The Ghost Camp; or, the Avengers (2024)

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I

A wild and desolate land; dreary, even savage,to the unaccustomed eye. Forest-clothed hillstowering above the faint, narrow track leading eastward,along which a man had been leading a tiredhorse; he was now resting against a granite boulder.A dark, mist-enshrouded day, during which thecontinuous driving showers had soaked through anovercoat, now become so heavy that he carried itacross his arm. A fairly heavy valise, above a pairof blankets, was strapped in front of his saddle.

He was prepared for bush travelling—although histerm of “colonial experience,” judging from his ruddycheek and general get-up, had been limited. A riftin the over-hanging cloud-wrack, through which thelow sunrays broke with a sudden gleam, showed adarksome mountain range to the south, with summitand sides, snow-clad and dazzling white.

The wayfarer stood up and stared at the apparition:“a good omen,” thought he, “perhaps a true landmark.2The fellows at the mail-change told me to steer in ageneral way for the highest snow peak, which theycalled ‘the Bogong,’ or some such name. Thoughthis track seems better marked, these mountain roads,as they call them—goat paths would be the bettername—for there is not a wheel mark to be seen—oneneeds the foot of a chamois and the eye of ourfriend up there.” Here he looked upward, where oneof the great birds of prey, half hawk, half eagle, as thepioneers decided, floated with moveless wing abovecrag and hollow. Then rising with an effort, andtaking the bridle rein, he began to lead the wearyhorse up the rocky ascent. “Poor old Gilpin!” hesoliloquised, “you are more knocked up than I am—andyet you have the look of a clever cob—such aswe should have fancied in England for a roadster, ora covert hack. But roads are roads there, while in thisbenighted land, people either don’t know how to makethem, or seem to do their cross-country work withoutthem. I wonder if I shall fall in with bed and boardto-night. The last was rough, but sufficing—agood fire too, now I think of it, and preciouscold it was. Well, come along, John! I must bustleyou a bit when we get to the top of this everlastinghill—truly biblical in that respect. Whata lonesome place it is, now that the sun has goneunder again! I suppose there’s no one within fiftymiles—Hulloa!”

This exclamation was called forth by the appearanceof a horseman at no great distance—along the line oftrack. Man and horse were motionless, though sonear that he wondered he had not observed thembefore. The rider’s face, which was towards him, bore,3as far as he could judge, an expression of keenestattention.

“Wonder if he is a bushranger?” thought thetraveller; “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 littlevillage. However, I shall soon know.”

Before he had time to decide seriously, the horsemancame towards him. He saw a slight, dark, wiryindividual, something above the middle height,sunburned, and almost blackened as to such portionsof his neck and face as could be perceived for anabundant beard and moustache. The horse, blood-looking,and in hard condition, presented a strikingcontrast to his own leg-weary, disconsolate animal.The traveller thought him capable of fast and farperformances. His sure and easy gait, as he steppedfreely along the rocky path, stamped him as “mountain-bred,”or, if not “to the manner born,” having livedlong enough amid these tremendous glens and rockyfastnesses, to negotiate their ladder-like declivitieswith 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 itmight lead there. I was told that it was only eightmiles.”

“It’s a good fourteen, and you won’t get thereto-night. Not with that horse, anyhow. But lookhere! I’m going to my place, a few miles off, withthese cattle—if you like to give me a hand, I can put4you up for the night, and show you the way in themorning.”

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

“All right,” said the bushman, for such heevidently was; “these crawlin’ cattle are brutes tostraggle, and I’m lost without my dog. I’ll bring ’emup, and if you’ll keep the tail going, we’ll get alongeasy enough.”

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

“Close by,” answered the stranger, laconically, atthe same time riding down the slope of the mountainwith loose rein, and careless seat, as if the jumble ofrocks, tree-roots, and rolling stones, was the mostlevel high road in the world. Looking after the newacquaintance he descried a small lot of cattle perchedon a rocky pinnacle, partly covered by a patch ofscrub. The grass around them was high and green—but,with one exception, that of a cow munching atussac in an undecided way, they did not appear tocare about the green herbage, or tall kangaroo grasswhich grew around them. Had he known anythingabout the habits of cattle, he would have seen by theirappearance that these fat beasts (for such they were)had come far and fast; were like his horse, thoroughlyexhausted, and as such, indifferent to the attractionsof wayside pasture.

However, with the aid of a hunting crop, which heflourished behind them, with threatening action, thebushman soon managed to get them on to the track,5and with the aid of his newly-made comrade inducedthem to move with a decent show of alacrity. Thatsome were footsore, and two painfully lame, wasapparent to the new assistant, also that they werewell-bred animals, heavy weights, and in that stateand condition which is provincially alluded to as“rolling fat.”

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

“Where do you buy your cattle?” asked theEnglishman—not that he cared as to that part of theoccupation, but the gold-mining seemed to him aromantic, independent way of earning a living. Hewas even now turning over in his mind the idea of afew months camping among these Alpine regions,with, of course, the off-chance of coming upon anuntouched gold mine.

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

The track had become more marked. There wereno wheel marks, the absence of which had surprisedthe 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 commencingto be marshy, no difficulty was found in driving6the cattle briskly along it. His horse too, having“company,” had become less dilatory and despondent.

“We’re not far off, now,” said his companion, “andit’s just as well. We’ll have rain to-night—may besnow. 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 beingpassed, they turned to the north at a sharp angle tothe road, and following a devious track, found themselvesat the slip-rails of a small but well-fencedpaddock, into which the cattle were turned, andpermitted to stray at will. Fastening the slip railswith scrupulous care, and following the line of fencefor 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, andmotioned to the guest to do likewise. As also to putthe saddle against the wall of the hut, with thestuffing outward. “That’ll dry ’em a bit,” he said;“mine’s wet enough anyhow. Just bring your horseafter me.”

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

Entering the hut, which though small, was neat andclean; it was seen to contain two rooms, the innerone apparently used as a bedroom, there being twobed-places, on each of which was a rude mattress7covered with a blanket. A store of brushwood anddry billets had been placed in a corner, from which afire was soon blazing in the rude stone chimney, whilea camp kettle (provincially a “billy”) was on the wayto boil without loss of time.

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

“Oh! I nearly forgot,” said the traveller, as hisentertainer, dropping a handful of tea into the “billy,”now at the boil, and stirring it with a twig, put onthe lid. “I brought a flask, it’s very fair whisky, anda tot won’t hurt either of us, after a long day and awet one.” Going to his coat, he brought out a flask,and nearly filling the tin cup which was closed overthe upper part, offered it to his host. He, ratherto the surprise of the Englishman, hesitated andmotioned as if to refuse, but on second thoughtssmiled in a mysterious way, and taking the tin cup,nodded, and saying “Well, here’s fortune!” tossed itoff. Blount took one of the pannikins, and pouringout a moderate allowance, filled it up with the clearspring 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,” saidhis new acquaintance, “and some takes a deal morethan is good for them. I don’t hold with that, but a8nip or two’s neither here nor there, particular after along day. Help yourself to the meat and damper,you see your supper.”

The traveller needed no second invitation; he didnot, like the clerk of Copmanhurst, plunge his fingersinto the venison pasty, there being neither venisonnor pasty, but after cutting off several slices of theexcellent round of beef which had apparentlysustained previous assaults, he made good time, withthe aid of a well-baked “damper,” and an occasionalreference to a pannikin of hot tea, so that as theirappetites declined, more leisure was afforded forconversation.

“And now,” he said, after filling up a secondpannikin of tea, and lighting his pipe, “I’m sure I’mvery much obliged to you, as I hear the rain comingdown, and the wind rising. May I ask whosehospitality I’m enjoying? I’m Valentine Blount ofLangley in Herefordshire. Not long out, as I daresay you have noticed. Just travelling about to havea look at the country.”

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

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

“There’s no call to do that. Melbourne’s a goodway off, and it takes time to get there. But there’salways gold buyers about townships, that are on for alittle business. They give a trifle under market price,but they pay cash, and it suits us mountain chaps to9deal that way. Sometimes I’m a buyer myself, alongwith the cattle-dealing. Look here!” As he spoke,he detached a leather pouch from his belt, lookinglike one that stockriders wear for carrying pipe andtobacco, which he threw on the table. The grog hadinclined to confidences and relaxed his attitude ofcaution. Blount lifted it, rather surprised at itsweight. “This is gold, isn’t it?”

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

“Very much. I don’t know that I’ve ever seengold 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 seemedthree parts full, and pouring some of it on a tin plate,awaited Blount’s remarks.

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

“So,” he said musingly, “here is one of the greatlures which have moved the world since the dawn ofhistory. Love, war, and ambition, have been subservientto it. Priests and philosophers, kings and queens,the court beauty and the Prime Minister, have vainlystruggled against its influence. But—” he brokeoff with a laugh, as he noted his companion’s look ofwonder, “here am I, another example of its fascination,moralising in a mountain hut and mystifying myworthy entertainer.”

“And now, my friend!” he inquired, relapsing into10the manner of everyday life, “what may be the marketvalue of this heavy little parcel?”

“Well—I put it at fifty ounces, or thereabouts,”said Mr. “Little River Jack,” carefully pouring backthe contents of the pouch, to the last grain; “at, sayfour pound an ounce, it’s worth a couple of hundrednotes, though we sha’n’t get that price for it. But atMelbourne mint, it’s worth every shilling, maybe atrifle more.” Before closing the pouch, he took out asmall nugget of, perhaps, half an ounce in weight, andsaying, “You’re welcome to this. It’ll make a decentscarf pin,” handed it to Mr. Blount.

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

“It’s that interesting,” said the bushman, all signsof annoyance clearing from his countenance, “thatonce a man takes to it he never quits it till he makesa fortune or dies so poor that the Government has tobury him. I’ve known many a man that used acheque book as big as a school slate, and could drawfor a hundred thousand or more, drop it all in a fewyears, and be found dead in a worse ‘humpy’ thanthis, 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?”

11“By luck, d—d hard luck!” said John Carter,whom the subject seemed to have excited. “Everyminer’s a born gambler; if he don’t do it with cards,he puts his earnings, his time, his life blood, as onemight 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 goldlike potatoes, and it’s luck, bad luck, that turns himout a beggar from every ‘show’ for years, till hehasn’t got a shirt to his back. Why do I stick toit, you’ll say? Because I’m a fool, always havebeen, always will be, I expect. But I like thegame, 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’san old mate of mine living in London and Paris, andswelling it about with the best! You’d like to have alook in, you say? Well, you stop at Bunjil for aweek, till I come back from Bago; it’s a good inn,clean and comfortable, and the girl there, if I tellher, will look after you; see you have a fire too,these cold nights. Are you on?”

“Yes! most decidedly,” replied Blount, with greatheartiness. “A mountain hotel should be a newexperience.”

“Then it’s a bargain. I’m going down the riverfor a few days. When I get back, I’ll pick you upat Bunjil, and we’ll go to a place such as younever seen before, and might never have droppedon as long as you lived, if you hadn’t met me,accidental like. And now we’d as well turn in. Iexpect some chaps that’s bought the cattle, andthey won’t be here later than daylight.” Accepting12another glass of whisky as nightcap, and subsequentlyremoving merely his boots and breeches,both of which he placed before the fire, but at asafe distance, Mr. “Little River Jack” “turned in”as he expressed it, and was shortly wrapped inthe embrace of the kind deity who favours thedwellers in the Waste, though often rejecting theadvances of the luxurious inhabitants of cities. Mr.Blount delayed his retirement, as he smoked beforethe still glowing “back log” and dwelt upon theadventures of the day.

“How that fellow must enjoy his slumbers!” thoughthe. “In the saddle before daylight, as he told me;up and down these rocky fastnesses—fifteen hours ofslow, monotonous work, more wearying than anyamount of fast going—and now, by his unlabouredbreathing, sleeping like a tired child; his narrowworld—its few cares—its honest, if sometimes exhaustinglabours, as completely shut out as if he was inanother planet. Enviable mortal! I should like tochange places with him.”

After expressing this imprudent desire, as indeedare often those of men, who, unacquainted with theconditions surrounding untried modes of life, believethat they could attain happiness by merely exchangingpositions, Mr. Blount undressed before the fire,and bestowed himself upon the unoccupied couch,where he speedily fell asleep, just as he had imaginedhimself extracting large lumps of gold from a veinof virgin quartz, in a romantic fern-shaded ravine,discovered by himself.

From this pleasing state of matters, he wasawakened by a sound as of horse hoofs and the low13growl of a dog. It was not quite dark. He sat upand listened intently. There was no illusion. Hewent to the hut door and looked out. Day wasbreaking, and through the misty dawnlight he wasenabled to distinguish his host in conversation with aman on horseback, outside of the slip-rails. Presentlythe cattle, driven by another horseman, with whomwas a dog, apparently of more than ordinary intelligence,came to the slip-rails. They made a rush assoon as they were through, as is the manner of such, onstrange ground—but the second horseman promptly“wheeled” them towards the faint dawn line nowbecoming more distinct, and disappeared through theforest arches. Mr. Blount discerning that the day hadbegun, for practical purposes, proceeded to dress.

Walking over to the chimney, he found that thesmouldering logs had been put together, and a cheerfulblaze was beginning to show itself. The billy,newly filled, was close to it, and by the time he hadwashed the upper part of his body in a tin bucketplaced on a log end, outside the door, his friend ofthe previous night appeared with both horses, whichhe fastened to the paddock fence.

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

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

“Two of their men—it’s all the same. Theystopped 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 this14morning. It’s wonderful what a good paddock and anight’s rest will do!”

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

“Well, not more than twenty miles, but the road’smiddlin’ rough. Anyhow we’ll get there latish, andyou can take it easy till I come back. I mightn’t beaway 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, Blountthought he had rarely known a finer day. “Whatbracing mountain air!” he said to himself. “Recallsthe Highlands; but I see no oat fields, and thepeasantry are absent. These hills should rear asplendid race of men—and rosy-cheeked lasses inabundance. The roads I cannot recommend.”

Mr. John Carter had admitted that the way wasrough. His companion thought he had understated thecase. It was well nigh impassable. When not climbinghills as steep as the side of a house, they weresliding down bridle tracks like the “Ladder of Cattaro.”These Mr. Carter’s horse hardly noticed; a downgrade being negotiated with ease and security, whilehe seemed, to Blount’s amazement, to step from rockto rock like a chamois. That gentleman’s own horsehad no such accomplishments, but blundered perilouslyfrom time to time, so that his owner was fainto lead him over the rougher passes. This renderedtheir progress slower than it would otherwise have15been, while he was fain to look enviously at his companion,who, either smoking or discoursing on localtopics, rode with careless rein, trusting implicitly, as itseemed, to his horse’s intelligence.

“Here’s the Divide!” he said at length, pointingto a ridge which rose almost at right angles from theaccepted track. “We leave the road here, and headstraight for Bunjil mountain. There he stands withhis cap on! The snow’s fell early this season.”

As he spoke he pointed towards a mountain peakof unusual height, snow-capped, and even as to itsspreading flanks, streaked with patches and lines ofthe same colour. The white clouds which hung roundthe lofty summit—six thousand feet from earth, weresoft-hued and fleecy; but their pallor was blurred anddingy compared with the silver coronet which glorifiedthe dark-hued Titan.

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

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

“The Divide,” as John Carter called it, was an improvementupon the track they quitted. It was lessrocky, and passably level. There was a gradual ascenthowever, which Mr. Blount did not notice until heobserved that the timber was becoming more sparse,while the view around them was disclosing featuresof a grand, even awful character. On either side the16forest commenced to slope downwards, at an increasinglysharp gradient. Instead of the ordinary precipice,above which the travellers rode, on one or otherside of the bridle track, having the hill on the other,there appeared to be a precipice of unknown depthon either hand. As the ascent became more marked,Blount perceived that the winding path led towardsa pinnacle from which the view was extensive, and ina sense, dreadful, from its dizzy altitude—its abysmaldepths,—and, as he began to realise, its far fromimprobable danger.

“This here’s what we call the leadin’ range; itfollers the divide from the head waters of the Tambo;that’s where we stopped last night. It’s the only roadbetween that side of the country and the river. Ifyou don’t strike this ‘cut,’ and there’s not more thana score or so of us mountain chaps as knows it, itwould take a man days to cross over, and then hemightn’t do it.”

“What would happen to him?” asked Blount, feelinga natural curiosity to learn more of this weirdregion, differing so widely from any idea that he hadever gathered from descriptions of Australia.

“Well, he’d most likely get bushed, and have toturn back, though he mightn’t find it too easy to dothat, 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 onepoor cove last winter, as we chaps were days outsearchin’ for, and then found him stiff, and dead—he’dgot sleepy, and never woke up!”

While this enlivening conversation was proceeding,the man from a far country discovered that the pathway,17level enough for ordinary purposes, though heand his guide were no longer riding side by side, wasrapidly narrowing. What breadth it would be, whenthey ascended to the pinnacle above them, he beganto consider with a shade of apprehension. Hishackney, which Mr. Jack Carter had regarded withslightly-veiled contempt as a “flat country horse, ashad never seen a rise bigger than a haystack,” evidentlyshared his uneasiness, inasmuch as he hadstopped, stared and trembled from time to time, atawkward places on the road, before they came to thecelebrated “leading range.”

In another mile they reached the pinnacle, whereBlount realised the true nature and surroundings ofthis Alpine Pass. Such indeed it proved to be. Anarrow pathway, looking down on either side, uponfathomless glens, with so abrupt a drop that it seemedas if the wind, now rising, might blow them off theirexposed perch.

The trees which grew at the depths below, thoughin reality tall and massive eucalypts, appeared scarcelarger than berry bushes.

The wedge-tailed eagles soared above and around.One pair indeed came near and gazed on them withunblenching eye, as though speculating on the durationof their sojourn. They seemed to be the naturaldenizens of this dizzy and perilous height, from whichthe vision ranged, in wondering amaze over a vastlone region, which stretched to the horizon; appearingindeed to include no inconsiderable portion of thecontinent.

Below, around, even to the far, misty sky-line, wasa grey, green ocean, the billows of which, through the18branches of mighty forest trees, were reduced by distanceto a level and uniform contour. Tremendousglens, under which ran clear cold mountain streams,tinkling and rippling ever, mimic waterfalls and flashingrivulets, the long dry summer through diversifiedthe landscape.

Silver streams crossed these plains and downs ofsolemn leafa*ge, distinguishable only when the sunflashed on their hurrying waters. These were rivers—notinconsiderable either—while companies ofsnow-crowned Alps stood ranged between, tierupon tier above them and the outlined rim, whereearth and sky met, vast, regal, awful, as Kingsof the Over-world! On guard since the birth oftime, rank upon rank they stood—silent, immovable,scornful—defying the puny trespassers on theirimmemorial demesne. “What a land! what a vastexpanse!” thought the Englishman, “rugged, untamed,but not more so than ‘Caledonia stern and wild,’ morefertile and productive, and as to extent—boundless.I see before me,” he mused, “a country larger thanSweden, capable in time of carrying a dense population;and what a breed of men it should give birthto, athletic, hardy, brave! Horsem*n too, in the wordsof Australia’s forest poet, whom I read but of late.‘For the horse was never saddled that the Jebungscouldn’t ride.’ Good rifle shots! What sons of theEmpire should these Australian highlands rear, to dobattle for Old England in the wars of the giants yetto come!”

This soliloquy, and its utterance in thought camesimultaneously to a halt of a decisive nature, by reasonof the conduct of Mr. Blount’s horse. This animal had19been gradually acquiring a fixed distrust of thehighway—all too literally—on which he was requiredto travel. Looking first on one side, then on theother, and apparently realising the dreadful alternativeof a slip or stumble, he became unnerved anddemoralised. Mr. Blount had ridden a mule over manya mauvais pas in Switzerland, when the sagaciousanimal, for reasons known to himself, had insistedon walking on the outer edge of the roadway, over-hangingthe gulf, where a crumbling ledge mightcause the fall into immeasurable, glacial depths. Inthat situation his nerve had not faltered. “Trust toold ‘Pilatus,’” said the guide; “do not interferewith him, I beseech you; he is under the immediateprotection 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 andcautious mode of progression, had been calculated toreassure a nervous novice. But here, the casewas different. His cob was evidently not under theprotection of the saints. St. Bernard was absent, orindifferent. With the recklessness of fear, he waslikely to back—to lose his balance—to hurl himselfand rider over the perpendicular drop, where he wouldnot have touched ground at a thousand feet. At thismoment Jack Carter looked round. “Keep himquiet, for God’s sake! till I get to you—don’t stir!”As he spoke he slid from his horse, though sosmall was the vacant space on the ledge, that as heleaned against the shoulder of his well-trained mount,there seemed barely room for his feet. Buckling astrap to the snaffle rein, which held it in front of thesaddle, and throwing the stirrup iron over, he passed20to the head of the other horse, whose rein he took ina firm grasp. “Steady,” he said in a voice ofcommand, which, strangely, the shaking creatureseemed to obey. “Now, Boss! you get off, and slipbehind him—there’s just room.” Blount did asdirected, and with care and steadiness, effected amovement to the rear, while Jack Carter fastened reinand stirrup as before.

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

“That’s a quick way out of the difficulty,” saidBlount, with an air of relief. “I really didn’t knowwhat was going to happen. But won’t they bolt whenthey get to the other side of this natural bridge overthe bottomless pit?”

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

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

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

“How far is it?” asked Blount, with a naturaldesire to get clear of this picturesque, but too excitingpart of the country, and to exchange it for morecommonplace scenery, with better foothold.

21“Only a couple of mile—so we might as well stepout, as I’ve filled my pipe. Won’t you have a drawfor company?”

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

“A well-trained horse! I should think he was,” hetold himself; “and yet, before I left England, I wasalways being warned against the half-broken horses ofAustralia. What a hackney to be sure!—fast, easy,sure-footed, intelligent—and what sort of breaking inhas he had? Mostly ridden by people whom noliving horse can throw; but that is a disadvantage—ashe instinctively recognises the rider he can throw.Well! every country has its own way of doingthings; and though we Englishmen are unchangeablyfixed in our own methods, we may have something tolearn yet from our kinsmen in this new land.”

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

“Accidents!” he replied, “I should jolly well thinkthere have. You see, horses are like men and women,though people don’t hardly believe it. Some’s bornone way, and some another; teaching don’t makemuch difference to ’em, nor beltin’ either. Some of’em, like some men, are born cowards, and when theyget into a narrer track with a big drop both sides of’em, they’re that queer in the head—though it’s theheart that’s wrong with ’em—that they feel like pitching22theirselves 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 minuteor two. That was the matter with him. When heseen old Keewah skip along by himself, it put confidencelike, into him.”

“You’ve known of accidents, then?”

“My word! I mind when poor Paddy Farrell wentdown. He and his horse both. He was leadin’ apacker, as it might be one of us now. Well, his mokewas a nervous sort of brute, and just as he got to theNeedle Rock, it’s a bit farther on before the roadwidens out, but it’s terrible narrer there, and poorPaddy was walking ahead leadin’ the brute with agreen hide halter, when a hawk flies out from behinda rock and frightened the packer. He draws backwith a jerk, and his hind leg goes over the edge.Paddy had the end of the halter round his wrist, andit got jammed somehow, and down goes the lot, horseand pack, and him atop of ’em. Three or four of uswere out all day looking for him at the foot of therange. We knew where we’d likely find him, and sureenough there they were, he and his horse, stone deadand smashed to pieces. We took him back to Bunjil,and buried him decent in the little graveyard. Wemanaged to fish up a prayer-book, and got ‘GentlemanJack’ to read the service over him. My word!he could read no end. They said he was collegetaught. 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 alwaysdrinks, partickler if he’s seen better days.”

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

“Nobody knows why, but they all do; they’ll workhard and keep sober for months. Then they gettired 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 madea few pounds.”

“That sounds bad after working hard and riskingtheir lives on these Devil’s Bridges. How old wasthis Patrick Farrell?”

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

When Mr. Blount and his companion reached theNeedle Rock, a sharp-edged monolith, the edge ofwhich unnecessarily infringed on the perilously scantyfoothold, he did not wonder at the downfall of poorAloysius William or any other wayfarer encumberedwith a horse. He recalled the “vision of suddendeath” which had so nearly been realised in his owncase, and shuddered as he looked over the sheer dropon to a tangled mass of “rocks and trees confusedlyhurled.”

“We’ve got Bunjil Inn to make yet,” said the bushman,stepping forward briskly; “we mustn’t forget24that, 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 thetrack became wider, much to Mr. Blount’s relief, for hewas beginning to feel an uncanny fascination for theawful abyss, and to doubt whether if a storm came on,he should be able to stand erect, or be reduced to theignoble alternative of lying on his face.

“They’ve passed along here all right,” said theguide, casting a casual look at the path; “trust oldKeewah for that, he’s leadin’ and your moke followingclose up.”

Mr. Blount did not see any clear indication, andwould have been quite unable to declare which animalwas foremost. But he accepted in all confidenceLittle-River-Jack’s assurance. The track, withoutgaining much breadth or similarity to any civilisedhigh road, was yet superior in all respects to thechamois path they had left behind, and when his companionexclaimed, “There’s the yard, and our nags init, 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, spareshoes, and other indispensable matters, would havebeen serious, not to say irreparable.

However there were the two horses with theiraccoutrements complete, in the trap yard aforesaid.The yard was fully eight feet high, and though thesaplings of which it was composed were rudely puttogether, they were solid and unyielding. The heavygate of the same material showed a rude carpentryin the head and tail pieces, the former of which was“let into the cap” or horizontal spar placed across25the gate posts, and also morticed into a round uprightbelow, sunk into the ground and projectingsecurely above it.

“They must have come in and shut the gate afterthem,” remarked Blount; “how in the world did theymanage that?”

“Well, you see, this gate’s made pretty well on thebalance to swing back to the post, where there’s asort of groove for it. It’s always left half, or a quarteropen. A prop’s put loose agen it, which any stockcoming in from that side’s middlin’ sure to rub, and thegate swings to. See? It may graze ’em, as they’regoing in, but they’re likely to jump forward, into theyard. The gate swings back to the post, and they’renabbed. They can’t very well open it towards themselves,they haven’t savey for that. So they have towait till some one comes.”

