and altogether charming.”

_SUNDAY SUN._—“A good book, very far above the customary novel of the
day in all important matters. It has charm of manner, a delicate and
indefinable melancholy—the inalienable melancholy of the Irish—and also
a very welcome touch of Irish humour.... It introduces us to several
very charming people.”

_DAILY EXPRESS._—“A very pretty story, wholesome and refreshing, with
the sweet air of Donegal.... The humour, the prettiness, and the trouble
of the story are all perfect in their lightness and harmony. Mr. Gwynn
is among the most graceful and pleasant of Irish writers.”

_THE SPECTATOR._—“It is admirably written: it has an interesting theme,
and its development in plot and characterisation ... is in faithful
correspondence with the facts of life. In a word, the book is both
charming and convincing.”


                             NANCY H. BANKS

                            A Kentucky Tale

                                 of the

                             Last Century.

                          Crown 8vo. Gilt Top

                               Price 6s.

                                Oldfield

                         A Kentucky Tale of the

                              Last Century

                                   By

                           Nancy Huston Banks

_MORNING POST._—“Has all the charm which we have come to expect from
American stories which describe the lives of simple people in remote
parts of that vast continent.... A book to read and to enjoy.”

_SPECTATOR._—“‘Oldfield’ is a Kentucky ‘Cranford’—with a difference. The
difference is that the setting of outside things in which Miss Banks
puts her human figures is much more vivid than what we find in Mrs.
Gaskell’s story.”

_SCOTSMAN._—“At once picturesque, pathetic, and removed from the
ordinary lines of modern fiction.... The incidents of the romance are
fresh, healthy, and invigorating. The characters are strongly and
clearly defined.... Is bid heartily welcome.”


                            UNA L. SILBERRAD

[Illustration: author portrait]

                               Price 6s.

                             Princess Puck

                                   By

                            Una L. Silberrad

_THE PILOT._—“It is unspeakably refreshing to come upon a book so
bubbling over with life and love and character and humour as ‘Princess
Puck’ that to notice it forthwith is an imperative duty and pleasure.
This is a novel to read once so that you may find out how good it is,
and then straightway over again because it is so good that you must
enjoy it more leisurely.”

_THE SPECTATOR._—“Miss Silberrad’s exceedingly clever, fresh, and
wholesome story.... _Bill_ Alardy is a delightful creation: she bubbles
over with life and goodwill, humour, energy, and affection; and
everything she touches turns to romance.”

_THE ACADEMY._—“The whole story is in the aggregate so pleasing and
entertaining that we have little inclination to pick holes. Let it go as
fresh and recommendable.”

_PUNCH._—“... the exceeding charm of the creation of _Wilhelmina
Alardy_, commonly known as _Bill_. In her freshness, her
unconventionality, her keen insight, and her honesty, _Bill_ is
delightful.”

_THE DAILY CHRONICLE._—“Miss Silberrad’s book deserves a high place in
the fiction of the moment. The story is interesting and rattles along to
the end without a pause; there is originality in the construction of the
plot, and perception as well in the way the characters are conceived and
presented. _Bill_ herself is a charming conception.... Altogether,
‘Princess Puck’ is a book to be read, and to be read with
discrimination.”


                            MERWIN & WEBSTER

“Most remarkable story.”

                                                          —_Daily Mail._

“An interesting and amusing book.”

                                                            —_Scotsman._

                          Crown 8vo. Gilt Top

                               Price 6s.

                             “Calumet ‘K’”

                     By S. Merwin and H. K. Webster

“Calumet ‘K’” is a two-million-bushel grain-elevator, and this story
tells how Charlie Bannon built it “against time.” The elevator must be
done by December 31. There are persons that are interested in delaying
the work, and it is these, as well as the “walking delegates,” that
Bannon has to fight. The story of how they tried to “tie up” the lumber
two hundred miles away, and of how he outwitted them and just “carried
it off,” shows the kind of thing that Bannon can do best.

_DAILY MAIL._—“Most remarkable story.... The story makes an epic—the
epic of a sleepless, tireless man who can never be beaten. Every young
man who is to-day starting out on the business of life should read it.”

_SUNDAY SPECIAL._—“No romance of the Middle Ages surpasses this story in
stirring interest, virility, and strength. It is a moving picture of the
resistless American of to-day, and, as such, is worth a hundred average
novels.”

_SCOTSMAN._—“It is an interesting and amusing book, and once taken up
will be read to a finish.”