This explanation was given as they were ridingalong a decently plain road to Bunjil township, thefirst appearance of which one traveller descried withmuch contentment.

The “Divide,” before this agreeable change, hadbegun to alter its austere character. The ridge hadspread out, the forest trees were stately and umbrageous,the track was fairly negotiable by horseand man. A fertile valley through which dashed animpetuous stream revealed itself. On the furtherbank stood dwellings, “real cottages,” as Mr. Blountremarked, “not huts.” These were in all casessurrounded by gardens, in some instances by orchards,of which the size and girth of the fruit trees borewitness to the richness of the soil as well as of theage of the township.

26The short winter day had been nearly consumedby reason of their erratic progress; so that the eveningshadows had commenced to darken the valley, whilethe clear, crisp atmosphere betrayed to the experiencedsenses of Mr. Carter, every indication of whathe 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 coldenough in an old man frost hereabouts, to freeze theleg off an iron pot. But this is the right shop aswe’re going to, for a good bed, a broiled steak for tea,and if you make friends with Sheila (she’s the girlthat waits at table) you won’t die of cold, whateverelse 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 carelessheel, the bushman went off at a smart canter alongthe main street, apparently the only one in the littletown, Mr. Blount’s cob following suit with comparativeeagerness, until they pulled up at aroomy building with a broad verandah, before whichstood a sign-board, setting forth its title to consideration,as the “Prospector’s Arms” by WilliamMiddleton.

Several persons stood or lounged about theverandah, who looked at them keenly as they rodeup. A broad-shouldered man with a frank, opencountenance, came out of a door, somewhat apartfrom the group. He was plainly, by appearance andbearing, the landlord.

“So you’re back again, Jack,” said he, addressingthe bushman with an air of familiar acquaintance;27“didn’t know what had come o’yer. What lay areye on now?”

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

“All right, Jack!” replied the host. “You canshow him the country, if any one can—the missus’llsee he’s took care of,” and as he spoke he searchedthe speaker with a swift glance as of one comprehendingall that had been said, and more that wasleft unspoken. “Here, take these horses round,George, and make ’em right for the night.”

An elderly individual in shirt sleeves and moleskinsof faded hue here came forward, and took thestranger’s horse, unbuckling valise and pack, whichthe landlord carried respectfully into an innerchamber, out of which a door led into a comfortableappearing bedroom; where, from the look of theaccessories, 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 beforehe tackled his own refreshment; “grub” was theword he used, which appeared to be fully understandedof the people, if but vaguely explanatory to Mr.Blount.

That gentleman, pensively examining his wardrobe,reflected meanwhile by how narrow a chance thearticles spread out before him had been saved fromwreck, so to speak, and total loss, when a knock cameto the door, and a feminine voice requested to know28whether he would like supper at six o’clock or later.Taking counsel of his inward monitor, he adoptedthe hour named.

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

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

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

Entering the parlour, for such it evidently was, hewas agreeably surprised with the appearance of affairs.A clean cloth covered the solid cedar table, on whichwas a hot dish—flanked by another which held potatoes.A fire of glowing logs was cheerful to behold, norwas the “neat-handed Phyllis” wanting to completethe tableau. A very good-looking young woman,with a complexion of English, rather than Australiancolouring, removed the dish covers, and stood atattention.

Here the wayfarer was destined to receive freshinformation relative to the social observances ofAustralian society. “You have only laid covers forone,” said he to the maid. “My friend, Mr. Carter, isnot going to do without his dinner surely?”

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

29“How very curious!” he exclaimed. “I thoughtevery one was alike in this part of the world; all freeand equal, that sort of thing. I shouldn’t the leastmind spending the evening with er—John Carter—orany other respectable miner.”

The girl looked him over before she spoke. “Well,Mr. Blount (Jack said that was your name), youmightn’t, though you’re just from England, but otherpeople might. When the police magistrate, theGoldfields Warden, and the District Surveyor comeround, they always stay here, and the down riversquatters. 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 aristocraticcountry, I perceive, in spite of the newspaperfroth about a democratic government. Well, I musttake time, and learn the country’s ways. I shall pickthem up by degrees, I suppose.”

“No fear!” said the damsel. “It’ll all come intime, not but there’s places at the back where all sortssit down together and smoke and drink no end. Butnot at Bunjil. Would you like some apple-pie tofollow, there’s plenty of cream?”

Mr. Blount would. “Apple-pie reminds one ofDevonshire, and our boyhood—especially the cream,”thought he. “What fun I should have thought thisadventure a few years ago. Not that it’s altogetherwithout interest now. It’s a novelty, at any rate.”

Mr. Blount, as he sat before the fire, enjoyinghis final pipe before retiring for the night, was free toconfess that he had rarely spent a more satisfactoryevening—even in the far-famed, old-fashioned, road-sideinns of old England. The night was cold—Carter’sforecast had been accurate. It was a hardfrost, such as his short stay in a coast city had notacquainted him with. The wide bush fire-place, witha couple of back logs, threw out a luxurious warmth,before which, in a comfortable arm-chair, he had beenreading the weekly paper with interest.

The well-cooked, juicy steak, the crisp potatoes,the apple-pie with bounteous cream, constituted ameal which a keen-edged appetite rendered sufficientfor all present needs. The difficult ride and toohazardous adventure constituted a fair day’s work—beingindeed sufficiently fatiguing to justify rest withoutbordering on exhaustion. It was a case of jamsatis.

He looked forward to an enjoyable night’s sleep,was even aware of a growing sense of relief that hewas not required to take the road next morning.The cob would be better for a few days’ rest, before31doing more mountain work. He would like also toramble about this neighbourhood, and see what thefarms and sluicing claims were like. And a better baseof operations than the Bunjil Hotel, no man needdesire.

He had gone to the stable with Carter, as becamea prudent horse-owner, where he had seen thecob comfortably bedded down for the night witha plenteous supply of sweet-smelling oaten haybefore him, and an unstinted feed of maize in themanger.

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

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

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

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

“That will do very well.”

32“All right—I’ll tell George; but won’t it be verycold? 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-pasteight o’clock. Is that right? Would you likesausages, boiled eggs and toast?”

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

The Kookaburra chorus, and the flute accompanimentof the magpies in the neighbouring tree tops,awakened Mr. Blount, who had not so much as turnedround in bed since about five minutes after he haddeposited himself between the clean lavender-scentedsheets. Looking out, he faintly discerned the dawnlight, and also that the face of the country was aswhite as if it had been snowing. He heard voices inthe verandah, and saw Little-River-Jack’s horse ledout, looking as fresh as paint. That gentleman,lighting his pipe carefully, mounted and started off ata fast amble up the road which skirted the range, andled towards a gap in the hills. Mr. Blount thoughtit would be as well to wait until Sheila had the firewell under way, by which he intended to toast himselfafter the arctic discipline of the shower bath, withthe thermometer at 28 degrees Fahrenheit.

The bi-weekly mail had providentially arrived atbreakfast time, bringing in its bags the local districtnewspaper, and a metropolitan weekly which skimmedthe cream from the cables and telegrams of the day.This was sufficiently interesting to hold him to thearm-chair, in slippered ease, for the greater part of anhour, while he lingered over his second cup of tea.

His boots, renovated from travel stains and mud,33standing ready, he determined on a stroll, and tookcounsel with Sheila, as to a favourable locality.

The damsel was respectful, but conversed with himon terms of perfect conversational equality. Shehad also been fairly educated, and was free fromvulgarity of tone or accent. To him, straight fromthe old country, a distinctly unfamiliar type worthstudying.

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

“I should go up the creek, and have a look at thesluicing claim. People say it’s worth seeing. Youcan’t miss it if you follow up stream, and you’ll hearthe ‘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-inchnozzle at the end. They lead the water for the raceinto it, and then turn it against the creek bank; thatundermines tons of the stuff they want to sluice—you’llhear it coming down like a house falling!”

“And what becomes of it then?”

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

“And does it pay well?”

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

So, after taking a last fond look at the cob, and34wishing he could exchange him for Keewah, butdoubting if any amount of boot would induce Carterto part with his favourite, he set out along the bankof the river and faced the uplands.

His boots were thick, his heart was light—the sunillumined the frost-white trunks, and diamond-sprayedbranches of the pines and eucalypts—theair was keen and bracing. “What a glorious thing itis 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 elasticityof youth’s high health and boundless optimism, hemarked the features of the land. There were wheel-trackson this road, which he was pleased to note.Though the soil was rich, and also damp at the baseof the hills and on the flats, it was sound, so thatwith reasonable care he was enabled to keep his feetdry. He saw pools from which the wild duck flewon his approach. A blue crane, the heron ofAustralia (Ardea) rose from the reeds; while fromtime to time the wallaroo (the kangaroo of themountain-side) put in appearance to his great delight.

The sun came out, glorifying the wide and variedlandscape and the cloudless azure against which thesnow-covered mountain summits glittered like silvercoronets. Birds of unknown note and plumagecalled and chirped. All Nature, recovering from thecold and darkness of the night, made haste to greetthe brilliant apparition of the sun god.

Keeping within sight of the creek—the course ofwhich he was pledged to follow—he became aware ofa dull monotonous sound, which he somehow connectedwith machinery. It was varied by occasional35reports like muffled blasts, as of the fall of heavybodies. “That is the sluicing claim,” he told himself,“and I shall see the wonderful ‘water gun,’ whichSheila told me of. Quite an adventure!” Theclaim was farther off than he at first judged, butafter climbing with stout heart a “stey brae,” helooked down on the sluicing appliances, and marvelledat the inventive ingenuity which the goldindustry had developed. Before him was a ravinedown which a torrent of water was rushing withgreat force and rapidity, bearing along in its courseclay, gravel, quartz, and even boulders of respectablesize.

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’sMill first year gold was struck there. This is apretty big thing, though it ain’t a circ*mstance tosome I’ve seen in Arizona and Colorado. Thiswater’s led five hundred feet from these workings.See it play on the face of the hill-side yonder—reckonwe’ve cut it away two hundred feet fromgrass.”

Mr. Blount looked with amazement at the thin,vicious, thread of water, which, directed against thelower and middle strata of the mass of ferruginousslate, had laid bare the alluvium through which ranan ancient river, silted up and overlaid for centuries.The course of this long dead and buried streamcould be traced by the water-worn boulders and thesmoothness of the rocks which had formed its bed.Where he stood, there had been a fall of forty feetas shown by the formation of the rocky channel.

36The manager civilly directed the “gunner” tolower the weapon, and aim it at a spot nearer towhere Blount was standing. He much marvelled tosee the stones torn from the “face” and sent flying inthe air, creating a fair-sized geyser where the watersmote the cliff. In this fashion of undermining hundredsof tons are brought down from time to time, tobe driven by the roaring torrent into the “tail-race,”whence they pass into the “sluice-box,” and so onto the creek, leaving the gold behind in the rifflebars.

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

“I reckon not. Cheapest way on airth. Thelabour we pay at present only comes to one man toa thousand yards. This company has been payingdividends for fifteen years!”

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

He looked at his watch and decided that he hadnot more than enough time to get back to Bunjil intime for lunch. So he shook hands with Mr. HiramEndicott and set out for that nucleus of civilisation.

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

Sheila welcomed him in a clean print dress, with asmiling face, but expressed a faint surprise at his safe37return, 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 sufficientlysafe guide?”

“Oh! it can be done,” answered the girl archly.“There was a gentleman followed the creek the wrongway, and got among the ranges before he found outhis mistake; and another one—he was a newspapereditor—thought he’d make a near cut, found himselfmiles lower down, and didn’t get back beforedark. My word! how hungry he was, and crosstoo!”

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

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

“Certainly. Whether Australia was created todevelop the tea and sugar industry, or tea to providea portable and refreshing beverage for the inhabitantsto work, and travel, or even fight on, is not finallydecided, but they go wondrous well together.”

After an entirely satisfactory lunch, Mr. Blountbethought him of the cob—and knowing, as do allEnglishmen, that to do your duty to your neighbourwhen he is a horse, you must exercise him at leastonce a day, he sent for George, and requested that heshould be brought forth. In a few moments thevaluable animal arrived, looking quite spruce andspirited, with coat much smoother and mane tidied;quite like an English covert hack, as Mr. Blounttold himself. His legs had filled somewhat, but38the groom assured Blount that that was nothing, andwould go off.

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

“Like?” answered Mr. Blount with effusion,“nothing better.” It was one of his besetting virtuesto know all about the denizens of any place—particularlyif partly civilised—wherever he happened tosojourn for a season. It is chiefly a peculiarity ofthe imaginative-sympathetic nature whereby muchknowledge of sorts is acquired—sometimes. Butthere is a reverse side to the shield.

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

George fled away like the wind, with a sieve and abridle in his hand, and going to the corner of a smallgrass paddock, under false pretences induced anelderly bay mare to come up to him (there being nocorn in the sieve), then he basely slipped the reinsover her head and led her away captive.

The landlord reappeared with a pair of long-neckedspurs buckled on to his heels, and getting swiftly intothe 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 hairon her legs, and yes! she was slightly lame on thenear fore-leg. But her eye was bright, her shoulderoblique; and as she reined up at a touch of the rustysnaffle and stuck out her tail, Arab fashion, she beganto show class, Mr. Blount thought.

“She’ll be all right, directly,” said the landlord,39noticing Mr. Blount’s scrutiny of the leg, “I neverknow whether it’s rheumatism, or one of her dodges—she’sas sound as a bell after a mile.” To add toher smart appearance, she had no shoes.

They passed quickly through cornfields and meadowlands, rich in pasture, and showing signs of an occasionalheavy crop. The agriculture was careless,as is chiefly the case where Nature does so muchthat man excuses himself for doing little. A cottageon the south side of the road surrounded by a well-cultivatedorchard furnished the exception whichproves the rule. Mr. Middleton opened the roughbut effective gate, with a patent self-closing latch,without dismounting from his mare, who squeezed hershoulder against it, as if she thought she could openit herself. “Steady!” said her owner—“this gate’snot an uphill one—she’ll push up a gate hung to slamdown hill as if she knew who made it. She doesknow a lot of things you wouldn’t expect of her.”Holding the gate open till Mr. Blount and the cobwere safely through, he led the way to the cottage,from which issued a tall, upright, elderly man, with adistinctly military bearing.

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

“Ay! the people—the people!” said the old manmeditatively. “The land’s a’ richt—fresh and innocent,just as God made it, but the people! the de’ilmade them on purpose to hide in these mountainsand gullies, and show what manner of folk could40grow up in a far country, where they were a lawunto themselves.”

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

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

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

“Sit ye doon,” said the Sergeant—“Beenie, bringin tea, and some scones.” A fresh-coloured countrydamsel, who presently appeared bearing a jug of milkand the other requisites, had evidently been withinhearing. “My wife and bairns are doon country,” heexplained, “or she would have been prood to mak’ youwelcome, sir. I’m by ma lane the noo—but she’ll beback next week, thank God; it’s awfu’ lonesome, whenshe’s awa.”

“You knew co*ke, Chamberlain, and Armstrong, allthat crowd—didn’t you, Sergeant?” queried the landlord.

“That did I—and they knew me before I’d donewith them, murdering dogs that they were! Peopleused to say that I’d never die in my bed. That thisone or that had sworn to shoot me—or roast me aliveif they could tak’ me. But I never gave them a chance.I was young and strong in those days—as active as a41mountain cat in my Hieland home, and could ridefor twenty-four hours at a stretch, if I had specialwark in hand. Old Donald Bane here could tell finetales if he could talk”—pointing to a grand-lookingold grey, feeding in a patch of lucerne. “The Generallet me have him when he was cast, that’s ten yearssyne. We got our pensions then, and we’re justhanging it out thegither.”

“I suppose there are no bad characters in thisneighbourhood now, Sergeant?” said Blount. “Everythinglooks very quiet and peaceful.”

“I wouldna say that,” answered the veteran, cautiously.“There’s many a mile of rough country, betweenhere and the Upper Sturt, and there’s apt to berough characters to match the country. Cattle arehigh, too. A dozen head of fat cattle comes to over ahundred pound—that’s easy earned if they’re drivenall night, and sold to butchers that have one yard atthe back of a range, and another in the stringy-barktownship, to take the down off.”

“Yet one wouldn’t think such things could becarried on easily in this part of the country—wherethere seem to be so many watchful eyes; but I musthave a longer ride this lovely morning, so I shall bemuch obliged if you and our host here will dine withme at seven o’clock, when we can have leisure to talk.You’re all by yourself, Sergeant, you know, so there’sno excuse.”

The Sergeant accepted with pleasure; the host wasafraid he would be too busy about the bar at thedinner hour, but would look in afterwards, before theevening was spent. So it was settled, and the recentacquaintances rode away.

42“What a fine old fellow the Sergeant is!” saidBlount; “how wonderfully neat and trim everythinginside the house and out is kept.”

“You’ll generally notice that about a place whenthe owner has been in the police; the inspector blowsup the troopers if there is a button off, or a boot notcleaned. You’d think they’d let a prisoner go, tohear him talk. Barracks—stable—carbine—horse—allhave to be neat and clean, polished up to the nines.Once they get the habit of that they never leave itoff, and after they settle down in a country place, asit might be here, they set a good example to thefarmers and bush people.”

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

“Well, yes, they are,” assented the landlord withoutenthusiasm, “though they’re not all built the way theSergeant is. I don’t say but what they’re a trifle hardon publicans now and again for selling a drink to atraveller on a Sunday. But if it’s the law, they’rebound to uphold it. We’d be a deal worse offwithout them, and that’s the truth.”

Blount and the landlord rode down the course ofthe stream with much interest, as far as the Englishmanwas concerned. For the other, the landscapewas a thing of course. The rich meadow landwhich bordered the stream—the far blue mountains—thefat bullocks and sleek horses feeding in thefields—the sheep on their way to market, were tohim an ancient and settled order of things, as littleprovocative of curiosity as if they had existed fromthe foundation of the world. He had been familiar43from childhood with them, or with similar stock andscenery.

But the stranger’s interest and constant inquirywere unceasing. Everything was new to him. Thefences, the crops, the maize, of which the tall stemswere still standing in their rows, though occasionallystripped and thrown down by the pigs whichwere rooting among them and gleaning the smallercobs left behind in the harvest plucking. A certaincarelessness of husbandry was noticed by the criticfrom over sea. The hedges were mostly untrimmed,the plough too often left in the furrow; the weeds,“thick-coming carpet after rain,” untouched by thescarifier; the fences broken, hedges indifferentlytrimmed.

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

“Perhaps not. Never was there,” replied theAustralian Boniface; “but these chaps are mostly sowell 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 harvestand shearin’s past, then he pays off all hands, exceptan old crawler or two, to milk cows and draw woodand water. Afterwards he hires no more till ploughingbegins again.”

“There does seem to be a reason for that, andother 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 decentleisurely country work.”

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

“Doesn’t your mare trot?” said Blount, as theymoved off, “it seems to me that Australian horseshave only two paces, walk and canter. She doesn’tseem lame now.”

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

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

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

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

“Not bad, but this old cripple can do better.” Onwhich, as if she had heard the words, the old marestretched out her neck and passed the cob “like ashot!” as her owner afterwards stated when describingthe 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 theold mare was pulled up, and the rider explained thatit took a professional to beat old “Slavey”; but that45owing to her uncertain temper, he had been unable to“take on” aspiring amateurs, and so missed goodwagers.

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

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

“You wouldn’t care to sell her?”

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

“Quite Arab like! I was told people would sellanything in Australia, especially horseflesh. There’sthe 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 thesystem. It’s wonderful what an appetite I’ve hadlately.”

Mr. Blount fed cautiously, with an eye to dinner atno distant period. Sheila was much excited at theidea of the Sergeant coming to dine with him.

“He’s a splendid old chap,” said she. “Such tales46I used to hear about him when I was a kiddie atschool. Many a day when he’s been out after cattle-stealers,and bushrangers, people said he’d nevercome back alive. He was never afraid, though, andhe 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 anytwang or drawl, like some of the colonial girls.”

“Oh! at She-oak Flat. There was a State schoolthere, and mother kept us at it pretty regular, rain orshine, no staying at home, whatever the weather waslike 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 Ishall 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. Ibegin to think the seaside’s overrated; but I musttake another walk, or the landlord will think I don’tdo his dinner justice. What’s it to be?”

“Well, a turkey poult for one thing; the rest you’llsee 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, ifwe can.”

Upon this Mr. Blount put on his boots again; theyhad been splashed in the morning, and required drying.Crossing the creek upon a rustic bridge, which seemedto depend more upon a fallen tree than on any recognisedplan of engineering, he turned his steps up47stream, and faced the Alpine range. The afternoon,like the morning, was golden bright, though a hint offrost began to be felt in the clear keen air. The roadwas fairly good, and had been formed and macadamisedin needful places.

It lay between the rushing creek on one side,towards which there was a considerable drop, and theline of foot-hills on the other, leaving just room formeeting vehicles to pass one another, though it neededthe 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 theneighbourhood, while an occasional miner on his way tothe township of Bunjil emerged from an unfrequentedtrack and made towards, what was to him, the King’sHighway. Once he heard the tinkling of bells, whensuddenly there came round a corner a train of thirty orforty pack-horses, with all manner of sacks and bags,and even boxes on their backs. There were a fewmules also in the drove, to whom was accorded theprivilege of leadership, as on any block or halt takingplace, they pushed their way to the front, and set offup or down the track with decision, as if better instructedthan the rank and file.

“Ha! ‘Bell-horses, bell-horses, what time o’ day?One o’clock, two o’clock, three and away,’ as weused to say at school. Puts one in mind ofDevonshire,” murmured the tourist. “Many a kegof smuggled spirits was carried on the backs of thepackers, with their bells. I daresay an occasionalbreach of custom-house regulations has occurrednow and then if the truth were told. I wouldn’tmind being quartered here at all. It’s a droll48world!” Mr. Blount’s rambles and reveries came toan end half an hour after sunset, which just lefthim time to get back to his hostelry, make somechange for dinner, and toast himself before the fire, inanticipation of the arrival of his guest. The Sergeantarrived with military punctuality, a few minutesbefore the hour, having donned for the occasion awell-worn, well-brushed uniform, in which he lookedlike a “non-com.” recommended for the VictoriaCross.

He greeted Sheila cordially and expressed a favourableopinion as to her growth, and development, sinceshe used to play hockey and cricket with the boys atShe-oak Flat. “And right weel did she play,” hecontinued, addressing himself to his entertainer, “shewon the half-mile race too, against all comers, didn’tyou, Sheila?”

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

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

The girl shook her head at him, her dark, grey eyesbright 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, lookingafter her admiringly, “and as guid as she’s bonnie.The men and women that are reared among thesehills are about the finest people the land turns out!The women are aye the best, it’s a pity the lads are49not always sae weel guided. If there was a Hielandregiment here to draft some of thae lang-leggit ladsinto ilka year, it would be the making of the haillcountryside.”

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

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

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

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 theway, an I wouldn’t swear he didn’t save my life, comingover that Razor-back pinch, on the Divide, as hecalled 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 thehead of the Sturt to the Lower Narran, besides themountain gold diggings. I’m going to see one ofthem, with him, when he comes to-morrow. There’snothing strange about that, is there?”

50“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 withthe 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. Thefish represented by a Murray cod, about five poundweight, truly excellent. The turkey poult, like mostcountry-bred birds, incomparably plump and tender,was roasted to a turn. The other adjuncts in strictkeeping with the pièce de résistance.

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

“I shall have to take to a decanter of toast andwater, coloured to look like sherry. This ‘What’llyou have, Boss?’ business, is getting too hot for melately, and the men don’t like to see you afraid totaste 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 Habanasbeing lighted the conversation grew more intimate,and bordering on the confidential. The Sergeant wasprevailed upon to mix a tumbler of toddy, the nightbeing cold, and the landlord, whose tongue had beenpreviously loosened, among the choice spirits in the51second dining-room, incited the Sergeant to give thecompany 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 tomake a fire for fear of giving away where his campwas.”

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

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

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

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

“Then you think he was innocent?”

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

“What sentence did he get?”

“Five years’ imprisonment—wi’ hard labour. But52he didna sairve it. He flitted frae the hulk Successwhere they sent him after he nigh killed WarderBracker. He was a dour man and a cruel; he’d madehis boast that he’d ‘break’ Trevanion, as he calledit, because he couldna get him to knuckle doon to himlike ither convicts, puir craters! So he worked himharder and harder—complained o’ him for insolence—gothim to the dark cell—once and again insultedhim when there was nae ither body to hear—and oneday gave him a kick, joost as he’d been a dog in hisroad.

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

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

“He’d have got ‘life,’ or all the same twentyyears’ gaol; but Bracker had been had up for crueltyto prisoners in another gaol before, and Mr. Melrosethe Comptroller and the Visiting Justice were deadagainst a’ kinds o’ oppression, so they ordered athorough inquiry. Some of the prisoners sworethey’d seen Bracker knocking Trevanion about.He’d been ‘dark-celled’ for weeks on bread andwater. When he came out he could hardly stand up.They’d heard him swear at Trevanion and call him aloafing impostor—and other names. The evidence53went clear against him. Mr. McAlpine said Brackerought to have had a year in gaol himself, and recommendedhis dismissal. So he left the service, and agood thing too. I’m no sayin’ that some of theconvicts o’ the early fifties were not desperate deevils,as ever stretched halter. But they were paying fortheir ineequities—a high price too, when they’re lockitup night and day, working the whiles with airnchains on their limbs. And they that would makethat lot harder and heavier, had hearts like the nethermillstane.”

“What became of Trevanion, after all?”

“He was sent to the hulk Success. No greatrelief, ane would think. But it was better than stonewalls. He had the sea and the sky around him dayand night. It made a new man of him, they say.And before the year was oot (he had plentymoney, ye see), he dropped into a boat through theport hole, one dark night, just before the awfulleststorm ye ever saw. Horses were waitin’ on him nextday, and ye’ll no hinder him frae winning to the NewRush at Tin Pot Flat Omeo, where he worked as aminer and prospector, for twa year and mair, underthe name of ‘Ballarat Harry.’”

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

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

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

“Because he was deid, puir laddie! We pulled54him up from a shaft saxty feet deep, wi’ a bulletthrough him, and his head split with an axe. It wasKate Lawless that found him—her husband, LarryTrevenna and the murdering spawn o’ hell, Calebco*ke, had slain him for his gold—and it may be forither reasons.”

“Good God! what a tragedy! Did the scoundrelsescape?”

“co*ke did by turning King’s evidence. ButTrevenna’s wife rode near a hundred miles on end togive Dayrell the office. He ran Trevenna down inMelbourne, just as he had taken his passage toEngland under a false name. He was found guilty,and hanged.”

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

“Weel, aweel, I’ll no deny the case was what maybe tairmed compleecated—sair mixed up. LanceTrevanion had been her sweetheart, and when shejaloused, owing to Dayrell’s wiles, that he hadthrown her over, she just gave the weight o’ herevidence against him, on his trial for having a stolenhorse 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 onhim, 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 gothim frae the hulk.”

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

“Just Lance, and nae ither. She was true as steel,55and never ceased working for him night and day tillshe got a warder in the hulk weel bribit, and persuadittwa gentlemen that lived in Fishermen’s Bendby wild-fowling to tak’ him awa’ in their dinghy andfind a guide and twa horses that brought him toOmeo. A wild, uncanny spot it was then, I warrantye. Then the young lady, his cousin that came fraeEngland to marry him—”

“What do I hear, Sergeant? Another woman inlove with the ill-fated hero; that makes three—inlove with the same man at the same time. It soundsincredible. 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,” quoththe Sergeant impressively. “Either of the Lawlessgirls would have died for him—and gloried in it.Kate, that was his ruin, wild and undeesciplined as shewas, but for the poison that Dayrell insteeled intoher, wad ha’ laid her head on the block to save his.Puir Tessie did die for him, as ye may ca’ it, for shewent into Melbourne Hospital when the fever was atit* fiercest, and cried that they should give her thewarst cases. The puir sick diggers and sailors calledher ‘The Angel of the Fever Ward,’ and there shewrought, and wrought, day after day, and night afternight, until she catchit it hersel’, and so the end came.The doctors and the ither attendants said she hadnathe strength to strive against it.”

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

“She wouldn’t marry him,” said the Sergeant.“She kenned he was promised to his cousin, a greatleddy frae the auld country, who came all the way to56Australia to find him, and she said he must keep histroth.”

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

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

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

“It was God’s judgment upon the shedding ofinnocent blood,” said the Sergeant solemnly; “they’rein their graves, the haill company, the betrayer andthe 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 riveroaks, and a man may weel fancy he hears whisperings,and voices of the deid in the midnight blast. I’m atyour sairvice ony day before ye leave Bunjil, but I’llbe makin’ tracks the noo, wi’ your permeession, sir,and my thanks to ye. Gude nicht!”

The veteran had made up his mind, and wrappedin a horseman’s cloak such as the paternal Governmentof Victoria still serves out to the MountedPolice Force, he marched forth into the night. Thelandlord parted from him on the verandah, whileBlount walked up and down for an hour, watching astorm-cloud whelming in gathering gloom the dimlyoutlined range, until the rain fell with tropical volumenecessitating a retreat to the parlour, where the logsstill sent out a grateful warmth. “The old man must58have missed that downpour,” he said. “He was wiseto depart in good time.”

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

Pursuant to his promise, the Sergeant arrived tolunch at the Bunjil Hotel on the day specified. Hedid not make demand for the groom, but riding intothe yard, opened the stable door and put up hisancient steed, slipping the bridle back over his ears,however, but leaving it ready to be replaced at shortnotice.

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

“You’ve got some fresh horses here,” said theSergeant, his keen eye resting on three well-conditionednags at one end of the row of stalls; “areye gaun to have races—the Bunjil Town Plate andPublican’s Purse—and are the lads that own thae flyerscome to tak’ pairt? Yon grey’s a steeplechaser, byhis looks, and the two bays are good enough forFlemington.”

The landlord fidgeted a little before answering.

“They’re some digging chaps that have a camp atBack Creek. They buy their beef from ‘Little-River-Jack,’59and he takes their gold at a price. They do abit of trade in brumbie-shooting now and then, thehides sell well and the horse-hair—I’m told. Betweenthat and digging they knock out a fair living.”

“Nae doot,” replied the Sergeant, slowly andoracularly. “If there’s aught to be won by a guidhorse and a bould rider, these are the men that’ll nolose it for want of a sweater or twa. What nameshave they?” And here the old man fixed his eyesearchingly on the host.

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

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

“Ay!” said the Sergeant, lunch being clearedaway, and both men sitting before the replenishedfire, which the proximity of Bunjil to the snow line,as well as the frost of the night before, renderedgrateful, “it’s e’en a tale of vengeance long delayed,but the price of bluid was paid—ay, and mair thanpaid, when the hour cam’, and the man. I wasstationed at Omeo, I mind weel, years after LarryTrevenna was hangit for the crime, as well he desairved.If one had misdooted the words of Holy Writ, therewas the confirmation plain for a’ men to see. ‘Besure thy sin will find thee out.’ They were halfbrithers, it was weel kenned, word came frae hame to60that effect, and little thought the author of their beingthat the bairn o’ shame, the offspring of the recklessdays of wild, ungoverned youth, was born to slay theheir of his ancient house, in a far land; to die by thehangman’s cord, amid the curses of even that strangecrew amang whom his life was spent. But he wasfain to ‘dree his weird,’ as in auld Scottish fashionwe say; all men must fulfil their appointed destiny.It’s a hard law maybe, and I canna agree with oorPresbyterian elders, that ae man is foredoomed to sinand shame, the tither to wealth and honours, and thatneither can escape the lot prepared for him frae thefoundation of the warld! But whiles, when ye see thehaill draama played oot, and a meestery made clear,the maist careless unbeliever must acknowledgethat Heaven’s justice is done even in this warld o’appairent contradeections. Weel, aweel, I’m gey andloth to come to the tale deed o’ bluid, o’ the fearsomeeend. Things had settled doon at Omeo after theevents ye ken o’. There was a wheen duffing andhorse-stealing to contend wi’! But siccan lifting ofkye will there be, amang these mountains and glens,I had a’maist said till the Day of Judgment—but noto be profane, the country was quieter than it hadbeen for years, when word came to heidquarters thatNed Lawless had broken gaol; had been seen makin’across by Talbingo to the table-land, aboot LongPlain and Lobb’s Hole. There was an ‘auld gun’ (aswe ca’ confairmed creeminals) in the lock-up, as thenews came; a Monaro native, and haun and glovewith a’ the moss-troopers and reivers south of theSnowy River.

“‘D’ye know where Inspector Dayrell is now,61Sergeant?’ says he, quite free and pleasant. He wasonly in for ‘unlawfully using’—a maitter o’ six months’gaol at the warst.

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

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

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

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

“‘Is a step in the service worth a man’s life?You tell him from me, Monaro Joe, that if Ned Lawlessisn’t dead or taken within a month, his life’snot 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 pasthim, but he’s helpless, wantin’ mates. co*ke’s a cripplewith the rheumatics. Kate’s awa, naebody kenswhere.’

“‘Ye’re a good offisher, Sergeant,’ says he, ‘butyou don’t know everything. You want a year’sduffing near Lobb’s Hole to sharpen you up. Butif I lay you on to something, will you get theBeak to let me down easy about this sweatingracket, a bloomin’ moke, worth about two notes! Inever offered him for sale, the police know that. Arotten screw, or I shouldn’t have been overhauled by62that new chum Irish trooper. I was ashamed ofmyself, I raly was.’

“‘If ye give information of value to the depairtmentas 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 formonths, under another name. They say she’s off herhead at times, never been right since she lost herchild.’

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

“‘Well, the time Kate rode to White Rock andstarted Dayrell after Larry Trevenna, just as he wasgoin’ to clear out for the old country, passin’ hisselfoff for Lance (that was a caper, wasn’t it?), she lefther boy with the stockrider’s young wife at RunningCreek. The girl (she was a new chum Paddy) wasaway for a bit, hangin’ out clothes or somethin’; thepoor 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 littleroan mare, and never spoke till after the Coronercome and orders it to be buried.’

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

“‘You remember Dick?—the young brother—hethat was left behind when they cleared for Balooka—he’sa man grown, this years and years; well, shelives with him. And they say she goes to the shaftevery day that Lance was hauled out from, to kneeldown and pray. What for, God only knows. Dick’s63quiet, but dangerous; he’s the best rider and trackerfrom Dargo High Plain to Bourke, and that’s abig word.’

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

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

“For a week, and the week after that, the wireswere going all day and half the nicht. Every policestation on the border of New South Wales andVictoria from Monaro to Murray Downs was noticedto look up their black tracker, and have their besthorses ready. As for Dayrell, they couldna warnhim that the avengers o’ bluid, as nae doot they heldthemselves to be, were on his trail. He was richtawa amang the ‘snaw leases,’ (as they ca’d them—acountry only habitable by man or beast frae latespring to early autumn;) on the trail o’ a gang o’horse and cattle thieves that had defied the police ofthree colonies. They had left a record in Queenslandbefore they crossed the New South Walesborder.

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

“Ay, they were a dour gang—fightin’ to thedeath. So Dayrell took five of his best men andvolunteered for the capture. ‘He was getting rusty,’64he said, ‘but would break up this gang or theyshould have his scalp.’ These were the very wordshe 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 ‘TinPot’ as he rode through the Flat at the head of histroopers, and cursed him with deleeberate maleegnityuntil they were out of sight. ‘Ride on, you bloodydog!’ he said—grinding his teeth—‘you won’t reignmuch longer now that Ned and I can work togetheragain, and we have your tracks. I know every footof the road you’re bound to travel now—once you’reas far as Merrigal there’s no get away between SnowyCreek and the Jibbo. It was our rotten luck the daywe first set eyes on you. We were not such a badcrowd if we’d been let alone. Tessie had half persuadedNed to drop the cross work after we got shutof the Balooka horses. The day afore he told mehe’d two minds to let ’em go on the road. Then hecouldn’t have been pulled for more than illegal using,which isn’t felony. But you must come along andspoil everything. Lance was copped, as innocentas a child: Ned gets a stretch—it was his deathsentence. I know what it’s turned him into. Kate’sgone mad, what with losin’ the kid—a fine little chap,so he was (I cried when I heard of it)! Larry’s hanged—servehim right.

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

65“He didna ken Dick Lawless again in his digger’sdress, and there were few that he didna remembereither, if it was ten years after. So he joost gaedalang blithe and gay. The sun was abune the fogthat aye hangs o’er the flat till midday, or maybedisna lift at a’ like a Highland mist. He touchedhis horse’s rein, and the gey, weel-trained beastiegave a dance like, and shook his heid, till bit andcurb chain jingled again.

“Ah! me, these things are fearsome at the doingand but little better in the telling. He wadna haebeen sae blithe had he seen anither face that peeredo’er the shaft just as he turned at the angle of theroad and struck into a canter with his troopers ahinthim. It was the face of a haggard, clean-shaved man,with hair cut close to the head, and a wild, desperatelook like a hunted beast—only one miner on the fieldknew who the strange man was, and he would neverhave kent him, but for hearin’ a whisper the nightbefore of a ‘cross cove’ having come late at night to‘Mrs. Jones’s’ tent.

“Dead beat and half starved to boot was he, butword went round the little goldfield that it was NedLawless, the famous horse and cattle ‘duffer’ who’dbeen 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-dirtcart-horses at Ballarat, they certainly had no love, but,as for layin’ the police on the hunted wretch, eventhough the reward was tempting, not a man, workingas they were on a poor field, but would have scornedthe action, and been vara unceevil to him that suggested66it. No! that was the business of the police—theywere paid for it—let them run him down or anyother poor devil that was ‘wanted,’ but as for helpingthem by so much as raising a finger, it was not intheir line.

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

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

“They were ready for any de’il’s wark, ye maybelieve,” said the old man, impressively, “and, as Iheard frae one that daurna speak me false, they wereno 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 twabest horses. He was a man that had good anes, wadwin races at sma’ townships.

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

“They loaded up a packhorse with rations, more bytoken a rug and twa pairs blankets. The youngerman told them the horses wad maybe stray back.He paid for the rations and the blankets, but said67they must have them. It was a lonely place. Thewoman sat on her horse, and wadna come ben, thoughthey asked her to have a cup of tea. She shook herhead; they couldna see her face for a thick veilshe wore.

“This information didna come in for some dayslater, when the man won hame; the women wereafraid to leave the place, ye may weel believe. Theraiders rode hard, maistly at nicht, keepit aff the mainroad, 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; ifthey were off it for a while, they could always ‘cut’it again. They had telegraphs plenty (bush anes) butthere were nane to warn Dayrell o’ them that thirstedfor his life-bluid, and were following on through thesnaw, like the wolves on a Russian steppe, as thebuiks tell us. He was joost ‘fey,’ in the high spiritsthat foretell death or misfortune, as we Hielandersbelieve. He had the chance o’ a capture that wouldring through three colonies. It did that, but no inthe way he expeckit.

“He heard tell frae a bushman, a brither o’ the manthat the gang shot before he had time to do morethan threaten to ‘give them away,’ that they were tobe at the ‘Ghost Camp’ aboot the twentieth o’ themonth. An auld fastness this, at the edge o’ broken,mountainous country, where the wild blacks cam’ tohide after killing cattle or robbing huts, when Queenslandwas first ta’en up by squatters. A place no thateasy to ride to, maist deeficult to discover, amang thegreat mountain forests o’ the border. Battles had68there been, between the black police and the wildnative tribes that were strong and bold in the pioneerdays, no kenning, puir bodies, the strength o’ ceevilisedman. It was there they halted after the massacre ofWild Honey Bank, where they killed after nightfa’the haill family, men and women, wives and weans, anawfu’ spectacle they were as they lay deid in the hotsun, unshaded, uncovered. I was tauld it by a man,was ane of the pairty that helped bury them. Thepursuers slew and spared not. Wha shall judgethem after the fearsome sights they saw? There’sbut few of that tribe left alive, and sma’ wonder.

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

“Weel, aweel! I’m just daundering on toward theeend, the sair, sorrowfu’ eending o’ a fearsome tale. Thetwa pairties, that wad be the Queensland gang, andthe Sydney-side lot, were nigh hand to the ‘GhostCamp’ aboot the same time.

“That’s sayin’ the three Lawless bodies had riddennight and day—picking up fresh horses for the men,as they came along. Kate rode the roan pony mareall through, a grand little crater she was, and weelshe earned her name ‘Wallaby,’ sae ca’ed after the69kangaroo beastie that wad hop frae rock to rock, likeony goat o’ the cliffs.

“The Inspector reckoned that Bradfield’s gang wadshow up in the gloaming o’ the appointed day. Nokenning that they had been betrayed, they wad campcareless like. Dayrell’s tracker creepit oot and layahint a rock while they unsaiddled and turned loosetheir horses. Bradfield he knew—a tall powerfu’chiel, with a big beard, a Sydney-side native, and ifhe wasna the best bushman in Queensland, he wasnathat 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 inthem; they made a fire—not a black fellow’s one—andtalked and laughed and swore, as they didna carewha might hear them.

“So far, a’ went weel. Dayrell’s party lay close—madeno fire—prepared to deleever attack at dawn,when dootless Bradfield’s men wad be asleep or allunsuspeecious. But were they? By no manner ofmeans. The twa Lawless brithers and Kate had wonto Wandong Creek i’ the nicht—Ned and Kate hadlain them doon, joost dead beat and like to dee wi’sheer exhaustion. Dick stowed the horse away in thegulley. It’s deep, and amaist covered in wi’ trees andfern. Then being a tireless crater and in hard workand training, he thocht he would tak’ a wee bit lookoot, to make a’ safe. It was weel thocht on—thoughnot for the police party. It wasna lang ere heheard a horse whinnie. Not the nicher o’ a brumbie,either. Then cam’ the tramp o’ anither and the jingleo’ a hobble chain. Could it be the police? He wouldsoon know. Creeping frae tree to tree, he came on70the mob. Six riding horses, and two ‘packers’ all withthe Crown brand on. Dayrell’s dark chestnut, heknew him again. And a light bay with two whitehind fetlocks. Police horses all, well fed and groomed.Now where was the camp?

“Keeping wide and crawling from log to log, like anight-wandering crater o’ the forest, he thought hesaw a glimmer o’ a fire—not a small one either.What d—d fool had lighted that, with a hot trail soclose? So he walkit, ye ken, till what suld ail himto come ram-sham on six sleeping men. Police inplain 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 undertheir hands, their rifles handy ye ken. If analarm was given it might spoil the whole plan. Withtwo other rifles, not counting Kate (and she was afair shot at short range), they might turn the tableson Dayrell and his blasted police.

“Keen and ready witted as are the de’il’s bairns attheir master’s wark, Dick Lawless wasna lang inconseedering the pairt he was to play. Crawling onhands and knees, he got as near Bradfield as waswise like without awaking him. He then gave a lowwhistle, such as stockriders give to tell of cattle insight.

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

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

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

71“‘I wouldn’t mind either, Jim. But all that’s behindus now—worse luck! Where do you think Dayrellis? Give it up? D’ye see that black ridge, withthree pines on it? Well, he’s there, waiting for daylight.He’s not fool to make a fire you can see milesoff. You’ve nearly been had, Jim. He came up onpurpose 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 inWandong Creek. Kate’s goin’ dotty now, poor thing,but she would come with us. Thinks she’ll see thelast of Dayrell.’

“‘Strikes me it’s a case of “Just before the battle,mother,”’ said Bradfield. ‘I’ll wake these chaps. Wemust 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, whoawoke and touched the next. Without a spoken wordthe five men were aroused.

“‘Now, chaps!’ said the leader, in low but distincttones, ‘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 nighabout equal members, not countin’ Kate, but thesurprise 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 wedon’t know he’s here. We’ll take cover, and as soonas he shows out to surprise us, we roll into him. Dickhere, Ned and Kate, go at him from Wandong Creek72side. That’ll put the stuns on him. Ned and Dick, bothdead shots, will account for Dayrell. If he goes downthe other traps won’t stand long. Dick, you’ll have asnack? No? Then, so long.’

“The faint line of clearer sky was slowly makingitself veesible in the east as Dayrell at the head of histroopers moved towards Bradfield’s camp. The blacktracker had showed him the position. The glimmeringfire did the rest. ‘Now for a rush, men, we’llcatch them asleep.’ Saddles and swags were strewnaround the fire, billy and frying-pan were there, not aman to be seen. But from five rifles at short rangecame 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 WandongCreek timber, on the left flank of the police. Confusedat finding themselves between two fires, theirleader wounded—for Dayrell’s right arm still hunguseless—the troopers, after a second ineffectual volley,wavered. Just then three figures appeared, standingon a rock which ran crossways to the narrowoutlet by which alone could the police party mak’retreat.

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

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

“‘And that’s Ned, or his ghost,’ said another. ‘I73thought he was safe in Ballarat Gaol. How the h—ldid they get here?’

“As he spoke, the two men on the rock took deliberateaim and fired, the Inspector in return firing hisrevolver with the left hand.

“The clean-shaved man dropped dead, wi’ a bulletthrough his head; Dayrell staggered for a few secondsand making an attempt to recover himself, sank to theearth. The woman sprang down from the rock, andrushing across the line of fire raised the dying man’shead from the ground and gazed into his face, inwhich 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 hewas hunting down. I told you you’d repent it, if youdidn’t let us alone. And now my words have cometrue; the Lawless family gang’s broke up, but thebloodhound hasn’t much life in him neither. I sha’n’tlast the year out, the old lot’s close up dead and donefor, 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 didhim cruel wrong, and but for you, you, FrancisDayrell, I’d never have sworn a word to harm him.It’s driven me mad—mad! do you hear, FrankDayrell? Good-bye, till we meet in—in—the otherplace!’

“The firing was o’er, Dick Lawless now showed himselfbetween the rock and the clear space where lay thedead trooper and Dayrell. The Inspector raised himselfon one arm and with the last glimmer o’licht in74his glazing e’en, looked full in the woman’s face, as hedrawled out the words, ‘Au revoir! Kate, pleasantjourney, inner circle of mine with the left, eh?’ Thelight faded out of his eyes with the last word, andfalling back, he was dead when his head touched theground. The woman gazed for one moment on thestill face; then in obedience to a sign from herbrother, walkit over to him, and, mounting theirhorses, they rode away into the forest thegither. Thepolice couldna but see they were ootnummered. Theirleader and one trooper dead; anither was badlywounded. Four men—one barely able to sit on a horse—wereno match for six.

“‘See here, men,’ said Bradfield, a tall, powerfulnative chiel wi’ a black beard, a grand bushman,too; ‘this here battle’s over, you’re euchred, yourboss expected to catch us on the hop, and he’s beentook himself. He was a game chap, and we don’towe him no grudge, nor you either, though he wenta bit out of his way in leavin’ his own district tocollar another officer’s game. He didn’t reckonon Ned and Dick Lawless, and it’s them thatknocked over his wicket. A fair fight’s righto,but it don’t do even for a policeman to get hisselfdisliked.’

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

“‘All right, Jack, there’s no hurry. What’s to bedone 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 thesecond in command, ‘we’ll take away ours. Where’s75the nearest township, or graveyard, if it comes tothat?’

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

“‘All right, you’ve got your packers; strap on theInspector, and that Goulburn native, and let ’embe buried decent. We’re not black fellows. We’llcarry our man, and bury him first chance. Nedmust stay where he is—he’s better there than underthe gaol yard. Like as not Dick and Kate’ll comeback to him. They’ve not gone far. Well, you’dbetter load, and clear—we’ll give you a lift, as you’reshort handed. Don’t sing a bigger song than youcan help. Give us a day’s law, and then we don’tcare what you do. We haven’t acted so bad toyou.’

“‘No, by George, you haven’t,’ said the seniorconstable, ‘except killin’ the two of us, and youcouldn’t help that, seein’ you was fightin’ for yourlives, as the sayin’ is.’

“So the enemies (as I’m tauld) helped to raise thefallen men, and fasten them on their horses. It wasa sad-looking troop, as they moved off, with theirdead legs tied underneath, and at the knees, to thesaddles, 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 Dayrellthat 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, carryingwith them their dead and wounded, until a convenient76burial place was reached. This duty completed, theyseparated, to meet in the ‘Never Never Country,’between Burke Town and ‘The Gulf,’ a ‘strange,vain land’ (as one has written) where ‘night is evenas the day,’ and the decalogue is no that sariouslyregairded, as in longer settled communities.

“Although the tither ootlaws wadna chairge themselveswith Ned Lawless’ funeral, it is no’ to beinfaired that he was buried without a prayer, or thattears werena shed o’er his lonely unhallowed grave.As had been surmeesed, Kate and the youngerbrother returned after nightfall.

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

“Tribe had met tribe in the old, old days, and withspear-thrust, nulla nulla and boomerang, had foughtoot their conflicts, waged for pride, ambition orrevenge. And always to the bitter end! Thencame the white invader, with his iron axes, fineclothes and magical weapons, which slew before theytouched. The sheep and cattle, such delicate morselsbut which except a price was paid, too often that o’bluid—they dared na’ take. Battles then were foughtin which their bravest warriors fell; or if by chancethey slew stockrider or shepherd, a sair harryin’ o’the tribe followed.

“Those days were past; and now, how strange tothe elders of the tribe, the white strangers foughtamang themselves, wounding, killing, and carryingaway captive their brithers in colour and speech.77These things were hard to understand. The raysof the lately risen moon lit up the sombre gladesof the battlefield as a man and woman rode in fraethe forest track, and tied up their horses. Theycame to the rock where the dead man lay. He hadfallen back when Dayrell’s bullet pierced his brain,and was lying with upturned face and dreadfulstaring eyes. The woman knelt by his side, andwhile she closed them, said, ‘Poor old Ned! I neverthought to lay you out in a place like this. God’scurse on them that drove you to it; but he’s gonethat we have to thank for our ruin; that debt’s paid,anyhow! You were always a soft-hearted chap, andnone of us, when we were little, had a hard timewith you. Not like some brothers, who’d knockabout the poor kiddies as if they were dingo pups.’

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

“‘My God!’ cried the woman, passionately; ‘don’ttalk of it any more. I shall scream out directly, andgo more off my head than I am now, and that’s badenough. To think of him that used to come out of amorning so fresh and jolly, well dressed, and alwayswith 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 ofstone—’

“‘It’s too late now, Kate, too late; but we’d better78have taken Tessie’s warning and started a squaretrade, carrying or something, when the digging brokeout,’ said the man. ‘We were all strong and full ofgo. I could do a man’s work, young as I was; themoney would have run into our pockets—yes, regularrun in—if we’d made a square start and stuck to it.Look at Benson and Warner, see where they arenow! They couldn’t read and write neither, no morethan us. Then there was that infernal LarryTrevenna. Poor Lance! I was sorry for him. Theydid us all the harm in the world; Larry with hisgambling ways, and Lance setting you up to thinkyou were good enough to marry him, and puttingDayrell’s back up agen the family. Our luck wasdead out from start to finish, and now they’re all goneexcept 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 sawthem when I went to the spring for a drink.’

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

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

“The woman took the short mining shovel, and withfeverish energy cleared the narrow shaft as often asrequired. An hour’s work showed a cavity of thenecessary width and depth, wherein the brother andsister laid the wasted body of the eldest son of thefamily—once its pride as the best horseman, shearer,reaper, cricketer, stockrider, and all-round athlete ofthe highland district of New South Wales. The pityof it, when misdirected energies hurry the men along79the fiend’s highway, leading to a felon’s doom, adishonoured grave!

“The pity of it! The man now lowered into therude sepulchre, amid that ill-omened, blood-stainedwild, might, under happier circ*mstances, and at alater day, have been receiving the plaudits of hiscountrymen, the thanks of his Sovereign, as the fearless,resourceful scout, whose watchful eye had saveda squadron, or whose stubborn courage had helped toblock an advance until the reinforcement came up.