_SPECTATOR._—“The story will delight readers who combine mechanical
taste with the spirit of practical enterprise.”


                              EVELYN SHARP

[Illustration: author portrait]

                               Price 6s.

                           The Youngest Girl

                             in the School

                            By Evelyn Sharp

_THE ATHENÆUM._—“Told with much humour.”

_THE ACADEMY._—“A most amusing story.”

_LITERATURE._—“A vivid picture of a girl’s school.”

_THE PILOT._—“... its raciness and humour.”

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“Extremely diverting to the average man.”

_THE GRAPHIC._—“Very fresh and natural.”

_THE SPECTATOR._—“Shows a wholesome and humorous grasp of life.”

_THE DAILY CHRONICLE._—“Miss Evelyn Sharp has scored a brilliant success
in a _genre_ where success has been attained by few. Schoolgirls have
suffered rather more than schoolboys at the hands of writers of fiction.
Miss Sharp possesses an endowment of humour, rich, sensitive, radiant,
that pervades her book like a joyous elemental spirit. And with this
frolic spirit, ever alive to the humorous aspects of life, the subtlest
apprehension is revealed of the psychical depths beneath the exuberant
manifestations of healthy aspiring youth.”


                             E. F. POYNTER

                               Author of

                          “An Exquisite Fool,”

                          “Every Day’s News,”

                                  etc.

                          Crown 8vo. Gilt Top

                               Price 6s.

                            Michael Ferrier

                                   By

                           E. Frances Poynter

=Michael Ferrier= is the story of a young poet who loves and is loved by
a beautiful girl, Helen Umfraville. In a moment of frenzy he kills, half
by accident, the man who attempts to stand between them. The death
passes for either accident or suicide, and no suspicion is aroused; but
the girl sees her lover’s trouble, questions him, and the turning point
of the book is the scene when he confesses to her his act, and she takes
the decision that seems to her right in consequence.

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“There are so many real tragedies in life, and so few
convincing ones in fiction, that the perusal of Miss E. Frances
Poynter’s little study is likely to make a deep impression on the
reader. For here is real tragedy.... In her characterisation the
authoress is most happy.... Miss Poynter possesses keen psychological
insight and a not unkindly satire when she pleases, as well as the power
to depict pathos and suffering, with the pen of the artist.”

_PUNCH._—“Miss Frances Poynter, though not a new novelist, is a fresh
acquaintance of my Baronite’s. If her earlier works are as good as
‘Michael Ferrier,’ they are worth looking up.”


                            S. WEIR MITCHELL

[Illustration: author portrait]

                               Price 6s.

                              Circumstance

                                   By

                          Dr. S. Weir Mitchell

“Circumstance” is a study of life in Philadelphia, rather curious as
showing the exclusiveness of American Society. It is also a study of an
adventuress. The point of the title lies in the varying resistance of
character to external events, and the striking influence on inferior
character of accidents, such as that which almost made Mrs. Hunter a
murderess, or that which enabled her to attain her end without resorting
to so disagreeable a step or sacrificing any of her complacency.

_THE PILOT._—“Carried out with admirable effect.”

_THE OUTLOOK._—“Contains an extremely able study of senile decay and one
of the most sagacious portraits of a pretty coquette ... which we have
ever seen.”

_THE STANDARD._—“The book is very clever.”


                             ROSA N. CAREY

“Well conceived and well sustained.”

                                                           —_The World._

“Highly interesting.”

                                                        —_Morning Post._

                          Crown 8vo. Gilt Top

                               Price 6s.

                             Herb of Grace

                            By Rosa N. Carey

_WESTMINSTER GAZETTE._—“A clever delineator of character, possessed of a
reserve of strength in a quiet, easy, flowing style, Miss Carey never
fails to please a large class of readers. ‘Herb of Grace’ is no
exception to the rule....”

_DAILY GRAPHIC._—“An entirely pleasant and wholesome story.”

_GLOBE._—“Told in the writer’s best and most popular manner.”

_MORNING POST._—“Highly interesting.”

_ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE._—“Very pleasant reading, and full of quiet charm.
There is much skilful portrayal of character.”

_WORLD._—“The story is well conceived and well sustained.”

_DAILY CHRONICLE._—“In every respect a worthy successor to ‘Rue with a
Difference.’”

_MANCHESTER GUARDIAN._—“On the picture of the two sisters living so
happily together, Miss Carey has expended some of her most careful and
successful work.”