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

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

The far back, and by no means busy township ofDumbool was, if not enlivened, aroused from itsnormal apathy (when a race meeting, or a shearer’scarouse was not in full operation), by the return of aparty of mounted police. The leading inhabitants,always well informed in such matters, had receivednotice of them passing through the district, headingtowards the border. The township was not so insignificantor the two hotels so unimportant, as not toprovide “Our Own Correspondent” of the WeeklyNewsletter. This gentleman, who was RabbitInspector, Acting Clerk of the Bench, Coroner, and80Honorary Magistrate, held all the minor appointments,not incompatible with the ends of justice, andthe dignity of the Post Office, of which he was thepresent acting head, the Government Official of thebranch being away on leave. He performed thesevarious duties fairly well, delegating the Postal workto the leading storekeeper, and the Bench work to aneighbouring squatter, who, coached by the seniorconstable, was capable of getting through a committalwithout blundering. But the work of Special Correspondentwas the one which he really enjoyed, and onwhich he chiefly prided himself.

He had often murmured at the poverty of thejournalistic resources of his surroundings, whichafforded no field for literary ability. Even whenNature seemed kindly disposed, by reason of abnormalconditions, he was restricted in efforts to improve theoccasion by the vigorously expressed local censorshipof the pastoralists. Did he draw a harrowing pictureof the stricken waste, denuded of pasture, and strewnwith dead and dying flocks, and herds, every one was“down on him,” as he expressed it, for taking awaythe character of the district. Did he dilate on the vastprairies waving with luxuriant herbage, after a phenomenalrainfall, he was abused as “inviting everyblooming free-selector in the colony to come out andmake a chess-board of their runs, directly they had alittle grass.” There was no pleasing them. Even theeditor of the Weekly Clarion, mindful of influentialsubscribers, had admonished him to be careful in goodseasons, as well as bad.

He was at his wits’ end, between the agriculturalScylla, and the pastoral Charybdis, so to speak. It81may be imagined with what gratitude he hailed the“Tragedy of Ghost Camp,” as his headline describedit, in which he was likely to offend nobody exceptingthe Police Department, for whose feelings his publichad no great consideration.

Extract from the Weekly Newsletter and DownRiver Advertiser.

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

“We had received information of the passing ofInspector Francis Dayrell, with a party of pickedtroopers, on a back track, running parallel to ourmain stock route. They carried a light camp equipment,not halting at stations or townships andapparently desirous to avoid observation. We havein another place expressed our disapproval of thispractice, holding that the ends of justice are betterserved by forwarding information to the local press.Had that been done in the present case, the fatal finalemight have been averted.

“Be that as it may, the cortège that was descriedapproaching our principal street at an early hour thismorning, presented a very different appearance fromthat of the well-accoutred police party that our informantnoticed but two days earlier heading for the broken82mountainous country at the head of the WandongCreek. The troopers detailed for this dangerousservice were led by that well-known, and, we may say,dreaded police officer, the late Inspector FrancisDayrell, the greatest daredevil, the most determinedofficer of the Victorian Mounted Police.

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

“The trooper who rode in front led InspectorDayrell’s well-known charger, a matchless hackney,perfect in the manège in which all troop horses aretrained. The inspector was badly wounded andnearly insensible, from the manner in which he bowedhimself on the horse’s neck, while he swayed helplesslyin the saddle. The second trooper also led ahorse on which was a wounded man. Behind rodetwo men, one evidently so badly hurt, that he sat hishorse with difficulty.

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

“‘Police had a brush with Bradfield’s gang fromQueensland, as they thought they were going to take.Some other chaps had joined them along with DickLawless, and double-banked ’em. Dayrell’s killed,and a trooper—they’re the two first; Doolan’s83wounded bad. The Sergeant wants a room to putthe 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 thisstatement.

“In a few minutes the police arrived at the Hotel,where they were met by Mr. Clarkson, J.P., whoobligingly undertook all necessary arrangements.The Inspector and the dead trooper were laid sideby side in the best bedroom, the landlord resentinga suggestion to place the corpses in an outhouse—‘He’dhave had the best room in the house if he wasalive. He always paid like a prince, and I’m notgoing to treat him disrespectful now he’s been killedin the discharge of his duty. Them as don’t careabout sleeping there after him and poor MickDonnelly, may go somewheres else. They’ll be burieddecent from my house, anyway.’

“The Coroner impanelled a jury without unnecessarydelay; and after the Sergeant and his men hadnecessary rest and refreshment, that official elicitedevidence which enabled him to record a verdict of‘Wilful murder against Edward James Bradfield andRichard Lawless in the cases of Inspector FrancisDayrell of the Victorian Mounted Police Force, andtrooper Michael Joseph Donnelly, then and therelying dead.’ This formality concluded, preparationswere made for the funeral to take place next morningin the graveyard appertaining to the township, whichalready held a number of occupants, large inproportion to the population.

“Word had been sent to the neighbouring stations,so that by noon—the hour appointed—nearly as large84a concourse as at the annual race meeting hadassembled. There being no resident clergyman, theservice was read over both men by the Coroner, who,by the way in which he performed the duty, showedthat he was not new to this sad ceremony. Wehave repeatedly urged upon the Government thenecessity of providing increased police protection forthis important and scantily defended district. Maywe trust now that local wants will be more promptlyattended to.

“The last offices being paid to the dead thesurviving troopers rode slowly away leading the sparehorses, and bearing the arms and effects of theircomrades with them.

“Kate Lawless and her brother had disappeared.Whether they had made for the farthest out settleddistricts of Queensland, or had found a hiding placenearer home, was not known, though rumours toeither 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 byhis hand.

“And, as the sun’s low, and we’ve, I winna saywasted the afternoon—maybe expended wad be amair wise-like expression—I’ll just say good e’en toyou, gentlemen, and gae me ways hame. The nicht’sfor frost, I’m thinkin’,” and so saying, the worthySergeant declining further refreshment marched offalong the meadow.

An early breakfast next morning, in fact, beforethe frost was off the ground, awaited Mr. Blount. In85some inns it would have been a comfortless repast;a half-lighted fire struggling against a pile of dampwood, and producing more smoke than heat; agrumbling man cook, not too clean of aspect, whor*quired to know “why the blank people wantedtheir grub cooked by candlelight,” and so on—“he’dsee ’em blanked first, if there was any more of thisbloomin’ rot.” Such reflections the guest has beenfavoured with, in the “good old days,” before thegold had settled down to a reasonable basis of supplyand demand, and the labour question—as it didsubsequently—had regulated itself. Waiting, too,for half an hour longer than was necessary for yourhackney to eat his oats.

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

Sheila had been up and about long before daylight.She had consulted the favoured guest throughhis chamber door, as to which of the appetising listof viands he would prefer, and when the adventurousknight sallied forth in full war paint, he found a goodfire and a tempting meal awaiting him.

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

The girl looked at him earnestly for a moment ortwo without speaking, and then with an air of halfwarning, half disapproval, said, “Well—if you ask me,86sir, the cooking’s not the worst of it in those sort ofplaces, and I can’t see for my part why a gentlemanlike you wants going there at all. They’re very queerpeople at the head of the river, and they do say thatthe less you have to do with them the better.”

“But I suppose there are all sorts of queer charactersin this new country of yours. I didn’t come fromEngland to lead a feather-bed life. I’ve made up mymind to see the bush, the goldfields, and all the wildlife I could come across, and I suppose Mr. Little-River-Jackis about the cleverest guide I could have.”

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

“But, my dear girl, what is there to watch? Dohe and his friends steal cattle or rob miners of theirgold? Any highway business? Why can’t you speakout? I see you’re anxious lest I should get into ascrape; on account of my innocence, isn’t that it?And very kind of you it is. I won’t forget it, Ipromise you.”

“I can’t say any more,” said the girl, evidently confused.“But be a bit careful, for God’s sake, and don’ttake all you’re told for gospel;” after which deliveranceshe left the room abruptly and did not appear whenMr. Blount and his guide, both mounted, were movingoff. They were in high spirits, and the cob dancingwith eagerness to get away. As they left the mainroad at an angle, Blount looked back to the hotel towardsa window from which the girl was looking out.87Her features wore a grave and anxious expression,and she shook her head with an air, as it seemed tohim, of disapproval.

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

Throwing off all misgivings, and exhilarated by theloveliness of the weather, which in that locality alwayssucceeds a night of frost, he gave himself up to an unaffectedadmiration of the woodland scene. The sunnow nearly an hour high had dispelled the mists,which lay upon the river meadows, and brought downin glittering drops the frost jewels sparkling on everybush and branch.

The sky of brightest blue was absolutely cloudless,the air keen and bracing; wonderfully dry andstimulating. The grass waved amid their horses’ feet.The forest, entirely composed of evergreens, from thetallest eucalypt, a hundred feet to the first branch, tothe low-growing banksia, though partly sombre, wasyet relieved by an occasional cypress, or sterentia.The view was grand, and apparently illimitable, fromthe high tableland which they soon reached. Rangeafter range of snow-clad mountains reared their vastforms to the eastward, while beyond them again cameinto view a new and complete mountain world, inwhich companies of snow peaks and the shoulders ofyet loftier tiers of mountains were distinctly, if faintly,visible. What passes, what fastnesses, what well-nighundiscoverable hiding-places, Blount thought, mightnot be available amid these highlands for refugeesfrom justice—for the transaction of secret or illegalpractices!

88He was aroused from such a reverie by the cheeryvoice of his companion, who evidently was not mindedto enjoy the beauty of the morning, or the mysteriousexpanse of the landscape in silence. “Great countrythis, Mr. Blount!” he exclaimed, with patronisingappreciation. “Pity we haven’t a few more men andwomen to the square mile. There’s work and payin’occupation within sight”—here he waved his hand—“fora hundred years to come, if it was stocked theright way. Good soil, regular rainfall, timber, waterno end, a bit coldish in winter; but look at Scotland,and see the men and women it turns out! I’d like tobe Governor for ten years. What a place I’d makeof 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 noneof them to blame?”

“Haven’t we? We’ve too many by a dashedsight, and that’s the reason we can’t get on. Theycall them Members of Parliament here, and they donothing but talk, talk, talk.”

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

“Of course it is. And this is how it comes; there’salways a lot of fellers that like talking better thanwork. They palaver the real workers, who do all thegraft, and carry the load, and once they’re in Parliamentand get their six pound a week it’s good-bye tohonest work for the rest of their lives. It’s a dealeasier to reel out any kind of rot by the yard than it89is to make boots and shoes, or do carpentering, orblacksmith’s work.”

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

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

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

“Well, they’re allowed to take up too much landfor one thing. I wouldn’t give more than a hundredacres, if I had my way, to any selector,” said thisvigorous reformer. “The soil’s rich, the rainfall’scertain, and the water-supply’s everlastin’. What’swanted is labour—men and women, that means. It’llgrow anything, and if they’d keep to fruit, root crops,and artificial grasses, they could smother theirselveswith produce in a year or two. Irrigate besides.See that race? You can lead water anywhere youlike in this district.”

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

“It’s this way; a man with a couple of thousandacres can keep a flock of sheep. They don’t do extrawell, but they grow a fleece once a year, and whenwool’s a decent price the family can live on it—withthe help of poultry, eggs and bacon, and chops nowand then. It’s a poor life, and only just keeps them—handto mouth, as it were.”

90“Still, they’re independent.”

“Oh! independent enough—the ragged girls won’tgo out to service. The boys loaf about on horsebackand smoke half the time. If they had only a hundredacres or so, they couldn’t pretend to be squatters.The men would dig more and plough more, thegreater part of the area would be cultivated, theycould feed their cows in winter (which is long andcold in these parts), fatten pigs, have an orchard (lookat the apple-trees at the last place we passed), dothemselves real well, and have money in the bank aswell.”

“We must have a republic, and make you firstDictator, I see that. Now, where does this tremendousravine lead to?”

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

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said the traveller. “Howwild horses or any other travel about here, astonishesme. Where do they come from? There werenone in Australia when the first people came, Isuppose?”

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

“Do they do much harm?”

“Well, yes, a lot. They eat too much grass forone thing, and spoil more than they eat, gallopingabout. Then they run off the station horses,especially the mares. Once they join the wild91mob, 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 fetcha fairish price. Some men live by it. They maketrap yards, and get as many as a hundred at a time.The squatters shoot them now and again, and paymen to do it.”

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

The Wild Horse Gully, down which they wereproceeding at a slow and cautious pace, was atortuous and narrow pathway, hemmed in by ruggedprecipitous mountain sides. From its nature it wasimpracticable for wheeled vehicles, but the tracks ofhorses and cattle were recent and deeply indented.These his companion scrutinised with more thanordinary care. The horse tracks were in nearly allinstances those of unshod animals, but as he pointedout, there were two sets of recent imprints on thedamp red loam, of which the sharp edges and nailheads told of the blacksmith’s shop as plainly as if aprinted notice had been nailed to one of the adjacenttree trunks; also that a dozen heavy cattle had gonealong in front of them at rather a fast pace. Theselast had come in on a side track, their sliding traildown the face of the mountain showing plainly howthey had arrived, and, as nearly as possible, to theexperienced eye of one horseman, at what hour.

The day had been tedious, even monotonous, thepace necessarily slow; the chill air of evening wasbeginning to be felt, when the bushman, with a sigh92of relief, pointed to a thin wreath of smoke. On anopen, half-cleared spot, a hut built of horizontal logswas dimly visible; a narrow eager streamlet ran closeto the rude dwelling, while at their approach a pairof cattle dogs began to bark as they walked in amenacing manner towards the intruders.

“Down, Jerry! Down, Driver!” said the bushman,“that’ll do, you’re making row enough tofrighten all the cattle in the country.” By thistime the guardians of the outpost had left off theirclamour, and one of them, by jumping up andfawning on Blount, showed that he had gained theirfriendship. The older dog, not so demonstrative,had stains of blood on his mouth and chest. “Ha!Driver, you old villain, been behind those cattleyesterday? Now lie down, and let’s see if we canraise a fire and get some tea under weigh, before theboys come in.”

After unsaddling, and turning out their horses,they entered the hut, which, though not differingmaterially from the bush structures which Blount hadalready visited, was seen to be neater than usual inthe internal arrangements. “Little-River-Jack” proceededat once to business. By lighting twigs froma store of brush-wood, laid ready for such anemergency, and adding another to the smoulderinglogs at the back of the huge chimney he secureda cheerful blaze, calculated to warm through hisshivering companion, and to provide him speedily94with the comforting, universal beverage. Opening arude locker, he took from it a tin dish containingcorned beef and “damper,” also a couple of tin plateswith knives and forks of democratic appearance, anda butcher’s knife which did duty for a carver.

“You see your dinner, Mr. Blount,” said he. “Idaresay you’ve got an appetite this cold day; I knowI have. Help yourself, the billy’s boiling, I’ll put inthe tea.” Suiting the action to the word, he took ahandful of tea out of a bag hanging by a nail in thewall, 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 thismorning,” he said; “but I’ve had worse many a time;tucker like this will carry a man a long way when he’son the road or at regular work.”

This statement, more or less correct, was confirmedby the performance of both wayfarers, Mr. Blountplying a remarkably good knife and fork, besidesdisposing of a wedge of damper, and washing thewhole down with a couple of pints of hot tea.

The fire was by this time in steady glow. Stretchinghis legs before it, and indulging in a luxurioussmoke, the tourist expressed his opinion that he hadknown more artistic cookery, but had never enjoyed ameal more.

Mr. John Carter, the while, had washed and replacedthe plates and pannikins; also rearranged thebeef and bread with a deftness telling of previousexperience. This duty concluded, they awaited thereturn of the gold-diggers.

“They don’t come in while there’s light to workby,” he explained; “the days are that short now,95that unless you’re at it early and late there ain’t muchto show for it.”

The twilight had faded into all but complete darknesswhen the dogs growled in a non-committal way,as though merely to indicate human approachwithout resenting it. “It’s my pals comin’,” the bushmanobserved; and, closely following the words,footsteps were heard, and a big, bearded, roughly-dressedman entered the hut. “Hullo! Jack, you’rehere, and this is the gentleman from England,” hecontinued, fixing a bold, penetrating glance uponBlount. “Glad to see you, sir! This is a roughshop; but we’ve got fair tucker, and firewood’splenty. We’ll soon show you the ins and outs ofgold-digging, if that’s what you want to see. Jackgot 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 whichhung near the head of the bunk in the corner tothe right of the speaker, he went out into the night;while certain splashing noises told that face andhands’ cleaning was in progress.

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

They wore red or blue woollen shirts, rough tweedor moleskin trousers, and heavy miners’ boots. All96had beards more or less trimmed, and wore their hairrather short than long.

Three of the party were tall, broad-shouldered, andmuscular; the fourth was middle-sized, slight andactive-looking. He wore only a fair moustache, andseemed younger than the others. Commencing tomake conversation at once, he was evidently regardedas the wit of the party.

“So you’re back again, Jack, old man!” he said,addressing the guide with a half-humorous, half-cynicalexpression. “Goin’ to and fro on the earth,seekin’ what you might—well, not devour exactly, butpick up in a free and easy, genteel sort o’ way, likethe old chap we used to be so frightened of when wewere kiddies. Don’t hear so much about him now, dowe? 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 seriouslythinkin’ o’ clearin’ out o’ this part o’ the country andtryin’ another colony. It’s too dashed cold and wethere. I’m afraid of my precious health. I hear greattalks of this West Australian side—Coolgardie, orsomething like that—where it never rains, hardly, andthey’re getting gold in buckets’ full.”

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

“Well, haven’t I been waitin’ and waitin’, and now97I’m full up; made up my mind to sell out. If anyone here will give me twenty notes for my fourthshare of the claim after this divide, I’m up to take it.”

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

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

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

“Dirt cheap, and no mistake. Mr. Blount nevermade a better bargain. I’ll cash his cheque onMelbourne, so you can clear to-morrow, Dick, thoughI think you’re a fool for your pains. We’ll witnessthe agreement here, and he can hold your miner’sright till he gets a transfer from the Registrar atBunjil.”

This transaction, concluded with ease and celerity,seemed to meet with general approbation. Mr.Blount was charmed with his business insight, whichhad enabled him to seize upon an opportunity ofjoining 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 ontwelve ounces, I should say. Might be better, butit’s more than tucker, three ounces a man, say £40for two weeks’ work. The month before it was £60,and of course, there’s a chance of a nugget, or a makein the lead, any day!”

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

98“Any size from a pound to a hundredweight. AChinaman turned up one worth £230 just after wecame, at Back Creek,” answered the big miner; “inold ground, too. Of course, they’re not everydayfinds. But there’s always a chance. That’s whatmakes digging so jolly excitin’, a party can alwayskeep themselves if they work steady, and then there’sthe off-chance of a big slice of luck comin’ theirway.”

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

“Early to bed and early to rise is another of theadvantages given in with the honest miner’s business,”said the young man called Dick. “A feller’s so jollytired if he’s been amusin’ himself with a pick andshovel all day, or even the cradle, that by the timehe’s had tea, and a smoke, he’s glad to get to hisbunk for fear he should go to sleep, like a trooper’shorse, all standin’. So Mr. Blount had better collarmy bunk, which I hereby make over to him, alongwith 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 alongwith Jack. Mr. Blount’s got his own blankets, sothat’ll be all right.”

Suiting the action to the word, Dick dragged hisblankets and a few articles of attire from the bunkindicated, including a weather-worn leather valiseinto which he stuffed the smaller matters.

Arranging his blankets near the fire, he made apillow of the valise, and removing his boots and coat,lit his pipe, and lay down on the earthen floor,99pulling the blankets over him, and apparently quiteprepared 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 frontof his saddle during the day’s journey, and whichseemed chiefly composed of a pair of serviceable blueblankets. “Dick and I’ll take the claim by thechimney. I’ll put on a back log, to keep us allwarm, and do to boil the billy to-morrow morning.So I’ll say good-night, Mr. Blount, and wish you lucknow, as I’ll be off before daylight. I’d not get up, ifI 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 indepositing themselves in their separate sleepingplaces, removing only the more necessary articlesof clothing.

Mr. Blount sat before the fire for half an hour, lostin thought, before arraying himself in a suit ofpyjamas, which would have excited the admirationof his companions had they been awake. Theirregular breathing, however, denoted that such wasnot the case, and he, too, after a decent interval,abandoned his unwonted environment for the landof mystery and enchantment which men call sleep.

Next morning the clatter of tin plates, and otheraccompaniments, upon the literal “board” whichstood for the table and all appurtenances, aroused thenew partner from a profound slumber.

The dim light of a cloudy dawn was strugglingwith the smoky flame of a tallow lamp of rude shape.The “billy” full of hot tea had just been placed upon100the table by the acting cook, who had previouslydisposed a tin dish containing fried beef steaksbeside it.

Snatching up his towel and sponge bag, thestranger made a rush for the creek bank, where arude stage permitted him to indulge in a copioussluicing of his head, neck and shoulders.

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

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

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

“Expect you will,” said the big digger, “a man’salways soft for the first week, specially if he hasn’tbeen used to the life. We’ll start for the claim, soon’syou’re through with breakfast; Jack and Dick’s offhours ago. There were cattle to take back, left herefor the butcher.” He now remembered as in a dreamhaving heard a dog bark, and a whip crack, in themiddle of the night, as it seemed to him.

“Early birds,” he remarked sententiously; afterwhich, finishing his second pannikin of tea, he expressedhimself as ready for the road.

The mists were clearing from the mountain-side,which lay dark and frowning between the little partyand the East, but ere long the curving shoulders of101the range became irradiated. A roseate glow suffusedthe pale snow crown, transmuting it gradually into ajewelled coronet, while the mountain flanks becameslowly illumined, exhibiting the verdant foot-hills, inclear contrast with the sombre, illimitable forest. Asthe sun’s disc became fully apparent, all Natureseemed to greet with gladness the triumph of theDay-god. The birds chirped and called in the denseunderwoods through which the narrow path wound.

Flights of water-fowl high overhead winged theirway to distant plains and a milder air. A rockkangaroo, cleared the streamlet with a bound and fledup the hillside like a mountain hare. A cloud ofco*ckatoos flitted ghost-like across the tree-tops, betrayingby an occasional harsh cry the fact that a senseof harmony had been omitted, when their delicatelywhite robes were apportioned to them. As the sungained power and brilliancy, Mr. Blount found thepath 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 yellowand red earth by the side of which a rude stage hadbeen erected, and a rope wound around, from whichdepended a raw hide bucket.

Moving up, he was aware of a shaft sunk to a depthof fifty or sixty feet; from appearances, the preciousmetal had been extracted by rude appliances on thebank of the creek, still running briskly through thelittle flat.

“I’m the captain of this claim,” said the big miner,“elected by a majority of the shareholders, so, tillI’m turned out, I’ll have all the say.” The otherdiggers nodded. “You’re new to the game, mister,102so I’ll give you the easiest show to begin with. Lateron, you can tackle the pick and shovel. We three gobelow, one at a time, you see how it’s done, and bemiddlin’ careful: there’s a man’s life on the rope everytime, and if you let the windlass run away with you,out he goes! Next man in.”

Sitting down on the “brace,” the miner took holdof the hide rope above his head with both hands,while one of the others at the windlass began tolower him slowly down, a short strong piece of pointedtimber, referred to as the “sprag,” being inserted intothe roller, through which the hide rope ran, in orderto check its velocity, and give the man at the windlasscontrol.

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

Mr. Blount was most careful, and finding that hecould manage the windlass easily, with the help of the“sprag” aforesaid, became more confident. Thenext excitement was when the clapper sounded, andhe began to haul up. But the weight below seemedto be too great. The rope refused to draw up thebucket. Then he noticed that the “sprag” was stillin the roller.

Smiling at his mistake he took it out, and immediately103began to haul up. Though a good pull it wasnot a difficult task for an athletic young man, in highhealth and spirits. So he bent his back to the work,and presently the hide bucket, filled with yellow andred clay, came to the surface; this he drew on oneside, and tilted over on to the “tip” or “mullock”heap, having to that extent been instructed. Loweringit again he continued the somewhat monotonouswork, without cessation, till noon, when a double noteon the clapper warned him that his mates desiredto revisit upper air. This ascent accomplishedsafely, the billy was boiled, and dinner, so called, notwithstandingthe early hour, was disposed of.

“My word! you’re gettin’ on fine, mate,” said thebig miner, “and that reminds me, what are we to callyou? You needn’t trouble about your real name, ifyou want to keep it dark. Many a good man’s hadto do that hereabouts. Anyway, on a goldfield it’sno one’s business but the owner’s, but we must callyou somethin’!”

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

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

Mr. Blount considered it to be a change in thefullest sense of the word when he found himselfdangling between earth and sky, with his leg in theloop of a rope, having a great inclination to turn104round and round, which he combated by thrustinghis leg against the side of the shaft. He realised afeeling akin to that of being lowered over a cliff,which he had read of in boyhood, reflecting, too, thathe had no more real security than a man in that embarrassingposition. Still the narrow shaft had anappearance of safety, which in his case preventedvertigo. The pick and shovel work was not hard tocomprehend. He did his best, though easily outpacedby his mates.

In a week’s time he found himself quite au fait atthe work, while improving daily in wind and muscle.“Capital training for a boat-race,” he said, “onlythere’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 usain’t so bad,” he growled out.

Not only was Mr. Blount himself becoming accustomedto this unfamiliar mode of life, but his cob,though he did not take kindly to the mountaineeringwork, as we have seen, became familiarised to beingturned out with the claim horses and foregatheredwith them amicably. However, one afternoon, whenthey were brought in for a ride, as it was too wet towork, the cob, now fat and frolicsome, was reportedmissing.

His master was much annoyed and alarmed atthis state of affairs. However, Phelim O’Hara volunteeredto stay at home, and moreover to lend him his105horse on which to search for the defaulter. Mr.Blount eagerly accepted the offer, and lost no time ingoing off to hunt for “John Gilpin” as the cob wasfacetiously named. Unlike a bushman, he rodehither and thither, not troubling himself about tracks,or keeping a course in any given direction.