                            MAURICE HEWLETT

[Illustration: author portrait]

                               Price 6s.

                          Richard Yea-and-Nay

                           By Maurice Hewlett

Mr. FREDERIC HARRISON in _THE FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW_.—“Such historic
imagination, such glowing colour, such crashing speed, set forth in such
pregnant form carry me away spell-bound.... ‘Richard Yea-and-Nay’ is a
fine and original romance.”

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“The story carries us along as though throughout we
were galloping on strong horses. There is a rush and fervour about it
all which sweeps us off our feet till the end is reached and the tale is
done. It is very clever, very spirited.”

_DAILY NEWS._—“A memorable book, over-long, over-charged with scenes of
violence, yet so informed with the atmosphere of a tumultuous time,
written with a pen so vital and picturesque, that it is the reader’s
loss to skip a page.”

_DAILY CHRONICLE._—“We have to thank Mr. Hewlett for a most beautiful
and fascinating picture of a glorious time.... We know of no other
writer to-day who could have done it.”


                            MAURICE HEWLETT

                          Fifty-third Thousand

                                   in

                          England and America

                          Crown 8vo. Gilt Top

                               Price 6s.

                           The Forest Lovers

                               A Romance

_SPECTATOR._—“‘The Forest Lovers’ is no mere literary _tour de force_,
but an uncommonly attractive romance, the charm of which is greatly
enhanced by the author’s excellent style.”

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“Mr. Maurice Hewlett’s ‘The Forest Lovers’ stands out
with conspicuous success.... There are few books of this season which
achieve their aim so simply and whole-heartedly as Mr. Hewlett’s
ingenious and enthralling romance.”

_ACADEMY._—“This is a remarkable book.... ‘The Forest Lovers’ has been a
fresh sensation. Mr. Hewlett can write! What a sense of colour, of
contrast; what vigour, what rapid movement!”

_THE GUARDIAN._—“Quaint and delightful.”

_DAILY CHRONICLE._—“Here is a romance of the glamorous mediæval time,
done just as such a thing should be done.... It is a book to be read.
Not to be read at a sitting, but to be read slowly, when one is in the
mood.”

_ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS._—“It is not easy to describe the charm of Mr.
Hewlett’s romance.... ‘The Forest Lovers’ is a distinct acquisition to
the true literature of romance.”


                            JAMES LANE ALLEN

[Illustration: author portrait]

                               Price 6s.

                             The Increasing

                                Purpose

       =130,000= _copies have been sold in England and America_.

_WESTMINSTER GAZETTE._—“Such a book as this is a rare event, and as
refreshing as it is rare. This book ... is a beautiful one—beautiful
alike in thought, tone, and language.”

_LITERATURE._—“We may safely assert that it will achieve a large
success, and achieve it on its merits.”

_DAILY CHRONICLE._—“We like this book. It stands apart from the ordinary
novel. It tells the story of the growth of a soul.... A great charm of
the book is its pictures of outdoor life on a Kentucky farm.... But the
greatest charm of all, perhaps, is Mr. Allen’s clear-cut, simple, and
vigorous style.”

_SPECTATOR._—“Written with all the delicacy and distinction which have
already won him so many admirers.”

_WORLD._—“Lays upon the reader a grip from which there is no escape.”

_DAILY GRAPHIC._—“The character of David, the first figure in the book,
is finely drawn.... The book is well worth reading.”

_ACADEMY._—“Full of racial warmth and freshest human nature.... Life is
intense, richly , and splendidly aspirant in these pages; yet
the eternal note of sadness is brought in.”


                            JAMES LANE ALLEN

                       Fcap. 8vo. Gilt top. =6s.=

                            223rd Thousand.

                          The Choir Invisible

_ACADEMY._—“A book to read and a book to keep after reading. Mr. Allen’s
gifts are many—a style pellucid and picturesque, a vivid and disciplined
power of characterisation, and an intimate knowledge of a striking epoch
and an alluring country. ‘The Choir Invisible’ is a fine achievement.”

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“Mr. Allen’s power of character drawing invests the
old, old story with renewed and absorbing interest.... The fascination
of the story lies in great part in Mr. Allen’s graceful and vivid
style.”

                    Globe 8vo. Price =3s. 6d.= each.

                          A Kentucky Cardinal
                               Aftermath

                Being Part II. of “A Kentucky Cardinal.”

                            Summer in Arcady

                            A Tale of Nature


                      Crown 8vo. Price =6s.= each.

                        A Kentucky Cardinal and
                               Aftermath

                  In one vol. Illus. by HUGH THOMSON.

                            Flute and Violin

                      And other Kentucky Tales and
                               Romances.

                        The Blue-Grass Region of
                                Kentucky

                      And other Kentucky Articles.

_OUTLOOK._—“His work has purity, delicacy, and unfailing charm. He gives
you matter for laughter, matter for tears, and matter to think upon,
with a very fine hand.”

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“Mr. Allen has attained to an enviable position; it
is his to interpret his native country to the world, and it is not easy
to imagine a better interpreter. These four volumes are worthy of the
author of ‘The Choir Invisible.’”


                           WINSTON CHURCHILL

[Illustration: author portrait]

                               Price 6s.

                               The Crisis

                            [290th Thousand]

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“‘The Crisis’ is a story of the American Civil War, a
theme as inspiring to the American writer of genius as the English Civil
War has proved to some of our best romancers. But, so far as we are
aware, there has hitherto been no novel on that subject produced in
America to equal either the ‘Woodstock’ of Sir Walter Scott or
Whyte-Melville’s ‘Holmby House.’ That reproach is at length removed by
Mr. Churchill, and ‘The Crisis’ will bear comparison with either of
these justly famous books.”

_LITERATURE._—“As well executed a novel as we have come across for many
a long day.”

_SPECTATOR._—“An exceedingly spirited, interesting, and right minded
romance of the Civil War.”

_GUARDIAN._—“‘The Crisis’ is a remarkable book.... It is a grand book.”

_PALL MALL GAZETTE._—“A singularly fascinating and, in many respects, an
important and valuable book.”

_DAILY CHRONICLE._—“Well as Mr. Churchill did with some of his
characters in ‘Richard Carvel,’ he has done still better in this story
with some of their descendants.”

_ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE._—“It is a sound book, well put together and well
written.”

_PILOT._—“A worthy pendant to his brilliant romance ‘Richard Carvel.’”

_ATHENÆUM._—“A bright, vividly written book, which holds the reader’s
interest.”

_DAILY NEWS._—“We congratulate Mr. Churchill. ‘The Crisis’ is a warm,
inspiriting book.”


                           WINSTON CHURCHILL

One of the most striking successes in recent fiction.

                          Crown 8vo. Gilt top

                               Price 6s.

                             Richard Carvel

_GUARDIAN._—“The book is one we can warmly recommend to readers who like
to have their historical memories freshened by fiction.”

_LITERATURE._—“Has a full and stirring plot.... A piece of work
creditable both to his industry and his imagination.”

_THE SPEAKER._—“We have not read a better book for many a day than
‘Richard Carvel.’”

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“Full of good things. The narrative excels in
incidents, interesting, vivid, and picturesque....”

                               Price 6s.

                             The Celebrity:

                               An Episode

                            [59th Thousand]

_ATHENÆUM._—“Distinctly good reading. It is witty and devoid of offence
to the most sensitive disposition.... Can be recommended to old and
young alike.”

_CHICAGO TRIBUNE._—“An exceptionally pleasing novel.”

_NEW YORK INDEPENDENT._—“Fresh, dashing, and entertaining from beginning
to end.”


                            ROLF BOLDREWOOD

[Illustration: author portrait]

                               Price 6s.

                             In Bad Company

                           and other Stories

                                   By

                            Rolf Boldrewood

A collection of Australian stories and sketches. The longest, which
gives its title to the volume, turns on the wickedness of a
trades-unionist agitator among the shearers and the violent
accompaniments of an Australian strike. Others describe bushrangers,
rough-riding contests, kangaroo shoots, lapsed gentlefolk, and, of
course, a drought.

_THE OUTLOOK._—“Very good reading.”

_DAILY NEWS._—“It is the best work this popular author has done for some
time.”

_DAILY GRAPHIC._—“Both the quantity and quality of the stories are first
rate.”

_DUNDEE ADVERTISER._—“There are many charming pictures in words of
Australia and her people, free from conventional phraseology, to be
found in these pages, and the book forms a fit companion to such capital
volumes as ‘Robbery Under Arms’ and ‘The Miner’s Right,’ which made Mr.
Boldrewood’s name.”

_COURT CIRCULAR._—“A breezy, bracing, healthy book.”


                            ROLF BOLDREWOOD

                        _POPULAR EDITION OF THE
                       NOVELS IN UNIFORM BINDING_

                               Crown 8vo.