The consequence was that towards nightfall hefound himself several miles from camp, or indeed anylandmark which he had passed in the early part of theday. He was, however, sensible enough to follow acreek, which eventually led him to the river; betweenwhich and the hilly country he had been traversing,he saw a piece of level country on which several wildhorses were grazing.

He was attracted by the appearance of a handsomegrey stallion, who appeared to be the leader and, soto speak, commander of the “manada,” around whichhe 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 fromthe side of the forest nearest to the troop. Theleader gave a sudden bound forward, then dropped onhis haunches. He made several unavailing attemptsto rise.

Struck in the region of the spine, he was evidentlyparalysed. He reared himself on his fore-legs but wasunable to move forward, more than once neighingpiteously. The mares and foals had fled like a herdof deer at the sound of the gun, but following thehabit of these steeds of the mountain parks, though“wild as the wild deer, and untamed,” came timidlyback, and stood near their lord and master. As the106hinds and fawns are unwilling to leave the death-strickenstag, so these descendants of man’s noblestservant refused to quit the spot where the monarchof their kingdom lies wounded to the death. Theycircled around him until another shot from the invisiblemarksman pealed forth, and a fine black mare, with ayoung foal, dropped dead near the wounded sire.

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

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

At length, as nearly all the “mob” were down, atall man in a Norfolk jacket of tweed with knickerbockersand gaiters to match, walked forth from behindan immense eucalyptus. He was plainly dressed,though Mr. Blount discerned a distinction in his airand bearing which convinced him that the man wasno stockrider. He carried a Winchester magazinerifle, from which he sent a bullet into the head of thewounded horse, thus putting an end to his sufferings,107and leaving him lying dead amid the females of hiscourt.

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

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

“Your run! I was led to believe that I was on thearea of Crown land, open, as such, to all travellingon lawful business. My name is Blount. May I askin return for yours? As to my business, I am atpresent looking for a strayed horse.”

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

“That is his exact description.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The black boy led the horse to his master, but didnot offer to dismount, or hold the stirrup, as anEnglish groom would have done. Nor did suchattention appear necessary, as Mr. Bruce mountedwith alacrity, and motioning the boy to ride aheadfollowed at a brisk trot through the forest and alongthe rocky cattle tracks, which, though occasionallyrunning in different directions, converged, and appearedto lead almost due south. All the while, the son ofthe forest sitting loose-reined and carelessly on hishorse, never deviated apparently from his course, orwas in doubt for a moment.

In less than two hours, when the light was becominguncertain, and the chill evening air of these Australianhighlands apparent, a chorus of baying dogs of allages, sizes and descriptions announced the vicinityof the homestead. At the same time, the windingcourse of a full fed mountain stream was revealed.

109On a promontory which seemed to have dissociateditself from the forest glades, and been arrested justabove the broad river meadow, stood a roomy bungalowprotected by wide verandahs from sun andstorm.

“This is Marondah!” said Mr. Bruce, not without acertain air of dignity—“allow me to welcome you tomy home.” A black girl came running up at themoment, who showed her enviably white and regularteeth in a smile of greeting, as in a matter-of-factway she unstrapped the guest’s valise, and led off hishorse.

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course I did; they’re more trouble than allthe other ‘brumbies’ on the run, galloping about,110smashing fences, destroying dams, and wasting grass,for the use of which I pay the Crown rent.”

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

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

Thus conversing, they walked through the garden,which was encompassed by an orchard of venerableage. It stretched to the river bank, along which aline of magnificent willows partly over-arched thestream with graceful, trailing foliage, while the interlacedroots performed valuable service in supportingthe banks in time of flood.

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

The walls were garnished with whips, guns on racks(where Mr. Bruce carefully placed his redoubtableWinchester), the great wings of the mountain eagle,the scarlet and jet tail-feathers of the black macaw,and the sulphur-coloured crests of his white relative.These, and other curios of the Waste, relieved theapartment of any appearance of bareness, while avoidingincongruity of ornamentation. Passing into a large,comfortably-furnished room, where preparations forthe evening meal were in evidence, the host pointedto a spirit-stand on the sideboard, and suggesting thata tot of whisky would not be inappropriate after along day, invited his guest to join him. This offerMr. Blount frankly accepted, as, besides being tired111with a long, dragging ride, he felt nearly as cold as ifhe had been deer-shooting in the Scottish Highlands,instead of this southern mountain land.

He had donned the riding-suit in which he hadarrived at Bunjil, and had also packed necessaries oftravel in his valise, in case he might have to stay aday at a decent house. This sensible precaution(never needless in the wildest solitudes of Australia)now stood him in good stead. And he felt trulythankful, after being ushered into a comfortablebedroom, that he had resisted the temptation tostart off without them. He was enabled, therefore, toissue forth reasonably fitted for the society of ladies,and the enjoyment of the hospitality of the period.So that, when shown into another room smallerthan the first he had entered, but more ornate as tofurniture, he felt comparatively at ease, notwithstandingthe roughness of his late surroundings.

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

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

A tall girl had at this moment arisen, not previouslyreferred to by his host or the lady of thehouse.

It was not an introduction—it was a revelation, asBlount subsequently described the interview. Mrs.Bruce was a handsome woman, tall and stately, as aremany Australians, possessing, withal, fine natural mannersimproved by travel, and she might reasonablyhave been expected to possess a good-looking sister.For so much Blount stood prepared. But this divinityof the waste—this Venus Anadyomene—was above112and beyond all expectation, all imagination or conception.He gazed at her, as he confessed to himself,with an expression of unconventional surprise; forImogen Carrisforth was, indeed, a girl that no manwith the faintest soupçon of taste or sentiment couldbehold without admiration.

Mrs. Bruce was dark-haired, with fine eyes to match,distinctly aristocratic as to air and carriage; her sisterwas fair, with abundant nut-brown hair shot withwarmer hues, which shone goldenly as the lamplightfell across it. It was gathered in masses aboveher forehead and around her proudly-poised head, asshe smiled a welcome to the stranger with the hospitablyfrank accost which greets the guest so invariablyin an Australian country home. While looking intothe depths of her brilliant hazel eyes, Blount almostmurmured “O, Dea certe!” while doubting if he hadever before beheld so lovely a creature.

Mrs. Bruce attributed his evident surprise to thefact of his not having been informed of the fact of asecond lady being at the house. “Ned ought to havetold you,” she said, “that my sister was staying withus. She has just come from town, where she hasbeen at school. She is so tall that really it seemedabsurd to keep her there any longer.”

“You forget that I am eighteen,” said the younglady under observation. “My education should befinished now, if ever.”

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

“Oh! but I did pine so for the fresh air of the113bush—the rides and drives and everything. I can’tbear 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 townseems one unmeaning round with the same peopleyou meet always. One gets dead tired of it all. Imust have gipsy blood in me, I think, for the gaygreenwood has a fascination, which I feel, but can’texplain.”

During dinner, Blount found Mrs. Bruce mostagreeable, and, indeed, entertaining. He learnedsomething too about the neighbours, none of whomwere nearer than ten miles. Some, indeed, muchfarther off. It was also explained to him that theregion of the Upper Sturt was not all rock and forest,swamp and scrub, but that there were rich tablelandsat “the back,” which might be north or north-east.Also that the country became more open “down theriver,” as well as, in a sense, more civilised, “thoughwe don’t call ourselves very barbarous,” she added,with a smile.

“Barbarous, indeed!” repeated the guest, withwell-acted indignation. “You seem to me to haveall the accessories, and more of them than we in thatold-fashioned country called England. Here youhave books, papers, all the comforts and many of theluxuries of the Old Land, besides a free, unfetteredexistence, independence, and no earthly annoyanceor danger.”

“I am not so sure about the last items,” said Mrs.Bruce. “Ned has been worrying himself lately abouta gang of men who call themselves miners, but are114more than suspected to be cattle-stealers. He hasmissed valuable animals lately.”

“You surprise me!” replied Blount, with a shockedexpression. “The bush people whom I have comeacross have appeared to be such simple, hard-workingfellows. But surely Mr. Bruce doesn’t apprehenddanger from gold-diggers or drovers? They are socivil and well-mannered too.”

“Their manners are good enough; better, peopletell us, than those of the same class at home. Butthey are not always to be trusted, and are revengefulwhen thwarted in their bad practices. Edward hasmore than once been warned to be more careful aboutriding alone near their haunts in the ranges, thoughhe always goes armed.”

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

“There is no saying. Blood has been shed inthese mountains before now, peaceful as they appear.However, Edward never stirs out in that directionwithout his rifle, and you have seen him shoot. Hehas no fear, but I cannot feel free from anxietymyself. And now I think we must go into thedrawing-room, or wrap up and sit in the verandahwhile you men smoke; what do you say, Imogen?”

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

“They say so. Doctors are always changing their115theories. I prefer a climate that’s moderately cosymyself. But we must have our smoke, and you girlscan talk to us, if you keep to low tones and modulatedexpressions.”

Blount would have vowed to renounce tobacco forthe rest of his natural life if but Miss Imogen wouldsit by him. The moon had risen, flooding the darkwoods and river pools with silver radiance. Couldthey but continue to listen dreamily to the rhythmicmurmur of the stream, the softly-sighing, complainingsound of the trailing willows as from time to time theriver current lifted them—what had life to comparewith such sensations? However, this idyllic joy wasin its nature fleeting, as it became apparent that thefrosty air “was really too keen for reasonable peoplewho had colds to consider and babies.” So Mrs.Bruce, thus remonstrating, arose, and with two words,“Come, Imogen!” made for one of the Frenchwindows which opened from the drawing-room to theverandah. When they entered that comfortable,well-furnished apartment—a handsome Blüthner pianostood open, with music conveniently close—Mr.Bruce quasi-paternally ordered Imogen to sing, inorder that he might judge what progress she hadmade during the half year.

So they had a song, another, several indeed tofinish up with. Mr. Blount admitted a slight knowledgeof music, and even took a creditable second inone of Miss Carrisforth’s songs. The night wore on,until just before ten o’clock, a neat maid brought ina tray with glasses, and the wherewithal to fill thesame. The ladies declining refreshment, said good-night,and left Mr. Bruce and his guest to have their116final smoke, hoping that they would not sit up toolate, 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 starclusters and planets of greater lustre than in ordinaryseasons. As they smoked silently, Blount listeningto the river gurgling and rippling over its pebblyshallows, the sharp contrast of his surroundings withthose he had so lately quitted, indeed even with thoseduring the penultimate sojourn at Bunjil, struck himso forcibly that he could hardly repress a smile.

However he merely remarked—“Australia iscertainly a land of wonders—my friends in Englandwill 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 mysmaller experiences, while hazardous tales wereswallowed without hesitation.”

Mr. Blount rose early and was rewarded by a viewof the dawnlight suffusing the eastern horizon withpale opaline tints, gradually increasing in richnessand variety of colouring. Roseate golden cloudswere marshalled around the summit of the snow-crownedalp, and even the darksome forest aislesresponded to the divine informing waves of lightand life.

He was aroused from reverie as he gazed upon thewondrous apparition by resounding whips and theroll of hoofs, as the station horses were being runinto the yard. The cob was easily distinguished by117his cropped tail and mane, while, refreshed by restand freedom, he galloped and kicked up his heels, asif he had been reared in the bush, instead of in asuburban paddock. Mr. Blount also witnessed hisbeing caught and conveyed to the stable, in companywith Mr. Bruce’s favourite hackney, and anotherdistinguished-looking animal. With respect to thelast-named, Paddy said that one “belong’n MissImmie,” volunteering further information to thiseffect.

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

This came at breakfast time, when Mrs. Bruceinvited him to stay a few days, when they wouldshow him their best bits of scenery and otherwise tryto amuse him. There was a muster of fat cattlecoming on, which was always held to be an interestingspectacle to visitors from the other side of theworld. Mr. Bruce was convinced that he wouldacquire more colonial experience in a week at thisparticular time, than half a year would show him ata different season. A few neighbours would comeover—very decent fellows, and fair specimens ofAustralian country gentlemen. It would be a regular“house-party,” as they say in England. Theopportunity should not be lost.

Miss Imogen did not join in the endeavour totempt Mr. Blount from the path of duty, but shelooked as if such a deflection from the narrow way118would meet with her approval. After his verycourteous, but distinct expression of regret, that hewas compelled by a business engagement to decline—withhow much reluctance, he could hardly say—theirmost kind and flattering invitation, the requestwas not pressed, and the remainder of the breakfastpassed off in a lively interchange of the pleasantriesproper to the occasion.

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

“Mind,” replied the guest, with a look of surprisedgratitude, which caused Miss Imogen to smile andblush. “Nothing could possibly give me greaterpleasure.”

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

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

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

“Five will do,” said the girl, as she laughingly ranout of the room, to reappear gloved, hatted, and119turned out in a most accurately-fitting habit as thehorses were led up.

Her brother-in-law put his hand under her daintyfoot, and lifted her lightly into the saddle, while thebright chestnut mare sidled, and arched her neck, asshe felt the lightest of hands on her bridle rein. Mr.Bruce guaranteed that the hunter-looking bay detailedfor his guest’s use was “prompt in his paces,cool and bold” like Bevis, upon whom the spectreknight’s night-ride had such an unfortunate effect,while he himself mounted the favourite steed whichhis guest had remarked at their first meeting, saying:“You don’t often see a better-looking lot together; asgood, too, as they are good-looking.” Mr. Blount wasconvinced of the justice of this valuation, and thoughtthat the statement might even be applied to theriders. Paddy, on a veteran stock horse, brought upthe rear leading the cob, whose short tail and hoggedmane excited Polly’s unmeasured ridicule: “Minethinkit, that one pfeller brother belongin’ to pig,” andseized with the comicality of the idea, she explodedin fits of laughter, as casting lingering looks of regretat the receding cavalcade, she walked soberly back tothe huts.

“These two horses are the fast walkers of theparty, Mr. Blount,” began the fair Imogen, as theclever hackney she rode started off at so fast a paceas to incur the suspicion of ambling. “Ned and hishenchman, Paddy, will go rambling ahead or on aparallel, looking for strange tracks, denoting trespasserson the run, strayed cattle, indeed foundsometimes before they are lost, that is by the lawful120owners. The life of the owner of a cattle station isoften ‘not a happy one.’ It is surprising how manykinds of annoyances, risks and anxieties, he maysuffer from.”

“Mr. Bruce doesn’t look as if he suffered from anyof the ills of life,” said Blount, gazing at his fair companion,as who should say, “How could any man beunhappy who has such a charming sister-in-law, notto mention a delightful wife and a nice baby?” Howeverhe did not wish for a catalogue of his host’sannoyances. He wanted to hear his companion’sappreciation of the grand scheme of colour, tone,light and shadow, just opening out before them, asthe “glorious sun uprist” amid clouds which hadrecently rolled away, leaving full in view the forest-clotheduplands, the silent gorges, and the glitteringsummit of the majestic alp.

Right joyous are the pastimes connected withhorse and hound in the older land whence our fatherscame, amid the wide pastures, the hedge-borderedfields of green England.

With the hog-spear and rifle on the dusty plainsand sudden appearing nullahs of Hindostan, Araband Waler, by riders of world wide fame, are hardpressed in rivalry. In equestrian tournaments, in thepolo gymkhana, and other military contests, there aretrials of skill and horsemanship, with a suspicion ofdanger, to stir a man’s blood. But a gallop throughthe glades of an Australian forest, in the autumnalseason of the year, or even in the so-called mid-winterunder the cloudless skies and glowing sun of thesouthern hemisphere, yields to no sport on earth, in121keenness of enjoyment or the excitement generatedby the pride of horsemanship.

When the company is illumined by a suitable proportionof dames and demoiselles, right royallymounted, and practised in the manège, the combinationis perfect.

And, in the joyous days of youth, the glorious, theimmortal, the true, the ever-adorable deity of thesoul’s childhood, unheeding, careless of the future,thinking, like charity, no evil, revelling in the purelysensuous enjoyment of the fair present, which of theso-called pleasures of the future can claim equality ofrichness or flavour, with those of that unsurpassableperiod of the mysterious human pageant! “CarpeDiem!” 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 manhooduntouched by Time, the spirit unsaddened by distrustof the future.

For you, glows that cloudless azure; for you thestreams murmur, the breezes sigh, the good horsebounds freely over the elastic sward; for you shine theeyes of the beauteous maiden with a fore-taste of thedivine dream of love. Thank the kind gods, thathave provided so bounteous a feast of soul and sense!Oh! happy thou, that art bidden to such a banquet ofthe immortals; quaff the ambrosia, while the lightstill glows on Olympus, and Nemesis is as yet anunimagined terror.

In the days which were to come, in the destiny123which the Fates were even then weaving for him,Valentine Blount told himself that never in hiswhole life had so many conditions of perfect enjoymentbeen combined as in that memorable ridingparty.

The sun rays prophetic of an early summer, forwhich the men of a thousand shearing sheds wereeven now mustering, were warm, yet tempered by thealtitude of the region and the proximity of the snowfields. All nature seemed to recognise the voice ofspring. The birds came forth from their leafy coverts,their wild but not unmusical notes sounding strangelyunfamiliar to the English stranger. An occasionalkangaroo dashed across their path, flying with tremendousbounds to its home on the mountain side. A lotof half-wild cattle stood gazing for a few moments,then “cleared,” as Miss Imogen expressed it, for moresecluded regions.

“I wonder if I could ‘wheel’ them,” she said, asher bright glance followed the receding drove; “I seeNed and Paddy on the other wing; Mr. Blount, youcan follow, but don’t pass me, whatever you do;” andin spite of Mrs. Bruce’s prudential “Oh! Imogen,don’t be rash!” away went the wilful damsel, throughthe thickening timber, at a pace with which thevisitor, excellently mounted as he was, on a trainedstock-horse, found it no easy task to keep up.Directly this enterprising movement on the part ofthe young lady was observed by the watchful Paddy,he called to Mr. Bruce, “Miss Immy wheel ’em, myword. Marmy! you man’em this one piccanninyyarraman, me ‘back up.’” Paddy’s old stock horsedashed off at speed, little inferior to that of the young124lady’s thoroughbred, and appeared on the “off sidewing” just as the fair Diana had wheeled (or turned)the leaders to the right. Paddy riding up to them onthe left and menacing with his stockwhip, caused themto turn towards Imogen. This manœuvre perseveredwith, was finally crowned with success; inasmuch asthe two protagonists, working together and causingthe drove to “ring” or keep moving in a circle, finallypersuaded them to stop and be examined, when withheaving flanks they bore testimony to the severity ofthe pace.

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

He did service however, if unconsciously, by keepingat a certain distance behind Imogen, which preventedthe cattle from “breaking” or running backbehind her. Mrs. Bruce had ridden quietly behindthe 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 placebetween Mrs. Bruce and Paddy, the disposition wastheoretically perfect, also successful, which in battlesas well as in the lesser pursuits of the world is thegreat matter, after all.

“Upon my word, Imogen!” said Mr. Bruce, “youhave given us a pretty gallop, and as these bullocksare fat, it can’t have done them much good. However,”riding round as he spoke, “it gives me a chanceto look through them, and, Hulloa! By Jove! it’s aswell I came here to-day, somebody has put a freshbrand on that black snail-horned bullock, J. C. just125over 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 fromabove.”

“Me see um fresh brand on one feller cow,” statedPaddy, with gravity and deliberation; “me thinkummight ‘duff’ bullock alonga Wild Horse Gully, meseeum track shod horse that one day marmy shootembrumbie.”

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

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

Mr. Bruce seemed disconcerted by the discoveryjust made. It was not unimportant. He had suspectedthat he was losing cattle at this “end of the run,”among the ranges and broken country. He had nottoo good an opinion of the honesty of the small partiesof miners who worked the gullies and creeks whichled to the river. He supposed that they got a beastnow and then, but was loath to believe that there wasany organised system of plunder. Now, it was asplain as print that cattle were yarded in small numbersand branded, before they were delivered to thebuyers, whoever they were. How many had beentaken he could hardly venture to guess at. Cattlebeing worth from eight to twelve pounds a head, itwould 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’stime for these ladies to get home. It will be pastlunch-time when they sight Marondah, and Mrs.Bruce has family responsibilities, you know. However,126I’ll send Paddy on with you till he puts you on atrack which will lead to your destination.”

Mr. Blount was profuse in thanks, and exhaustedhimself in statements that he had never enjoyed himselfso much in his life, and had a glorious gallop intothe bargain; that it had given him quite a new ideaof Australia, that he had been slow to believe theromantic tales he had heard about Australian bush-ridersand their cross-country work. He was now ina position to confirm any such statement made, andto declare that Australian ladies, in science, coolnessand courage, were equal to any horsewomen in anycountry in the world. He should never forget thehospitality he had received, nor the lessons in bushmanship.He trusted to revisit Marondah again beforelong, when he might, perhaps, be permitted to taste amore leisurely enjoyment of their fascinating countrylife.

Dismounting, he took leave of the ladies, assuringMrs. Bruce that he should never forget her kindnessand that of Mr. Bruce. If he was less diffuse in hisexplanations to Miss Imogen, it may have been thatthere was a warmth of his final hand-clasp, or an expressionas their eyes met, before she turned herhorse’s head and rejoined her friends, which wascomparatively satisfactory.

The return stage was short, as Blount did not desireto take the hawk-eyed aboriginal too near the claim,much less within tracking distance of the stockyard.The fresh tracks of the unwilling cattle, forcedinto a strange and small enclosure, would be like aplacard in large letters to the wildwood scout.Hence, as soon as he had land-marks to guide him,127he dismissed his Hiberno-Australian attendant, whohanded over the cob and departed with a cheerfulcountenance and a couple of half-crowns.

Left to himself, Mr. Blount rode slowly and heedfullyalong what he conceived to be the way to theclaim, much exercised in his mind as to his line ofconduct.

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

What position would be his if the whole gang werearrested, 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 afterwardssworn to be the property of Mr. Bruce ofMarondah, and bearing his well-known brand“E. H. B.”? Could he deny that he had heard cattleput into the stockyard near the “Lady Julia” claimlate in the evening, by John Carter (alias “Little-River-Jack”),and taken away before daylight?

He had received his share of the money for whichthe gold won in the claim where he had worked wassold, or said to be sold. How could he prove that itwas not a part of the price of the stolen cattle? Andso on. He felt like many another man innocent ofevil, or thought of evil, that, with absurd credulity,and want of reasonable prudence, he had, to a certaindegree, enmeshed himself—might, indeed, find itdifficult, if not impossible, to get free from theconsequences of a false accusation.

Perhaps it might have been his duty, in the interestsof justice, to have acquainted Mr. Bruce with the128circ*mstances of his sojourn at the claim with theO’Haras and Dixon (otherwise Lanky); also of thesuspicious cattle-dealing. This would have simplyamounted to “giving away” the men whose breadhe was eating, and who were, however unfortunatethe position, his “mates” and comrades. Mr.Bruce would, naturally, lose no time in setting thepolice to work. Then, Little-River-Jack had certainlysaved his life on the “Razor-Back” ridge;another second or two and the cob with his riderwould have been lying among the rocks below. Onesuch accident did happen there, when man andhorse went over, and were found dead and mangled.As for the two O’Haras and George Dixon, he hadno sort of doubt now of their being mixed up withthe taking of Mr. Bruce’s cattle—possibly of those ofother squatters in his neighbourhood. Of the menwho brought the cattle to the yard, he, of course,had no knowledge, and could have none. In thehalf-darkness of the winter dawn he could only dimlydiscern a couple of horsem*n, one of whom appearedto ride on with Jack Carter, the other returning.

He was glad now that he had not seen them nearenough for identification. He was close to the claimnow, having hit upon the track, which he rememberedwas only a few miles distant.

What was he to say to his late companions, andwhat would be their feelings towards him, if theyheard of the police being after them so soon after histrip down the river? Would they be persuaded thathe had not betrayed, or at any rate attracted suspiciontowards them, which came to the same thing?

He was in their power, he could not but feel that.129What chance could he have against three determinedmen, with perhaps as many more who might bemembers of the outside gang, the men who wereheard, but not seen, for now he remembered to haveheard the lowing of driven cattle more than once, andthe guarded voices of drovers. There was, of courseonly one thing to do. He must face the positionsquarely and tell the truth, whatever might be theconsequences. He would warn them that Mr. Brucesuspected the miners in the locality of being in leaguewith cattle-stealers, who were selling his fat cattle tothe butchers on the smaller diggings, of which therewere not a few between the heads of the rivers andthe foothills of the mountain range. They knew Mr.Bruce, a determined, fearless man, who would showthem no mercy. They had better “clear,” to use oneof their own expressions, before the pursuit was toohot.

Revolving these thoughts in his mind, he rodebriskly on. He had remounted the cob, now veryfresh, and led the borrowed horse, who, as he thought,deserved all reasonable consideration. When withinhalf a mile of the camp he saw a man walking alongthe track towards him. It was Phelim O’Hara, thebig miner, whom he had always admired as a finespecimen of an Australian. He was a good-naturedgiant, possessing also a large share of the rollicking,reckless humour which is the heritage of the MilesianCelt. Phelim was a native-born Australian, however,and on occasion could be sufficiently stern, not to saysavage. Now he did not look so pleasant as usual.

“Safe home, Mr. Blount,” he said. “I see you’vefound that cob of yours, bad cess to him! I’ve lost130a day through him, and maybe more than that. ButI’m dealin’ with a gentleman, lucky for all consarned.”

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

“The meaning’s this, Mr. Blount.” Here his voicebecame rough, if not menacing. “The police areafter us. There’s some yarn got up about Little-River-Jackand us duffing cattle and selling them onthe small diggings. Pat and Lanky have cleared. Istayed behind to get this horse of mine and give youthe office. There’s some says you gave us away toMr. Bruce, and we know what he is when he thinkshe’s being robbed.”

“I’ve heard your story, Phelim, now for mine. Imet Mr. Bruce, who’d been shooting wild horses. Heasked me what I was doing on his run—he spokerather 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 meit was in his paddock, invited me to stay at Marondahall night, where I was most hospitably treated. Heproposed to ride part of the way back with me, andfor Mrs. Bruce and his sister-in-law to accompany us.”

“That’s Miss Imogen,” said O’Hara. “Isn’t shethe beauty of the world? And ride! There isn’t astockrider from this to Omeo that she couldn’t losein mountain country. Mrs. Bruce rides well too, I’mtold.”

“Yes, indeed; we rounded up a mob of cattle.Miss Imogen ‘wheeled’ them at the start. BlackPaddy, who had been brought to lead the cob, was onthe other wing. After that they began to ‘ring,’ and131stopped. Then Mr. Bruce, looking through them,unfortunately saw one of the ‘E. H. B.’ bullocks witha strange brand newly put on. ‘That bullock’s beenyarded,’ he said, ‘and the brand “J. C.” has been puton in a crush.’ I said nothing. Paddy came withme as far as the cattle track, by the creek that leadsto the claim. I remembered that. Then he gaveme the cob, and I came on. Now you have thewhole story. I did not say where I had come from,nor did Mr. Bruce question me. Of course I put twoand two together about the fat cattle. But I saidnothing. I have eaten your salt, and Little-River-Jackcertainly saved my life.”

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

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

“And what brought you back here? Wouldn’t ithave 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 bysteamer. But I wanted to warn you in time. I knewMr. Bruce suspected that there were diggers hereaboutsthat knew about the fat cattle he missed. SoI came to give you fair warning. Where are theothers?”

“They’ve cleared out. I don’t think they’ll be seenin a hurry, this side anyhow. They’ve packed allthey wanted, and sent word to some of their pals to132come and collar the rest. They can’t be pulled forthat. There’s a few ounces of gold coming to you,and the ‘clean up’ was the best we’ve had. Here itis.” And suiting the action to the word, he pulledout 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. Ilearned a good deal while I was with you, and shallalways 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 upholdyou as one, no matter what happens to us. We’renot bad chaps in our way, though things has goneagainst us. What’ll you do now? Camp here to-night?No? Then I’ll ride with you past ‘RazorBack’; you’ll have light then and the road’s underyour feet. You’d better take my horse till we pass‘Razor Back.’ He won’t boggle at it if it was twiceas narrow.”

It did not take long to pack all that was strictlynecessary, which alone Mr. Blount decided to takewith him. After which O’Hara boiled the billy, andproduced a decent meal, which Mr. Blount, havingtasted nothing since breakfast, did justice to. Notime was lost then, and O’Hara leading off with thecob started at a canter, with which Blount on hishorse found no difficulty in keeping up. The contractwas performed, they safely negotiated the perilouspass, the mountain horse treading as securely andsafely as on a macadamised high road, and the cobgoing very differently with a different rider. He wasthen bestridden by his lawful owner, who prepared tomake good time into Bunjil. The moon was rising,133when the men—so strangely met, and associated—parted.Blount held out his hand, which the othergrasped with unconsciously crushing force. Thenthe mountaineer quitted the road, and plunging downthe steep into the darksome forest, disappeared fromsight.

Bunjil township was reached before midnight.There had been the local excitement of an improvisedrace meeting, the head prize being a bridle andsaddle; the Consolation Stakes boasted a silver-mountedwhip, generously presented by the respectedhost of the Bunjil Hotel. So that Mr. Blount, whosetrain of thought for the last hour or two wavered betweenencouragement and depression, as he dreadedthe inn being shut, the ostler asleep, the fire out andthe girl gone to bed, felt reassured as he heard voicesand saw lights, indicative of cheery wakefulness. Bygood luck, too, the best bedroom and the parlour wereunoccupied. Sheila promised a fire in the latterapartment and tea ready in less than no time. Theostler took the cob to a loose box, just vacated, whileMr. Blount having deposited his “swag” in the bedroomand made all ready for a solid meal, and a royaltoasting of his person before the fire of logs, felt quitea glow of happiness.

On re-entering the parlour he was warmly welcomedby Sheila, who indeed was so unaffectedly cordialin hailing his safe return, that the guest concludedthat there must have been reason for conjecturingthat the reverse might have occurred.

As she greeted him with natural unstudied welcome,he could not resist taking both her hands in his, and134shaking them with a warmth corresponding with herfeeling of gratitude at his safe return from apparentlyunknown and mysterious dangers. The girl blushedand disengaged her hands, but showed no discomposureas she said, “We didn’t know but something mighthave happened to you, out in that wild place, andLittle-River-Jack said you had a narrow escape on‘Razor Back,’ as your cob got frightened and mighthave 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 ortwo and let out a few things that he’d better havekept to himself. So taking it altogether, we’re allglad, Mr. Middleton, the missis, and me too, thatyou’re back safe and sound.”

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

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

About this time the landlord appeared, blandlyapologetic for delay, but pleading the necessity forbeing 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 ofa tree,” said Sheila, who had now rejoined the party,135“that’s the sort of ‘good terms with themselves,’that’s the fashion, Bunjil way. I wonder there’s notmore legs and arms broken than there are.”

“Why, it’s a good month since you left us, Mr.Blount,” said the landlord, cheerily unheeding themaid’s moral reflections. “The Sergeant was here aday or two back, and asked after you—Little-River-Jackcame last week, and talked of going away unlessthings mended. He billed Stubbins for a quarterof beef he owed him, and they had a row, and got tofighting over it.”

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

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

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

“All right!” says the Green Point chap; “so theystripped to it, and had a regular ding-dong go in.The butcher seemed to have the best of it at first, butJack wore him out, hittin’ and gettin’ away, anddancin’ round him—all them tricks. At last hebunged up his eyes and nearly blinded him, they say.Then Jack went in and finished him; what with lossof wind, and the punishment he got, the butcher wasclean knocked out afore the tenth round. So he136didn’t come to time, and the referee gave it againsthim. Jack got the four notes and cleared—thebutcher paid up honourable—but he couldn’t showoutside the shop for a fortnight afterwards.”

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

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

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

However, on reflection he decided to take anotherhour’s repose, while all things were favourable tosuch indulgence.

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

Truth to tell, he did not make a lengthened staytherein, the mercury being little, if anything, abovefreezing point, but devoted himself to a completeand conscientious scrubbing with the rough towel, at137the conclusion of which, he found that a delicious glowhad rewarded his efforts, and the praiseworthy self-denialof the cold-colder-coldest bath he had takenas a daily custom, ever since he could remember.It is the after taste, which, as in other matters, is sotruly luxurious.

Running back to the house, he saw that his expectationof a full-sized, first-class fire in the breakfastroom had been realised. After warming himself atthis, he attacked the serious business of dressing forthe day, which he pursued with such diligence thathe was ready for the bacon and eggs, before referredto, 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 awfulstart, didn’t know what was going to happen, whenSenior Constable Moore came here the day beforeyesterday to get warrants for Little-River-Jack (aliasJohn Carter), Phelim O’Hara, his brother Patrick, andalso 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 itcomes to that. Yes! knew that Little-River-Jackpassed through here now and again. Where he wentto—couldn’t say—hadn’t seen him lately. Heard theO’Haras were working miners from Queensland orGippsland—only seen them once. TumberumbaDick stayed a day or two here last week, and got onthe spree rather. Said he’d sold his share to JackBlunt, and was clearing out for West Australia.138Little-River-Jack was a butcher, and supplied thesmall diggings.”

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

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

“Tall and dark” (I said), “not bad-looking.” HereMr. Blount bowed. “Dressed like any other gentlemantravelling for pleasure. Rough tweed suit andleggings. Left a few things here. Went away amonth ago, with Little-River-Jack.”

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

“Yes! he talked quite free and open. Said hewanted to see the country—what gold-diggings werelike, and all that. Jack promised to show him aregular mountain claim—the ‘Lady Julia.’ TumberumbaDick when he came by, said ‘he’d sold his shareto him for £20. He was full up of mountain claims,was clearing out for West Australia, where there werebig rises to be made.’”

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

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

“Did you hear what he said?”

“No—but it came out that the Sergeant told himto be careful about arresting men on suspicion—therewas no direct evidence (those were the words) againstany of the men named. Nobody could swear to theirhaving been seen taking or branding cattle. Thosewho knew the O’Haras spoke of them as hardworkingdiggers—who sold their gold to Little-River-Jack orgot him to sell it for them. As for Jack Blunt theysaid—” here the speaker hesitated.

139“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—“theysaid—(that is Tumberumba Dick told some one, whotold some one else), that you were a harmless ‘NewChum,’ that hardly knew a cow from a calf, andcouldn’t have ‘duffed’ a bullock off a range, if you’dtried for a year.”

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

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

“I see—never struck me before. I’m glad myhonesty is undoubted in a cattle district, because Ican’t gallop down a range. They don’t fine orimprison for bad riding, I suppose—yet. And so youstood up for me, Sheila, didn’t you?”

“How did you know that, sir?”

“Why, of course you did. I knew you wouldbecause we’ve always been friends. Besides, I sawyou looking after me warningly the day I went awaywith Jack Carter.”

“I know I did,” said the girl, impetuously. “I hada great mind to say all I knew, and tell you to havenothing to do with him or his mates.”

“And why didn’t you?”

“Well, you were so set upon going, and it wasn’tfor a girl like me to advise a gentleman of your sort.”

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

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

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

“That means you saw somebody. Who was she, Iwonder? Men are all alike, gentle and simple. Ibelieve I could give a guess, as we heard you wentdown the river.”

To this day Blount declares that he never enjoyeda better meal; he certainly never had a betterappetite. And as the sun rising higher in theheavens irradiated the meadows, the hurrying waterof the creek, the brilliant green of the opening budsof the great elms and poplars that fringed thatstreamlet, he admitted that the landscape was almostworthy of the memorable meal.

After a leisurely assimilation of the journals of theday, and a smoke in the verandah, he ordered thecob to be brought round, being of opinion that gentleexercise would be advantageous to his legs, whichthe last day’s work might have tried unfairly. Theycertainly had puffed, but there was no sign of lameness,and his owner decided that daily exercise wouldmeet the complaint. Hearing that the Sergeant wasat home he resolved to look up that gallant officer,and gather from him what rumour had asserted as to141Little-River-Jack, the O’Haras, Mr. Bruce, and lastlyhimself, if rumours there were.

He found the ex-guardian of the peace, and, so tospeak, warden of the marches, weeding his garden, atrim, well-ordered plot, which, like the remainder ofhis little property, was a standing object lesson to thesurrounding homesteads. Putting down his hoe, theveteran advanced with an air of great cordiality, andwelcomed him.

“Sae you have won back frae the Debatable Land,as they ca’ed Nicol Forest in my youth. There havebeen 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 ofJohn Carter), forbye ‘Tumberumba Dick,’ and aman known as Jack Blunt (alias Valentine Blount)seen in company with the above on the 20th ofAugust last. Ay! it was openly said, and I waslookin’ to see you arrive, maybe with the braceletson. What think ye of that?”

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

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

“And was there? I feel personally much obligedto the Department of Justice for their scruples, whichdo them honour.”

“Weel, ye ken, though Mr. Bruce o’ Marondah142deposed on aith that he saw an E.H.B. bullock, hisproperty, with a J.C. brand put freshly on, there wasnae witness who saw John Carter or any ither carledo it or the like. He missed cattle, sure enough, andBlack Paddy led him and two troopers to a desertedclaim known as the ‘Lady Julia,’ near which was astockyaird 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? Strongpresumption, clear circ*mstantial evidence, but nextto nae proof. Sae the airm of the law was stayed—agreat peety, wasna it?”

“Really, it seems like it. Fine paragraphs, lost tothe local press. Capture of cattle-stealers, a leadingbutcher implicated. A gentleman lately from Englandarrested. Damages laid by him for false imprisonmentat £10,000. Really, I might have bought astation with the money, and been rich and respected.Many a big squatter, Dick told me, had begun thatway, but he had stolen the cattle or sheep, and servedsentence for it, before he turned his talents to betterpurpose.”

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

“Very possibly, Sergeant. It does appear as if Ihad been a trifle imprudent. I must curb my spirit ofadventure, which has led me astray before now. Inearly got shot in Spain through joining a band ofsmugglers, they were such joyous dogs; and Manuela—ah!what eyes! what a figure! It was rash, no143doubt, I must ask for references, another time. Ha!Ha!”

Mr. Blount treated the escape which he perceivedhe had narrowly missed of being hauled before thebar of justice, with apparent levity, but in his ownmind, he was conscious that affairs might have takena permanently disagreeable turn, and seriously compromisedhim socially, however it ended. What wouldthe Bruce family think of him? What could Imogenbelieve? Either that he shared the ill-gotten gains ofthe O’Haras and their associates, or that he was soinconceivably dense, and unsuspicious that any amountof dishonesty might go on before his face, without hisbeing aware of it. On either assumption, he wasbetween the horns of a dilemma. Adjudged guiltyof folly, or dishonesty. His vexation was extreme.However, he exhibited no outward signs of remorse,and concluded his visit by thanking the Sergeant forhis information, and begging him to join him at dinnerif he had no lingering suspicion of his moral character.

“Na! na! I’d pit ma haill trust in thee, if mattersluikit as black again. The glint in thae grey ’eenwerena given thee for naught; we’ll hae mair cracksbefore a’s said and done; the spring’s to be airly, I’mthinking.”

The season was more advanced than when Blountfirst entered Bunjil, the warmer weather had made itapparent that “the year had turned.” The meadowgrasses had grown and burgeoned, the English treesalways planted near the older settlements in Australia,many of them the growth of half a century,were nearly full leaved, putting to shame with theirbrilliant colouring, and opulent shade, the duller hues144of the primeval forest. The water-fowl in flocks flewand dived and swam in the great lagoons, whichmarked the ancient course of the river. The cattleand horses browsing in the lanes and vacant spaces,were sleek of skin, and fair to behold. All naturespoke of abundance of pasture. In this fertile valleythere was no hint of the scarcity, which once, at anyrate, within the recollection of men then living hadbeen known to overspread the land: when this veryspot, now running over with plenteousness, the vine,the olive, the fig, peaches, and plums, apples, andpears, in full leaf and promise of fruit, was bare andadust, 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 largeassortment of letters and newspapers awaiting him.Among them was a telegram marked Urgent. Thisbore the postmark of a neighbouring colony and hadbeen forwarded by private messenger, at some expense.Thus ran the magic message:—“Hobart, 20th. Comeover at once. No delay. Great news. Credit unlimited,Imperial Bank, Melbourne.”

Walking straight into his bedroom, he threw theletters on to the counterpane of his bed, and drawingforward a chair, proceeded to open his correspondenceseriatim. After noting date and signature, he returnedthe greater portion of them to their envelopes,postponing fuller examination to a more convenientseason. The last two, which bore the postmark ofthe nearest post-office to Marondah, he retained. Ofits name he was aware, having heard the ladies askingthat the post-bag should be delayed for a few minuteson account of their unfinished letters.

145He did not linger over the first, addressed in astrong, clear, masculine hand. There was no difficultyin mastering its tone and tenor.

“Sir,—I feel justly indignant that I should haveextended hospitality to a person who, while assumingthe outward appearance of a gentleman, has provedby his conduct to be unworthy of recognition assuch.

“As an associate of the O’Hara brothers and twoothers, who, under pretence of mining, have in concertwith a well-known gang of cattle stealers, preyed onmy herd and those of neighbouring stations, for thelast two years, you have laid yourself open to gravesuspicion. I cannot be expected to believe that youwere, although a new arrival, so unsuspicious as tohave no knowledge of their dishonest ways. In astockyard near the claim, branding as well as concealmentof 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 recentlyplaced. You knew that I suspected dishonesty inthat neighbourhood. Was it not your plain duty tohave informed me of any suspicious proceedings?Not only did you fail to do so, but, while acceptingmy hospitality, you suppressed the fact of your livingas a mining mate with the O’Hara brothers, andother suspicious characters, as well as that thenotorious ‘Little-River-Jack’ was a member of thesame precious company. I believe that warrantshave been applied for at the instance of one of myneighbours. Should you find that you are includedin the arrest, you will only have yourself to thank for146incredible folly, or criminal carelessness, as to thedistinction between meum and tuum.

“Very faithfully, indeed,” quoth the recipient ofthis plain-spoken epistle. “Under the circ*mstancesI don’t wonder at the wrath of this Squire of the South.It is but too natural. Fancy a game-preservingEnglish country gentleman, discovering that a recentguest, free of croquet and morning walks with hischarming wife and daughters, had been sojourningwith poachers—partaking, peradventure, of his host’sown stolen pheasants! ‘Six months’ hard’ wouldhave been the least, and lightest penalty, that hewould have dropped in for, and but for having a friendor two at court, or out of it, Valentine Blount, lateof Her Majesty’s F.O., by courtesy the Honourable,and so forth, might have ‘done time’ for the heinousoffence of having concealed on his person certainbeefsteaks and portions of the ‘undercut’ for thepossession of which he could give no reasonableaccount—moreover defied the peace officer to takethem from him. This of course is bordering upon ajoke, and a very keen jest it was like to have been.Maybe yet, for all I know. What d—d fools menare sometimes! This I take to be a feminine superscription—thecontents less logical, and perhaps—perhapsonly—more emotional, and less lenient ofsentence. I wonder what Mrs. Bruce and the fairImogen think of the agreeable stranger (I have beenthus described, ere now), who tarried within theirgates. I feel distinctly nervous, however.”

147Here Mr. Blount carefully opened the envelope, andwas slightly reassured by the “Dear Mr. Blount” whichintroduced the subject-matter.

“We are afraid, Imogen and I, that Edward haswritten you an extremely disagreeable, not to saythreatening letter. He was furiously angry, wouldhear neither reason nor explanation, when the O’Harastockyard mystery was unveiled. You must confessthat explanation was difficult, not to say embarrassingfor your friends. We are certain that there has beensome great mistake which needs clearing up withoutdelay. It will never do for you to lie under thisaccusation—false as we believe it to be—of livingwith dishonest people, and with the knowledge oftheir malpractices; of course, you may not know thatno men are more artful in hiding their true charactersthan our bush cattle and horse thieves (or ‘duffers’)to use a vulgar expression. They are not coarseruffians—on the contrary very well-mannered,hospitable, even polite, when compared with thelabourers of other lands; good-natured, and mostobliging, outside of their ‘profession.’ Indeed I hearda story from a nice old priest, that visited our station,when I was a girl, which explains much. A bushmanwas 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 stuckfor one on the road. If he hadn’t a horse handy, why,he’d shake one for you, rather than let you leave theplace afoot!’ Of course the situation looks bad, onthe face of it, but Imogen and I will never believeanything against your honour. You have a friend atcourt, perhaps two.” Besides this—there was a tiny148scrap inside the envelope, apparently pushed in afterthe letter had been closed.

“Don’t believe you knew anything.—Imogen.”

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

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

“Oh! nonsense,” said Sheila, who seemed in betterspirits than usual. “I often wish I were a man; howI would wire in when there was anything to do, evenif 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, andhave 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 steeplechaseriders did at Flemington the other day, whatthen?”

“Oh! a man must die some time,” replied thecheerful damsel, who looked indeed the personificationof high health, abounding spirits, and as muchcourage as can be shown by a woman without indiscretion,“and you get through nine times out often: the great thing is to go at it straight. ‘Kindness149in another’s woes, courage in your own,’ that’swhat Gordon says.”

“Who is Gordon, may I ask?”

“Why, Adam Lindsay, of course, our Australianpoet. Haven’t you heard of him? I thought everybodyhad.”

“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 bornhere?”

“Is he dead? Perhaps you’ve heard of MarkTwain?” said Sheila scornfully, who seemed to be inrather a reckless humour. “Well! he is. No! hewas not born here, more’s the pity, for he knows uscornstalks better than we know ourselves. He wasthe son of a British officer, the family’s Scotch. I’mhalf Scotch, that’s partly why I am so proud of him.But it would have been all the same whatever countryowned him. I find my tongue’s running away withme, as usual—the unruly member, as the Bible says.But you take my tip, Mr. Blount, ‘never change yourmind when you pick your panel’ (that’s Gordonagain), it’s the real straight griffin, with horse orman.”

“This is a wonderful country, and you’re a wonderfulyoung woman. I haven’t time to analyse you, justnow, for my affairs, which I had intended to treat toa short holiday, are conspiring to hurry me up. Atwhat 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?”

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

“The coach goes at six, sharp; and gets to therailway-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—anythingwill do.”

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

“Never better in my life.”

“Well, you’ll go away to-morrow, fit and ready foras long a day’s work as ever you did. It’s almost apity you’re having the Sergeant to dine. However,he’ll not stay late. I’ll send over and take your coachtickets. You’d better have everything packed andready this afternoon. Cobb and Co. wait for nothingand nobody.”

“There’s no doubt (Mr. Blount told himself) thatthe conditions of life in Her Majesty’s colonies tendto the development of the individual with a completenessundreamed of in our narrow and perhapsslightly prejudiced insular life. What a differencethere is between this young woman and a girl of herrank of life in any part of Britain. What energy,intelligence, organising power she has; I feel certainthat she could rally a wavering regiment on a pinch,drive a coach, ride a race, or swim a river, in fact doall sorts of things, as well as, ay, better than, theordinary man. This is going to be a great country,and the Australians a great people—arts of war andpeace, and so on. How good-looking she is, too,”concluding his reflections with this profound observation,151which showed that in spite of his subjectiveturn of mind, the primary emotions still held sway.

Mr. Blount betook himself to his packing with suchconcentration, that by the time he had finished hisletters, nothing remained of his impedimenta, butsuch as could be easily carried out and packed inthe coach, while he was finishing a distinctly earlybreakfast.

These said letters required much thought andpreparation, it would appear. First there was avitally necessary answer to Mr. Bruce’s warlikecommunication. To this he concluded to reply asfollows:

“Bunjil Hotel, September—.

“Dear Sir,—While fully admitting that appearancesare against me, I think that you might withpropriety have suspended judgment, if not until theoffences charged against me were proved, or, at least,until you had heard my explanation, which I giveseriatim.

“No. 1. As a matter of fact, I did live with theO’Haras and two other men on the ‘Lady Julia’claim. They were hardworking, and well-conductedminers. For all that I saw, they might have beenthe most honest men in Australia. I knew thatcattle were brought to the stockyard late, and takenaway early. I judged it to be the custom of thecountry, and accepted their statement that they werebought and sold in the ordinary way. I wascautioned not to go near the yard for fear of frighteningthem. I did not see a brand, or look for one—norshould I have known its significance if I had. As152to the O’Haras, and their ‘mates,’ whatever mighthave been their previous history, no men could haveworked harder, or more regularly; they could nothave actively assisted in the cattle trade without mynoticing it.

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

“It would certainly appear to have been my dutyso to do under ordinary circ*mstances, after I knewof your suspicions. But the circ*mstances were notordinary.

“And the question arises, Should I have beenjustified in betraying—for that would have been thenature of the act—the suspicious, merely suspiciouscirc*mstances, which I observed during my involuntarycomradeship with these men? I hadeaten their salt, been treated with respect, and inall good faith shared their confidences. Moreover—andthis is the strongest point in my defence—theman known as Little-River-Jack—of his real name,of course, I am ignorant—certainly saved my life, onthe dizzy and narrow pass, known locally as ‘RazorBack’—of that I feel as certain as that I am writingat this table. In another moment, my frightenedhorse, unused to mountain travelling, would haveassuredly fallen, or thrown himself over the precipice,which yawned on either side of him, while I wasequally unable either to control him or to dismount.By this bushman’s extraordinary quickness andresource, I was enabled to do both. Was I to giveinformation which would have driven him into thehands of the police?

“As a citizen, I may have been bound to assist the153cause of justice. But as a man, I felt that I could notbring myself to do so.

“3. For the rest, I dissociated myself without moredelay than was absolutely necessary to collect myeffects, and return the borrowed horse, from suchcompromising company. I was offered my ‘share’—nota very small amount—of the last gold won, butdeclined it, and riding late, reached this hotel atmidnight of the day we parted. I heard that thesenior constable of the nearest police station hadinstructions to take out warrants for the personsreferred to, including myself, but, from some allegeddefect in the evidence, that course was not perseveredwith.

“Circ*mstances (wholly unconnected with thisunfortunate affair) compel me to leave to-morrowmorning for Tasmania. I have entered fully into the‘case for the defendant.’ If the jury consisting ofyourself, with your amiable wife and her sister—whosekindness I can never forget, and on whose mercy Irely—do not acquit me of all evil intent, I can onlyhope that time may provide the means of mycomplete rehabilitation. Meanwhile I can subscribemyself with a clear conscience,

Having with much thought, and apparent labour,concocted this conciliatory epistle, of which he muchdoubted the effect, he commenced another which apparentlydid not need the same strain upon the mentalfaculties. This was addressed to Mrs. E. HamiltonBruce, Marondah, Upper Sturt, and thus commenced:

154“Dear Mrs. Bruce,—To say that for your kindand considerate letter I feel most deeply grateful,would be to understate my mental condition lamentably.After reading Mr. Bruce’s letter, it seemed asif the whole world was against me; and, conscious asI was of entire innocence, except of an act of egregiousfolly (not the first one, I may confess, which asanguine temperament and a constitutional disregardof caution have placed to my account), my spiritswere lowered to the level of despair. There seemedno 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 notwonder 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 onlyrefuge. Moral felo-de-se had already been committed.

“At this juncture I re-read your letter, for which Ishall never cease to bless the writer, and, may I add,the probable sympathiser? Hope again held up hertorch, angel bright, if but with a wavering gleam. Iregained courage for a rational outlook. I think Igave a sketch of my imminent peril and the rescuer toMiss Imogen, as we rode away from Marondah onthat lovely morning. Her commentary was that itwas 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 thebest in the immortal series.

“I have fully explained the position in which Istand, to Mr. Bruce in my letter, which you willdoubtless see, so I need not recapitulate. I have beenrecalled on important business (unconnected with this155regrettable affair) to Hobart, for which city I leaveearly to-morrow. Meanwhile, I trust that all doubtsconnected with my inconsistent conduct will be clearedup with the least possible delay.