                           Price 3s. 6d. each

                         Robbery Under Arms
                         The Miner’s Right
                         The Squatter’s Dream
                         A Sydney-side Saxon
                         A Colonial Reformer
                         Nevermore
                         A Modern Buccaneer
                         The Sealskin Cloak
                         Plain Living
                         The Crooked Stick
                         My Run Home
                         Old Melbourne Memories
                         Romance of Canvas Town
                         War to the Knife
                         Babes in the Bush

                            Globe 8vo. =2s.=

                        The Sphinx of Eaglehawk


                             F. MONTGOMERY

[Illustration: author portrait]

                               Price 6s.

                               Prejudged

                                   By

                          Florence Montgomery

_DAILY TELEGRAPH._—“An ingenious tale, and pleasing, by reason of the
fresh wholesomeness of the characters and atmosphere—a trait hard to
discover in many contemporary novels.”

_TRUTH._—“The author of ‘Misunderstood’ keeps up her deservedly high
reputation by her very pretty story ‘Prejudged.’”

_LITERARY WORLD._—“The story is simple and charming.”

_MANCHESTER COURIER._—“A study of character which is sincere and
convincing, and a story which from cover to cover is well written.”

_THE SPECTATOR._—“Miss Montgomery’s graceful story.”

_ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE._—“Well told and amusing.”

_SCOTSMAN._—“Worthy of the reputation made by ‘Misunderstood.’”

_THE OUTLOOK._—“She sketches her characters in both prettily and
wittily.”


                             F. MONTGOMERY

                       Crown 8vo. Gilt Top. =6s.=

                             Misunderstood

_Diary of Dr. WILBERFORCE, Bishop of Winchester._—“Read ‘Misunderstood,’
very touching and truthful.”

_VANITY FAIR._—“This volume gives us what of all things is the most rare
to find in contemporary literature—a true picture of child-life.”

                       Crown 8vo. Gilt Top. =6s.=

                                Seaforth

_WORLD._—“In the marvellous world of the pathetic conceptions of Dickens
there is nothing more exquisitely touching than the loving,
love-seeking, unloved child, Florence Dombey. We pay Miss Montgomery the
highest compliment within our reach when we say that in ‘Seaforth’ she
frequently suggests comparisons with what is at least one of the
masterpieces of the greatest master of tenderness and humour which
nineteenth-century fiction has known. ‘Seaforth’ is a novel full of
beauty, feeling, and interest.”

                       Crown 8vo. Gilt Top. =6s.=

                            Thrown Together

_VANITY FAIR._—“This charming story cannot fail to please.”

_WASHINGTON DAILY CHRONICLE._—“A delightful story. There is a thread of
gold in it upon which are strung many lovely sentiments.”

                       Crown 8vo. Gilt Top. =6s.=

                           _Second Edition._

                      Transformed; or, Three Weeks
                             in a Lifetime


                            Pott 8vo. =2s.=

                             Tony: A Sketch


                       3 Vols. Crown 8vo. =18s.=

                             Colonel Norton


                            RUDYARD KIPLING

                           _UNIFORM EDITION_

                   _Extra Crown 8vo._ _Scarlet Cloth_

                       _Gilt Tops._ =6s.= _each_

                             60th Thousand

                                  Kim

                      Illustrated by J. L. KIPLING

                             33rd 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.”

                             57th 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.”

                             48th 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.”

                             39th 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.”

                             36th 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.”

                             41st 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.”

                             17th Thousand

                           Wee Willie Winkie

                           and other Stories


                            RUDYARD KIPLING

                    _UNIFORM EDITION_ =6s.= _each_.

                             20th Thousand

                             Soldiers Three

                           and other Stories

_GLOBE._—“Containing some of the best of his highly vivid work.”

                             55th 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.’”

                             38th 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.”

                             27th 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.”

                             14th 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.”

                              The Naulahka

                       A Story of West and East.

                                   BY

                            RUDYARD KIPLING

                                  AND

                           WOLCOTT BALESTIER


      RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BUNGAY. 20.9.02.




                          Transcriber’s Notes


Some presumed printer’s errors have been corrected, including
normalizing punctuation. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation has been
left as printed unless specifically noted below. Further corrections are
listed below.

                    p. 28 refection -> reflection
                    p. 98 make’s -> makes
                    p. 166 its claims -> it claims
                    p. 370 Jack Clark -> Jack Clarke
                    p. 393 Fontenay -> Fontenaye





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Ghost Camp, by Rolf Boldrewood

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