“In which fullest expectation,

The writer of these important letters, after havingcarefully sealed them, made assurance doubly sure bywalking to the post-office, and placing them with hisown hands in the receptacle for such letters provided.He further introduced himself to the acting postmaster,and ascertained that all correspondence—hisown included—which were addressed to the vicinityof Bunjil, would be forwarded next morning soonafter daylight, reaching their destination early on thefollowing morning. “It’s only a horse mail,” said thatofficial, “the bags are carried on a pack-horse. ButJack Doyle’s a steady lad, and always keeps goodtime—better, for that matter, than some of the coach-contractors.”

The rest of Mr. Blount’s correspondence was apparentlyeasily disposed of, some being granted shortreplies, some being placed in a convenient bag, andothers unfeelingly committed to the flames. Aboutthe time when the Sergeant and dinner arrived, Mr.Blount held himself to be in a position of comparativefreedom from care, having all his arrangementsmade, and, except Fate stepped in with specialmalignity, everything in train for a successful conclusionto a complicated, unsatisfactory beginning. His156city address was left with the acting postmasteraforesaid; all letters, papers, &c., were to be forwardedto Valentine Blount, Esq., Imperial Club,Melbourne.

He would probably return in three weeks or amonth; if not, full directions would be forwarded byhis agent.

The dinner was quite up to the other efforts of theBunjil Hotel chef, an expatriated artist whom advancedpolitical 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 confirmthat part of his statement, as well as a boast that hehad been chef at the Hôtel du Louvre in Paris.Whatever doubt might be cast on his statements andprevious history, as related by himself, no one hadever dreamed of disparaging his cookery. This beingthe case, and the time wanting nearly three monthsto Christmas, which was the extreme limit of hisenforced sobriety, neither Mr. Blount nor any oneelse could have complained of the banquet.

Nor was “the flow of soul” wanting. TheSergeant was less didactic than usual; he drew onhis reminiscences more and more freely as theevening grew late, and the landlord contributed hisquota, by no means without pith or point, to thehilarity of the entertainment. The Sergeant, however,completely eclipsed the other convives by achoice experience drawn from his memory wallet, ashe turned out that receptacle of “tales of mysteryand fear,” which decided the landlord and his guestto “see him home” at the conclusion of the repast.

157This duty having been completed, Mr. Blount wasmoved to remark upon the fineness of the night. Itwas certainly curiously mild and still. “Quite likespring weather.”

Mr. Middleton looked up and expressed himselfdoubtfully as to its continuance. “It’s too warm tobe natural, sir,” he said, “and if I was asked myopinion, I’d say we’re not far from a burst up, eitherwind or rain, I don’t say which, a good way out of thecommon. If you’re in a hurry to get to Melbourne,you were right to take your passage by Cobb andCo., or you might not get away for a week.”

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

“Well, of course, it’s hard to say, but if the creeksand rivers come down, as I’ve seen ’em in a springflood, and we’re close on the time now, there’ll be nogetting to Warongah in a week, or perhaps a fortnighton top of that. But I think, if you get off to-morrowmorning, you’ll just do it, and that’s all.”

When they returned all traces of the symposiumhad been removed, and the cloth laid ready for theearly breakfast, which Blount trusted nothing wouldoccur 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 waswritten in bold characters:

“Dear Sir,—The groom will call you at fivesharp, breakfast at 5.30. Coach leaves at six. I’vegot you the box seat.

158“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’llknock herself out, and then we’ll be teetotally ruinedand done for. I hope she won’t throw herself awayon some scallowag or other.”

“Yes! it would be a pity. I take quite an interestin 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 tofancy a fool, if he’s good-looking, that’s my tip. Good-night,sir. I’ll be up and see you off. Old Georgewill call you.”

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

The landlord, however, having exceptional opportunitiesof studying human nature, warned old Georgeto have the gentleman up at 5 a.m. sharp, which inresult was just as well. For Blount being too excitedfrom various causes to sleep, had tossed and tumbledabout till 3 a.m., when he dropped into a refreshingslumber, so sound that George’s rat-tat-tat, vigorousand continued on his bedroom door, caused him todream that all the police of the district, headed byMr. Bruce and Black Paddy, had come to arrest him,and were battering down the hotel in order to effect acapture.

A dip in the creek, and a careful if hasty toilet,produced a complete change of ideas. The morningwas almost too fine, the leaves of the great poplarswere unstirred, which gave an unnaturally calm andeerie appearance to the landscape. This was notdispelled by the red sun shedding a theatrical glareover the snow-peaks and shoulders of the mountainrange.

“My holiday’s over, Sheila!” said he, moving fromthe fire front to the table upon which was such anappetising display that he wished he had gone to beda little earlier. However, the savour of the devilledturkey reassured him, and he felt more drawn towardsthe menu which was to form the sustaining meal ofthe 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 allthink there’s a big storm coming; if it’s wind, itmay blow a tree down on the coach and horses; ifit rains hard, there’ll be a flood, which will rise theKiewah and the Little River in a few hours, so asthey can’t be crossed under a week.”

“That’s a bad look out!” said the traveller,160making good time with the scrambled eggs andtoast, which succeeded the devilled turkey, “butwe’ll have to go straight at it, as your friend andphilosopher, Gordon, has it. By the way, I boughta copy at the post-office store, so I can read it on theway 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’llthink about me when you’re on the road to Melbourneand wherever else you’re bound for. But we’ll allremember you here, never fear! And if you evercome back, you’ll see how glad all hands will be towelcome you.”

“You’re only too good to me, but why should theother people have this sort of feeling towards me?”

“Well, one reason is that you never put on anyside, as they call it. You’ve been free and easy withthem, without being too familiar. The countrypeople hereabouts, and in the bush generally, may berough, and haven’t seen much, but they know a gentlemanwhen they see one, and besides, there’s anotherreason—” 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 arrestedand tried for being ‘in’ with the O’Haras and Little-River-Jackin the cattle racket), that you wouldn’tgive them away; never let on that you’d been withthem in the claim, or seen cattle in their yard oranything.”

“But, my dear Sheila! I heard nothing and sawnothing that the town-crier at the market-place (isthere one in this droll country, I wonder?) might not161have proclaimed aloud. I didn’t know there was any‘cross’ work (is that right?) going on. I certainlyguessed after I visited Mr. Bruce that I might just aswell not advertise the O’Haras, and as Little-River-Jackcertainly saved my life on Razor Back, howcould I give him up to the law? Now, could I?”

“Not as a gentleman, sir, I should say. I supposeMr. Bruce is pretty wild about it, after you being athis house and all that. He’s a fine man, Mr. Bruce;all he’s got he’s earned. His brother and he workedlike nigg*rs when first they came from home. Nowthey’re well off, and on the way to be richer still.But no man likes to be robbed, rich or poor. He’llhave Jack yet for this if he don’t mind, sharp as heis.”

“Well, I suppose it serves him right.”

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

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

“Well, I’ve read bits of the Lady of the Lakeand Marmion too. We had them to learnby heart at school. Only I haven’t much time toread now, have I? It’s early up and down late.But you’d better finish your breakfast; it’s getting162on to six o’clock, and I see Josh walking down to thestable.”

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

“Oh! easy enough. ‘This is to certify that I havesold my bay horse, branded “J. R.” (or whatever heis) 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 toreceipt my bill while I write out a cheque, and askGeorge if he’s put my saddle and bridle into thecoach.”

The girl ran out. He wrote the cheque for theaccount, which he had seen before breakfast. Thenmore carefully, a receipt for the cob in the name ofSheila 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 girlin this country had one.”

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

“What will you give me for the cob? he’s easy andsafe if you don’t try the Razor Back business withhim?”

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

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

At that moment, the coachman having drawn onhis substantial gloves, mounted the box and calledout “All aboard!” Mr. Blount pressed the receiptand the sovereign into the girl’s reluctant hand, whocame out of the room with rather a heightened colour,while the driver drew his lines taut as the passenger163mounted the box and was whirled off, if not in theodour of sanctity, yet surrounded with a halo (so tospeak) of cheers and good wishes.

Once off and bowling along a fairly good roadbehind a team of four fast horses, specially picked forleaving or approaching towns, a form of advertisem*ntfor the great coaching firm of Cobb and Co. (then, asnow, famed for speed, safety and punctuality throughoutthe 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 earlyspring 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 thewater-fowl dived and fluttered, alike engaged thetraveller’s alert interest. The little river took wilful,fantastic curves, as it seemed to him through thebroad green meadows. Sometimes close-clinging toa basaltic bluff, over which the coach appeared tohang perilously, while on the other side was the mile-wide,level greensward, thickly covered with grazingkine and horses. The driver, a wiry native from theShoalhaven gullies, was cheerful and communicative.

He was in a position to know and enlarge upon thenames and characters of the different proprietors ofthe estates through which they passed. The divisionswere indicated by gates in the fences crossing the roadsat right angles, at which period Mr. Joshua Cablerequested his passenger to drive through while hejumped down and opened the gates and shut them afterthe operation was concluded. As this business was164only necessary at distances varying from five to tenmiles apart, the stoppages were not serious; thoughin one instance, where the enclosure was small andthe number of gates unreasonably large, his temperwas ruffled.

“D—n these gates,” he said; “they’re enough toruin a chap’s temper. They put up a new cross fencehere—wire, too—since I was here last. This is abother, but when a man is driving by himself at night it’sworse. And they can summons you, and fine you twopounds 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 groomor guard.

“Well, it’s rather a ticklish bit of work, even with apair, if they’re at all touchy, as I’ve had ’em, many atime. You drive round before you come to the gateand tie your leaders to the fence as close as you canget ’em. I carry halters, and that’s the best andsafest way; but if you haven’t ’em with you, youmust do the best you can with the lead reins.You’re close enough to jump to their heads andmuzzle ’em if they’re making a move. No chance tostop four horses after they’re off. When you’veopened the gate and driven through, you have to turnyour team back and let ’em stand with the leaders’heads over the fence till you’ve shut the gate. If it’sa gate that’ll swing back to the post, and you’veonly a pair, you may manage to give it a shove justas it clears the hind wheels, but it’s a chance. It’s anuisance, especially at night time and in rainyweather, but there’s nothing else for it, and it’s bestalways to keep sweet with the owners of the property165the road runs through. Now we’ve five miles withouta gate,” said Josh Cable as he led his horses out andproceeded to make up time, with three horses at ahand gallop, and the off-wheeler, a very fast horse,trotting about fourteen miles an hour; “the road’slevel, too. We’ll pull up in another hour at theHorse and Jockey for dinner.” It may be explainedthat in Australian road-travel, whatever may be thedifference of climate, which ranges indeed from sunshineto snow, the “dinner” so called, is the mealtaken at or about mid-day—an hour or two, one wayor another, not being regarded of importance. Theevening meal at sundown, allowing for circ*mstances,is invariably “tea,” though by no means differing inessentials from the one at mid-day. It is at the optionof 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, thehalf-hour dinner despatched, and, at sunrise, the railwaystation at Warongah reached, into which, after ahurried meal, Mr. Blount was enabled to hurl himselfand luggage, the train not being crowded. Longbefore this hour he had ample time to admire the skillused in driving on a road never free from stumps andsidelings, creeks, and other pitfalls. Certainly theseven lamps, which he had never seen before on acoach, assisted the pilot’s course, with the light affordedby the great burners, three on high above the roof ofthe composite vehicle, a sort of roofed “cariole”defended as to the sides by waterproof curtains; whilefour other lamps gave the driver confidence, as theyenabled him to see around and for some distanceahead as clearly as in the day.

166In sixteen hours from the terminus Mr. Blount wassafely landed per cab at the Imperial Club, Melbourne,in which institution he enjoyed the privileges of anhonorary member, and was enabled to learn that thePateena would leave the Queen’s Wharf at four o’clockp.m. next day for Launceston. Here he half expected tohave one or more letters in answer to his appeal tothe mercy of the Court as represented by Mrs. Bruceand Miss Imogen, or its justice, in the shape ofEdward Hamilton Bruce of Marondah, a magistrateof the Territory. But none came. Other epistles ofno importance, comparatively; also a fiery telegramfrom Hobart, “Don’t lose time. Your presenceurgently needed.” So making arrangements for hiscorrespondence to follow him to the Tasmanian Club,Hobart, he betook himself to the inter-colonialsteamship, and at bed-time was sensible that a“capful” of wind was vexing the oft-turbulent Straitsof Bass.

Hobart—the peaceful, the picturesque, the peerlessamong Australian summer climates, whether late orearly. Hither come no scorching blasts, no tropicalrains. Nestling beneath the shadow of MountWellington, semi-circled by the broad and windingDerwent, proving by old-fashioned—in many instancespicturesquely ruinous—edifices, it claims to be oneof Britain’s earliest outposts. Mr. Blount, from themoment of his landing, found himself in an atmosphereabout as peacefully secluded as at Bunjil.

From this Elysian state of repose, he was routedimmediately after breakfast by the tempestuousentrance of Mr. Frampton Tregonwell, Mining Expert167and Consulting Engineer, as was fully set forth on hiscard, sent in by the waiter.

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

“When I’m told what all this tirade is about, endingwith an atrocious pun, perhaps I may be able toreply,” answered the object of the attack, complacentlyfinishing 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 islandat great personal inconvenience, as you may haveobserved, Mr. Tregonwell!”

“Have you any recollection of our buying a halfshare in a prospecting silver claim, of four men’sground, in the West Coast?”

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

“That was the reason that you did invest in it, if Iknow you.”

“Precisely, I’ve rarely taken advice against my ownjudgment that I haven’t regretted it. Did it turn outwell?”

“Well! Well? It’s the richest silver lode in the168island, in all Australasia—” almost shouted Tregonwell—“fiftyfeet wide; gets richer, and richer as it goesdown. I’ve been offered twenty thousand pounds,cash down, for my half; you could get the same ifyou 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, andtrembling with excitement, “take it! Well!”—suddenlychanging his tone—“I’ll give you a drive this afternoon,capital cabs they have here, and the best horsesI’ve seen out of England. The way they rattle downthese hills on the metal is marvellous! We can’tstart for the mine till to-morrow morning; I supposeyou’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 amagnificent place a few miles out. He’d be charmedto meet you, I’m sure.”

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

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

“Well, really, Tregonwell, this is too bad,” answeredthe other partner, roused from his habitual coolness.“Has it escaped your memory that you wished tosell out before I left for Australia, that I stuck to theclaim, and have been paying my share of expensesever since?”

“Quite true, old fellow; it was your confoundedobstinacy and luck combined, a sheer fluke, which169has landed us where we are, not a particle of judgmenton either side; and now, then, let’s get throughbusiness detail before lunch. I have it all here.”

Mr. Tregonwell was a thoroughbred Cornishman,short, square set, and immensely powerful. Hiscoal-black, close-curled hair, with dark, deep-set eyes,short, upright forehead, and square jaw proclaimedhim a “Cousin Jack” to all who had ever rambledthrough the picturesque Duchy, or heard the surgesboom on castle-crowned Tintagil. In one way orother he had been interested in mines since hisboyhood; had, indeed, delved below sea level inthose stupendous shafts in his native place of Truro.

An off-shoot of a good old Cornish family, he hadworked up to his present position from a pennilesschildhood and a youth not disdaining hard manuallabour as a miner, when none better was to be had.This gave him a more thorough knowledge of theunderground world and its inhabitants than he couldotherwise have obtained. As a mining “Captain”therefore, his reputation had preceded him from thesilver mines of Rio Tinto in Mexico and the greatgoldfields of California. A noted man in his way, atype worthy of observation by a student of humannature, like Valentine Blount, who, having added himto his collection, had drifted into friendship, and aspeculative partnership which was destined to colourhis after life.

As there remained a couple of hours open to sucha task before lunch, the partners settled down to a“square business deal,” as Mr. Tregonwell (who hadpossessed himself of trans-Atlantic and other idioms)phrased it; in the course of which the following facts170were elicited. That the stone, in the first placeaccidentally discovered as an out-drop in one of thewildest, most desolate, regions of the West Coast ofTasmania, was the richest ever discovered in anyreefing district “South of the Line,” as Mr. Tregonwellmagniloquently expressed it. On sinking, evenricher ore came to light, “as much silver as stone” insome of the specimens. He, Tregonwell, had takencare to comply with the labour conditions, and thenecessary rules and regulations, according to theTasmanian Mining Act, in such case made andprovided. He had satisfied the Warden of theirbona fides, and this gentleman had supported himin all disputes with the “rush crowd” which, as usualunder such circ*mstances, had swarmed around thesensational find, as soon as it was declared. Everything,so far, had been plain sailing, but there wassure to be litigation, and a testing of their title onsome of the technical points of law which areinvariably raised when the claim is rich enough topay the expenses of litigation. The great thing nowwas to float the discovery into a company, exhibitthe 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 wondrousassays which had already been made, the increasingbody of the lode, its speculative value and unrivalledrichness as it descended to the hundred and fifty feetlevel. The prospectors had invited tenders for afifty head stamp battery to be placed on the ground.Abundance of running water was within easy reach;timber also, of the finest quality, unlimited in171quantity. Carriage, of course, in a rough, mountainouscountry, must be an expensive item. The directorswere anxious not to minimise the cost in any way,and all statements might be regarded as absolutelytruthful. The stone, if it kept up quality and output,would pay for any rate of carriage and the mostup-to-date machinery. When a narrow-gauge railwayhad been completed to the Port, where the Companyhad secured wharf accommodation, the transit questionwould be comparatively trifling.

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

The Clarkstone having made a successful voyage,and Mr. Polglase’s “lay” as first mate amounting toa respectable sum, he decided to quit the sea, andadopt the more or less lucrative occupation of hotel-keeping.In those days when the convict populationoutnumbered the free, in the proportion of fifty toone, when the aboriginal tribes and far more savageconvict outlaws terrorised the settlers at a comparativelyshort distance from Hobart, it was not altogethera peaceful avocation. But Mark Polglase, a manof exceptional strength and courage, who had172enforced discipline and quelled mutiny among theturbulent whaling crews hailing from Sydney Cove,was not the man to be daunted by rioters free orbond. The small, but orderly, well-managed innsoon came to be favourably known both to the generalpublic and the authorities, as a house where comfortablelodging was to be procured, and, moreover, wherea strict system of orderliness was enforced. Whenthe coaching system came to be developed, formany years the best in Australasia, after admirableroads had been formed by convict labour, the LordRodney was the headquarters of the principal firm.From the long range of stabling issued daily in theafter-time the well-bred, high-conditioned four-horseteams, which did the journey between Hobart andLaunceston (a hundred and twenty miles) in a day. Tobe sure the metalled road was perfect, the pace, thecoaches, the method of driving, the milestones even,strictly after the old English pattern. So that theoccasional tourist, or military traveller, was fain toconfess that he had not seen such a turn-out or donesuch stages since the days of the Cottons andthe Brackenburys.

The pace was equal to that of the fastest“Defiance” or “Regulator” that ever kept good timeon an English turnpike road. Here the erstwhileCornish sailor settled himself for life. To that endhe wrote to a young woman to whom he had becomeengaged before he left Truro on his last voyage, andsent her the wherewithal to pay her passage andother expenses. She was wise enough to make noobjection to a home on “the other side of the world,”as Jean Ingelow puts it, and had no reason to regret173her decision. Here they reared a family of stalwartsons, and blooming lasses—the latter with complexionsrivalling those of Devonshire. They married andspread themselves over the wide wastes of the adjoiningcolonies, with satisfactory results, but never forgettingto return from time to time to their Tasmanianhome, where they could smell the apple blossoms inthe orchards and hear the bee humming on the green,clover-scented pastures.

The parents in the fulness of time had passedaway, and lay in the churchyard, near the Wesleyanmeeting house, which the old man had regularlyattended and generously supported. But his eldestson, lamed through an accident on a goldfield, reignedin his stead. He too had a capable wife—it seemedto run in the family. So the name and fame of theLord Rodney remained good as of old.

The prospectus and plan of operations being nowregarded as “shipshape” by Mr. Tregonwell, heproceeded to sketch the locality. “It’s an awfullyrough country—nothing you’ve ever seen before is apatch on it. We shall have to walk the last stage.A goat could hardly find footing, over not on, mindyou, the worst part of the track. How CharlieHerbert, who discovered the show, got along, I can’tthink. He was more than half starved, ‘did aregular perish,’ as West Australians say—more thanonce. However it was a feat to brag about when hedid 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 faroff, unless I’m handy. It doesn’t do to leave such ajeweller’s window to look after itself. There are two174wages men, Charlie takes one and Jack Clarke theother, when they work. They get lumps and lumpsof ‘native silver’ worth £50 and £60 apiece.”

“Is it as rich as all that?”

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

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

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

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

“What! already captured!—that’s rapid work,” saidhis partner, throwing himself into a mock heroicattitude. “You’re not a laggard in love, whateveryou may be in practical matters. However, it’s thecommon lot, even I—Frampton Tregonwell—havenot escaped unwounded.” Here he heaved a sigh, socomically theatrical, that Blount, though in nohumour to jest on the subject, could not forbearlaughing.

“Whatever you may surmise,” he replied, “we havesomething more serious to think about at the presenttime. After I have handled this wonderful stone ofyours, and knocked a few specimens out of the ‘face’—yousee I have gained some practical knowledgesince we parted—then we can discuss the plan of thefuture. In the meantime, I am with you to the175scaling of the ‘Frenchman’s Cap,’ if that forms anypart of the programme.”

The journeying by land or sea to Hobart had beencomparatively plain sailing. From Hobart to thewest coast of Tasmania inaugurated a strikingchange. The tiny steamer, Seagull, to which theycommitted themselves for a thirty hours’ trip, wasdirty, and evil smelling. The shallow bar at MacquarieHarbour forbade a larger boat. Crowded also,her accommodation was necessarily restricted. Thetwelve male passengers had one cabin allotted tothem. The women shared another, where berths likethose at a shearer’s hut were arranged at the sides.On a coast, by no means well lighted, where noshelter from the fierce gales is found nearer than theSouth Pole, the passage, performed at night, is invariablya rough one. All honour is due to thehardy seamen commanding the small coast fleet.They lose no time on the trip—overladen withfreight, more also to follow—full passenger lists fora month in advance. That there are not moreaccidents seems a miracle to the passenger, as theythread their course in and out, among the numberlessislands and frequent reefs, with marvellous accuracy.Tregonwell, who was half a sailor, by reason of hismanifold voyages, was loud in admiration.

“The skipper must chance it, now and then,” heremarked, “but he doesn’t show it, and certainly willnot confide in the ordinary passenger.” They bumpedon the bar at Macquarie Harbour, and also had anarrow escape at “Hell’s Gates,” formed by the rockypoint which runs abruptly northward. They touchedbottom in the double whirlpool formed by the island176in the very jaws of the current, where the heavy seasbreaking over the tiny Seagull would not have takenlong to turn her into matchwood. Here the skippershowed himself resourceful in such trifling matters.Rough though the water, and dark the night, a manwould dash along a spar, laying out a sail to keep herhead straight, or bring her round, if broadside on andsteering way was lost. Then “full speed astern”perhaps, when not being jammed in too tightly, sheglided back into smooth water, ready for anotherattempt. In an hour, however, the tide rose until therequisite depth of water, in the harbour bar, enabledthem after the grim, ghostly night, to glide up thesmooth surface of Macquarie Harbour.

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

Declining breakfast on board, Messrs. Blount andTregonwell made for the chief “hotel” of theMacquarie Harbour township, where on a clean whitebeach, a friendly host, with comely daughters, madethem welcome to an excellent meal.

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

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

It was a scene of hopeless confusion, as far asthe freighting was concerned. Mining machinery,177groceries, drapery, blankets, axes, picks and shovelswere all dumped upon the sand, with scant ceremonyand no regularity.

Day after day they had been passing historiclandmarks, were actually on the scene of MarcusClarke’s great novel, His Natural Life. Theycould afford to wait: “Hell’s Gates” lay behindthem.

In the distance rose “The Isle of the Dead,” towhich they promised themselves a visit some day, witha ramble among the ruined prison-houses, where somany tortured souls had languished.

One pictured the wretched officers in charge. Howdull and aimless their lives! Small wonder if theygrew savage, and vented the humours, bred of ennuiand isolation, upon the wretched convicts.

The walls of the little stone church are standingstill. Tregonwell had camped there for a few daysonce, with some fishermen, shooting ducks at night,and fishing in the long, still, silent days. What alonely place for men to be stationed at! The interminableforest walled it in on all sides, to the veryshore. They pulled for miles up the Gordon River,a grand and picturesque stream, but the land on eitherbank was absolutely barren of herbage. Nothinggrew for miles but the unfriendly jungle of undergrowth,above which waved the mournful pines andeucalypts of the dark impenetrable forest. The distractedowners toiled and wrangled to separate theirgoods from the ill-assorted mountain of heterogeneousproperty.

After that, came the more important question ofcarriage to the rich, but ill-ordered mining camp of178Zeehan, where, of course, showy wooden edifices,of calico, or hessian architecture were being erected.The land transit was wholly dependent upon packhorses and a few mules. Drays and waggons werethen unknown on that coast. The roads were badfor pedestrians, utterly impassable for wheel traffic.The busiest men were the Customs officers, stationedto watch the goods shipped from other colonies, andto collect the duties exacted thereon. Forwardingagents also had a careworn look. In the midst ofthe turmoil, a pretentious two-storied hotel was beingrun up. Stores and warehouses rose like mushroomsfrom the rain-soaked, humid earth, while townallotments were sold, and resold, at South Sea Bubbleprices.

By dint of Mr. Blount’s persuasive powers, now fullyexerted, and Tregonwell’s abnormal energy, conjoinedwith reckless payments, they saw their personalluggage strapped on to a horse’s back, and confidedto a packer, who started with them, and contractedto deliver it when they arrived on the following day.

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

The pedestrians carried their blankets and a changeof underclothing. That was the recognised fashionon 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 commencementwas fine; more grateful still to see TrialBay the same night. Their condition was fairly179good, the walking distinctly heavy. A few miles ofsandy beach, then came the track through the bushproper.

Now commenced the stern realities of the expedition,necessary before Mr. Blount could have personalcognisance of his strangely acquired property. Aftersome experience of the forests which lay betweenBunjil and the “Lady Julia” claim, he had thoughthimself qualified to judge of “rough country.” Tohis astonishment, he found that all previous adventurehad given him no conception of the picture of dreadand awful desolation which the Tasmanian primevalwilderness presented. The gigantic, towering trees,(locally known as Huon River pines), the awfulthickets, the rank growth of a jungle more difficult topass through, than any he had known or realised,contributed an appalling carte du pays. The peculiarityof this last forest path was, that without a considerableamount of labour being expended upon it,it was impassable for horses, and not only difficult butdangerous for men. The “horizontal scrub,” locallyso termed, was the admixture of immense altitudesof forest timber, with every kind of shrub, vine, andparasitic undergrowth. Stimulated by ceaseless rainit hid even the surface of the ground from the pedestrian’sview. For centuries, the unimpeded brush-woodbeneath the gigantic forest trees, which, shootingupwards for hundreds of feet, combined by theirtopmost interlacing of branches to exclude the sunlight,had fallen rotted, and formed a superincumbentmass, through which the traveller, passing over afilled up gully, once falling through the upper platform,180so to speak, might sink to unknown depths.From these indeed, a solitary wayfarer might find itdifficult, if not impossible, to return.

“What a track!” exclaimed Blount, toilsomelywading through waist-high bracken, and coming to ahalt 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 temptsmen to penetrate such a howling wilderness. Hardlythat indeed, for there’s an awful silence: hardly a birdor beast, if you notice, seems to make known itspresence in the ordinary way.”

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

“Facilis descensus, then, is another quotation whichin this land of contradictions has come to grief. Isuppose we ought to try and cross this sapling whichbars our path?”

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

The outward appearance of Mr. Blount had undergonea striking and material change, from the days ofBunjil, and even of the “Lady Julia” alluvial claim.A blue serge shirt, considerably torn, even tatteredfrom encounters with brambles, had replaced the181Norfolk jacket and tweed suit. His gaiters were mud-coveredto the knees. His boots, extra-strong anddouble-soled, were soaked and wrenched out of shape.To add to his “reversal of form,” he carried on hisback a heavy “swag,” in which under a pair of coarseblue blankets, all his worldly goods immediately indispensablewere packed.

“This is something like ‘colonial experience,’” saidhe. With a slight twist of the shoulders, and a groanexpressive of uneasiness, he shifted the weight of theburden. “I never carried a swag before, though nowI come to think of it, our knapsacks of the old dayson walking tours were much the same thing, thoughmore aristocratically named. This confounded thingseems to get heavier every mile. There is a touch ofJohn Bunyan about it also.”

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

The small inn was in the usual independent statethat obtains when there is too much custom. “Theycould sleep there, if they had luck,” said the landlordairily, but “he didn’t know as there was any bedsvacant.” Accommodation for the travelling public wasa secondary matter, in his estimation. The bar payingenormous profits, was filled to overflowing the wholeday through—the night also. Here Tregonwell’scolonial and other experience stood him in good stead—anall-round “shout” or two, combined with an airof good fellowship, and judicious douceurs to themaid-servants, resulted finally in permission to sleepin No. 5—which haven of rest, after a South182African sort of meal, largely supported by “bullybeef,” the tired partners bestowed themselves. Afterforcibly ejecting several volunteer bedfellows, theyslept more or less soundly until daylight.

Certainly no fitter habitat could have been chosenfor the desperate irreclaimable convicts, who alonewere exiled there. The dense, gloomy, barrenforests provided sustenance neither for man norbeast.

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

The Gordon River pine is the most valuable of theenormous growth of timber in proximity to its banks;a beautiful, soft, red wood, not unlike the cedar ofAustralia. It can be split into excellent palings andwill, fortunately, burn well, either in a wet or dry state.The dense undergrowth, closely intertwined withclimbers, renders it impossible even for a man to getthrough, unless with an axe to clear his way beforehim. And the locally named “horizontal scrub” is astudy in forestry.

It is possible to progress for a quarter of a mile ata stretch, without being nearer the ground thaneighteen or twenty feet. This curious shrub, growingas it does at a considerable angle less than forty-fivedegrees, with its intertwined branches made thejungle all but impenetrable. A stage of fifteen mileswas no child’s play therefore, and meant a hard day’swork for strong men, if unused to walking. Evenslow walking on the Corduroy, demoralised by the183heavy traffic, was exasperating. Many logs weremissing altogether. This meant extra danger for thepack-horses and mules. These horses were wonderfullysure-footed and sagacious. Though carryingtwo hundred pounds (dead weight too) they werefully as clever at this novel species of wayfaring asthe mules. The pack tracks were cleared just wideenough for the animals to travel in single file—andwith the exception of a few places they could notget off them, as the forest timber, with dead woodand undergrowth, was impossible for any horse toget through, until a track was cut.

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

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

Sometimes they would unload, to give him achance to extricate himself. Then the packs wereput on again, and a general start made. Such menwould probably have ten or twelve horses and muleswalking loose—often with not even a bridle on.

The charge made was at the rate of threepence apound—roughly twenty-five pounds a ton—fromStrahan to the “field,” in those early days. Theonly variation from the dense forest was that of the“button grass” country. This was composed ofopen flats covered with a tufted plant, similar tothe Xanthorrhea or grass tree—only wanting the184elongated spear-like seed stalk. No animal eats thebutton grass; it is worthless for fodder alive ordead.

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

“Many a time, when the field first opened” (saidTregonwell), “have I walked beside one of these menthe day through, carrying only my blankets and achange, not weighing more than fifteen pounds; mypacker companion would carry his fifty to eightypounds up the long hills with comparative ease,185passing me, if I didn’t look out, pulling up, too, quitefresh at night, while I could scarcely stagger intocamp; yet I could outdo, easily, any other amateuron the field.”

Some original inventions Blount noted outside ofhis gradually extending colonial experience. Eachcamp had a “fly” pitched permanently over the fire-placeto keep the endless rain from putting it out.“Kindling” wood was kept under this fly, so that itwas always in readiness. After the fire was wellstarted, green or wet wood could be put on and wouldburn well.

Tregonwell, having once started, said that he soongot into form, improving in pace and condition daily.He expatiated on the keen enjoyment of the hotmeal at the end of the day’s journey, rude as mightbe the appliances and primitive the cookery. Themeal was chiefly composed of tinned meat, stewed orcurried, with bacon added for flavour; and freshly-madedamper, or “Johnny cakes,” to follow. The changeof garments was to dry pyjamas, with a blanketwrapped round the wearer.

It was, he stated, a luxurious, half-tired, languorousbut fully-satisfied feeling, the sensation of mind andbody essential to the fullest enjoyment of tobacco.Then the yarns of the old prospectors, grizzled,sinewy, iron-nerved veterans! Where had they notbeen? California in ’49, Ballarat in ’51, pioneers ofLambing Flat, at the big rush, Omeo, Bendigo, NewZealand, West Coast, 25,000 men on the field in aweek; 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 of186mining! It’s dead now, dead, sir, and buried. Thosewere the days!” The dauntless pioneer fills anotherpipe and falls into a reverie of cheap-won gold, recklessrevelry, wherein perils by land or sea, danger, ay, anddeath, would seem to have been inextricably mingled.

A strange race, the prospectors, sui generis. Hardlya spot on the globe was there which these men hadnot searched for the precious metals. Distance,climate, are nothing, less than nothing, in their calculations,once let the fact be established of a payablesilver or gold “field.” Landing in Australia in theearly fifties, they had worked on every field beforementioned, and are still ready to join the rush for anycountry under heaven should gold happen to “breakout.” Klondyke, Argentina, South Africa, all equallyeligible once the ancient lure is held out. They oftenput together a few thousand pounds in the early daysof a rich goldfield, their wide experience and boundlessenergy making some measure of success certain.They may not drink, but all live luxuriously, evenextravagantly, while the money lasts, possibly for afew years, then go back to their roving, laborious life.They generally make enough on each field to carrythem to the ends of the earth, if necessary, and it ismostly so from their point of view. When funds arelow, they can, and do, live cheaply; will work hardand do long journeys on the scantiest fare. Naturalbushmen, often Australian-born; from this type ofman, above all others, a regiment might be formed of“Guides” or “Scouts,” ready to fight stubbornly inany war of the future; would hunt, harry, and run toearth De Wet, or other slippery Boer, if given thecontract and a “free hand.”

187Harking back to his experiences—“That wildWest Coast,” continued Tregonwell, “was a placeto remember—the wooded ranges piled one uponanother, as far as eye could reach, in shape, height,timber, or colouring hardly differing in any essentialparticular; yet the noted prospectors never lostthemselves. Stopping for weeks at a likely ‘show,’as long as the bacon and flour held out, they avoidedall settlements or mining centres on the way. Thefirst prospector, George Bell, carried a lump of galenaof forty pounds’ weight in his swag right throughfrom Zeehan to Mount Bischoff. For a distance offifty miles he went straight between the two pointswithout a road or track being cut for him.”

When the partners arrived at Zeehan, it certainlyappeared to Mr. Blount a place of peculiar andunusual characteristics. The excitement was naturallygreat; stores, hotels, dwellings, lodging-housesgoing up in all directions. Timber was plentiful toexcess, luckily such as split into slabs and palingseasily.

Tents were beginning to be voted hardly equal toso vigorous a climate. No one, however, stayed undercover for that reason. They were wet all day andevery day, but the rule was to change into drythings at night. No harm, strange to say, came toanybody. There was less sickness, certainly lesstyphoid, on that field than any since reported.

Less, certainly, than at Broken Hill and the WestAustralian Goldfields. The hotels, quickly run up,were rough both in appearance and management.About fifty men slept in the billiard room for the firstfew nights. Then, as their importance as “capitalists”188began to be recognised, beds were allotted. Overthese they had to mount guard for an hour or morebefore bedtime, as a rule, or else to “chuck out” theintruder. Here the personal equation came in. Thelandlord had no time to support the legal rights ofhis guests. He merely went so far as to allot eachman a bed. He had to keep it and pay for it.

The term “capitalist” on a mining field is understoodto apply to people with money of their own, orsubstantial backers who are prepared to pay downthe deposit on mines, sufficiently developed or richenough to “float”; worth securing the “option” ofpurchase for a month, so as to give time to raise thenecessary funds.

The Tregonwell party had secured the “fancy show”of the field (i.e., the next richest in reputation to theComstock) by promptness in agreeing to all the owner’sconditions, as he named them, thus giving him nochance to change his mind. Other offers had beenmade from Hobart and elsewhere. However, theypaid a liberal deposit, and, after thoroughly samplingand examining the ore body, agreed to float the minein a fortnight. Very short terms! Also to place£10,000 to its credit as a working capital, and to givethe owner £5,000 cash as well as a certain numberof 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 Hobartby steamer that night. Had the transfers signed andregistered in the Mines Department in his name, subjectto the conditions being fulfilled. Wired to theirMelbourne brokers, and in twenty-four hours the189shares were applied for three times over, and thestock quoted at a premium. It seems easy, but suchis not always the case. The boom must be on. Thebuyers must be well known to the public as havingthe necessary experience, and being reliable on acash basis.

A shout from a tall, well-dressed man—comparatively,we may say—greets them at the long-desiredcamp. He comes forward and shakes hands withTregonwell, more heartily than even the occasiondemands, 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, ifI could have found a man to take it. But most ofthe fellows have gone to Marble Creek, so we’re asmall 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’tswear at the place, the roads, the climate, the people,or anything belonging to Tasmania, as it’s his nativeland, to which he is deeply attached. In all otherrespects he may be treated as an Englishman.”

“He certainly looks like one,” said Blount, glancingover the fine figure and regular features of the tall,handsome Tasmanian. “If the other gentleman whomakes up the syndicate is a match for him, we shouldbe an efficient quartette.”

“Clarke is a light-weight,” said Tregonwell, “but aswiry as a dingo, besides being the eminent miningexpert of the party (of course, when I’m away); buthe’s perhaps more up to date, as when he went to190California he learned the latest wrinkles in silver-mining.He’s rather an invalid at present, havingjarred his right hand with a pick, and sprained his leftankle in taking a walk through this ‘merry greenwood,’as old writers called the forest.”

“I thought I had seen some rough country in NewSouth Wales,” said Blount, “but this tops anythingI have ever seen or indeed heard of, except an Africanjungle.”

“Climate not quite so bad, no fever yet,” repliedHerbert, “but can’t say much for the Queen’s Highway.However, the silver’s all right, and where that’sthe case, anything else follows in good time. But, comeinside—no horses to want feeding, luckily, as the oatswhich came in advance, cost a guinea a bucket.”

So saying, he led the way to a small but not uncomfortablehut, at one side of which a fire of logswas blazing in a huge stone chimney. The walls ofthis rude dwelling were composed of the trunk of theblack fern tree, placed vertically in the ground, theinterstices being filled up with a compost of mud andtwigs, which formed a wind and waterproof wall,while it lasted. On one of the rude couches lay aman, who excused himself from rising on the score ofa sprained ankle.

“It’s so confoundedly painful,” he said, “that evenstanding gives me fits. Of all the infernal, brutal,God-forsaken holes, that ever a man’s evil geniuslured him into, this is the worst and most villanous.In California, the Tasmanians and Cornstalks werelooked on as criminals and occasionally lynched assuch, but you could walk out in daylight and werenot made a pack-horse of. If I were this gentleman,191whom I see Tregonwell has enticed here under falsepretences, I should hire a Chinaman to carry me backto Strahan, and bring an action against him as soonas I reached Hobart.”

“I’m afraid he’s delirious, Mr. Blount,” said Herbert,soothingly, “and as he’s lost a leg and an arm, soto speak, we can’t hammer him at present, but he’snot a bad chap, when he’s clothed and in his rightmind. In the meantime, as a fellow-countryman, Iapologise for him.”

“Don’t believe a word these monomaniacs tell you,Mr. Blount,” said the sufferer, trying to raise himselfon one arm, and subsiding with a groan. “Herbert’san absurd optimist, and Tregonwell—well, we knowwhat Cousin Jacks are. However, after supper, Idaresay I shall feel better. Do you happen to have alate paper about you?”

“Several,” said Blount, “which I hadn’t timeto read before we left, including a WeeklyTimes.”

“In that case,” said the pessimist, “I retract muchof what I have said. I have read everything they havehere, and thought I was stranded in the wildernesswithout food, raiment, or pabulum mentis. Now Idescry a gleam of hope.”

“I brought a packet of wax candles,” observedBlount. “Thought they might be useful.”

“Useful!” cried the invalid, “you have saved mylife, they are invaluable. Fancy having to read by aslush lamp! Mr. Blount, we are sworn brothers fromthis hour.”

“For Heaven’s sake let us have supper,” interposedTregonwell. “Is the whisky jar empty? I feel as if a192nip would not be out of place, where two tired, hungry,muddy travellers are concerned.”

“Not quite so bad as that,” replied Herbert, whohad been spreading tin plates and pannikins over therude table on trestles, with corned beef in a dish ofthe same material, and baker’s bread for a wonder.A modicum of whisky from the jar referred to wasadministered to each one of the company, prior tothe announcement of supper.

When the primitive meal had been discussed withrelish, Mr. Jack Clarke considered himself sufficientlyrestored to sit up against the wall of the hut, andbegin at Mr. Blount’s newspapers with the aid of oneof that gentleman’s wax candles in a bottle, by wayof candlestick. The others preferred to sit round thefire on three-legged stools provided for such purpose,and smoke, carrying on cheerful conversation thewhile.

The discovery of the Comstock as a deeply interestingsubject, commended itself to Mr. Blount; soTregonwell persuaded Herbert, who was the pioneer,to sketch the genesis of this famous property, destinedto exercise so important an influence on their futurelives.

“Come, Charlie,” said he, “you’re the real prospector,Clarke wouldn’t have gone into it but foryou, and I shouldn’t have taken a share but forBlount, who knew nothing about mines, having justcome from England. I wanted to chuck it, butBlount, 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 conditions193of men—with, of course, a girl or two, notwholly unattractive, and forgot all about it. I keptan eye on it, so did Charlie; complied with the labourcondition, 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 beganthe wondrous tale. “You know I was always fond ofmooning about—wallaby-shooting, fishing, and collectingbirds and plants in mountain country. Wehad a sheep station on the edge of this horizontalscrub country in old times; and I used, when I hadleave, to get away and spend a week or two of myChristmas holiday there. One of the shepherds wasa great pal of mine. Like many of the prisoners ofthe Crown in old days, he had been transportedwrongfully, or for very slight offences (as much to getrid of Britain’s surplus population as for any otherreason it really would seem). He was fairly educated,and was a very decent, well-behaved old chap, with ataste for geology and minerals.

“When his sheep were camped in the middle ofthe day I would find out his flock, and we would boilthe billy and have lunch, with ever so much talk.

“‘Look here, Master Charles!’ he said one day, ashe took out a dull, grey-looking stone from his ‘dillybag,’ ‘do ye know what that is?’ I did not, and likemost youngsters of my age, looked upon it as rubbish,and showed that I would rather have had a shot atone of the ‘tigers’ or ‘devils’ that came every nowand then and killed the sheep at the stations than allthe silver ore in the country.

“‘It’s silver ore,’ said he in a solemn voice; ‘and194there’s enough where that came from to buy all yourfather’s stations ten times over, if I could only findmy way back to the place where I found it.’

“‘And why can’t you?’ said I; ‘you know all thecountry round here.’

“The old man looked very sad, and pointed outtowards the Frenchman’s Cap, which was just beingcovered with mist, while a heavy shower began tofall, and a thunderstorm roared and echoed amongthe rocks and caves of the ‘Tiers,’ at the foot of whichwe managed to get shelter.

“‘It was a strange day and a strange sight I sawwhen I picked up this slug,’ he said. ‘I was nevernearer losing my life!—but I’ll tell you all about itanother day. You’d better get back to the stationnow, or you’ll get wet through, and maybe catchcold, and then the master won’t let you come hereagain.’

“So I was obliged to leave the telling of the storyto 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 mananother day.

“It was the late spring-time when we had this talk,old Chesterton and I; but a month or so afterwardsI got a holiday, and as the weather was warm andfine I cleared out to his out station, and never restedtill I bailed up the old man for another yarn. It issometimes hot in the island, though you mightn’tthink so.”

“Don’t believe him,” growled Mr. Clarke; “it’s apopular error. The seasons have changed. Listen tothat!” The rain was certainly falling with a sustained195volume, which discredited any references to warmthand sunshine.

“However,” continued Herbert, paying not theslightest attention, “remember, it was at the end ofthe Christmas holidays, and the rocks felt red hot;there had been bush fires, but the young feed, such asit was, was lovely and green. The air was clear, thesky for once hadn’t a cloud on it, and the old manwas 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, andevery time the dog barked I felt my heart beat like,and would wake me up all of a tremble. Well, tocome to the story, I was sitting on a log half asleepwith the sheep camped quiet and comfortable under abig pine, when I heard my old dog growl. He neverdid that for nothing, so I looked up, and the bloodnearly froze in my veins at what I saw. It wasn’tmuch to scare the seven senses out of me, but I knewhow I stood.

“‘A man and a woman were coming down a gullyfrom the direction of the mountain; they were nearenough to see me, and it was no use making a bolt ofit. I should only lose my life. Anyhow, I couldn’tleave the flock. I should get flogged for that. Noexcuse was taken for anything of that sort in thosedays. Following the man was a young gin with a lotof things on her back as if they had been shiftingcamp. She was much like any other black girl ofher age, sixteen or thereabouts, maybe less; theygrow up fast and get old fast, too, specially when theyare worked hard, beaten, and brutally treated, as196most of them are, and this one certainly was. PoorMary! The man had no boots, and his trousers wereragged, he was mostly dressed in kangaroo skins, andhad a fur cap on.

“‘He had a long beard down to his chest; his blackhair fell in a mat over his shoulders. He carried adouble-barrelled gun, and had a belt with a pouchin it round his waist. He looked like the pictures ofRobinson Crusoe, but I didn’t feel inclined to laughwhen he came close up and stared me in the face. Ihad seen, ay, lived with criminals of all sorts since Ifirst came to Tasmania, but such a savage, blood-thirsty-lookingbrute as the man before me, I hadnever 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 afiendish grin that made him, if possible, more beast-likein appearance, he said: “Did ye ever see MickBrady afore? No! Well, ye see him now. Maybeye won’t live long enough to forget him!”

“‘“I’ve heard of you,” I said, “of course.” I triedto look cool, but my teeth chattered, for all the daywas 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 yeone of old Herbert’s shepherds—a lot of mean crawlersthat work for a bloody tyrant, and inform on poorstarving brutes like me that’s been driven to take tothe bush by cruelty and injustice of every kind. Icame here to shoot you, and shoot you I will, andyour dog too; the dingos and the tigers may worktheir will on the flock afterwards. He’ll feel that ad—d sight more than the loss of a shepherd. I know197him, the hard-hearted old slave-driver!” God forgivehim for miscalling a good man and a kind master.

“‘“Don’t shoot the dog,” I said, “he’s the best Iever 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 thedevil, whichever ye favour most. Old Nick’s givenme a lift, many a time.”

“‘He stood there, with the death-light in his red-rimmed,wolfish eyes, and no more mercy in themthan a tiger’s, lapping the blood of a Hindoo letter-carrier.When I was a soldier I’d seen the poorthings brought in from the jungle, with their throatstorn out, and mangled beyond knowing. Surely manwas never in a worse case or nearer death. Strangely,I felt none of the fear which I did when I saw himfirst. I had no hope, but I prayed earnestly to God,believing that a very few moments would suffice toplace me beyond mortal terrors.

“‘The girl meanwhile had crept closer to us andstood with her large eyes wide open, half in surprise,half in terror—as she leaned her laden back againstone of the rock pillars which stood around. Shemurmured a few words in her own language—I knewit slightly—against bloodshed, and for mercy. Buthe turned on her with a savage oath, and made asthough he would add her murder to the long list ofhis crimes.

“‘At that moment, the last I ever expected to seeon earth, the black girl uttered a sudden cry. Thereport of a gun was heard, as a bullet passed betweenme and Brady, flattening itself against the rock whereI had been leaning just before. At the same timefour men dashed across the gully and made for him.He looked at me with devilish malignity for amoment, but I suppose, wanting the charge in his gunfor his own defence, turned and fled with extraordinaryspeed towards the forest, the police—for such theywere—with a soldier and the informer, firing at himas he went. Their guns were the old-fashioned towermuskets; they were bad shots at best—so the girland he disappeared in the thick wood, unhurt as faras I could see. I fell on my face, I know, and thankedGod before I rose—the God of our fathers, who hadanswered my prayer and delivered me out of thehand of the “bloody and deceitful man,” in the wordsof the Psalmist. I took my sheep home early, andput them in the paling yard—dog proof it was—andneeded to be, in that part of the country. Just as itwas getting dark, the men came back, regularly199knocked up, with their clothes torn to rags and halfoff their backs. They hadn’t caught Brady. Ididn’t expect they would—he was in hard condition,and could run like a kangaroo. He got clean out ofsight of them in a mile or two after they left us.What astonished me was, that they brought back theblack girl, with a bullet through her shoulder, poorthing!

“‘“I suppose that was a mistake,” said I, “youdidn’t fire at the poor thing, surely?”

“‘“We didn’t,” said the soldier, “but who d’yethink 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 upwith him, and for fear she’d fall into our hands, andgive away his ‘plants,’ he fired at her, and nearlystopped her tongue for ever. But he’s overdid it thistime—she’s red hot agen ’im now, and swears she’llgo with any party to help track him up.”

“‘“Serve the brute right. Let’s have a look at thepoor thing’s shoulder, I wonder if the bullet’s stillin it?”

“‘We washed off the blood, and between us, managedto get it out. It was wonderful how many people inthose 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 herfurs by the fire, quite comfortable. We kept watchand watch, you may be sure, for fear Brady mightcome in the night, and shoot one of us, but nothinghappened, and after breakfast the party went back toHobart, taking the girl with them.

200“‘I was in fear for weeks afterwards that he mightcome and pay me out. But he didn’t do that either.He was taken not long after, and when he was, it wasthrough that same girl, Mary, whom he tried to shoot.He met his fate through his own base bloodthirstyact, and if any one brought it on his own head, anddeserved it thoroughly, Mick Brady was that man.

“‘Now this happened a many years ago, before youwere born, or thought of, as the saying is. Often andoften, when I could leave the flock safe, did I try tofind out the place where this stone came from, but Inever could drop on it again. When I found it firstand saw that there was a regular lode, and plentymore “slugs” as rich as this, which is nearly puresilver, mind you, I was in such a hurry to get back tothe sheep, that I’d only time to mark two or threetrees, 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 thecountry.

“‘You’ll remember reading of Black Thursday,Master Charles? it burned all Port Phillip, Victoriaas they call it now, from Melbourne town to theOttawa range. So I expect my marks were burntout. For I never could find the way to it again:what with the fallen timber that covered over theground, and the ashes that was heaped up a foot deepin some places, the whole face of the country wasaltered past knowing. You might have heard tellthat ashes fell on board some of the coasting craftmiles from the shore, and a black cloud hung overthe coastline, for days afterwards. But, take my201word for it, Master Charles, the word of a dyingman, for I’m not long for this world, that whoeverfinds the gully where this stone came from, andtakes up a prospecting claim, will own the richestsilver mine, south of the line. Your father’s alwaysbeen a good master to his prisoner servants, thatMick Brady told a lie when he said he wasn’t, andthere’s none of ’em that wouldn’t do him a good turn,if they could; and I have known you and loved youever since you was the height of a walking stick.So here’s the silver “slug,” and the wash-leather bagof specimens, there’s gold and copper besides, and Ihope there’ll be luck with them.’

“The poor old chap didn’t live long after that. Hewas comfortable enough for the last year or two ofhis life, for my father pensioned his old servants, andhis old horses too, for that matter. He couldn’t bearto 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 cameto their relief. So the silver ‘slug’ was bequeathedto me, this is a bit of it on my watch-chain, with themalachite colouring showing out. It always comeswith time, they say. Anyhow it brought me luck inthe end, though it was a precious long time comingabout.”

“As you’ve brought us so far,” said Jack Clarke,“and Mr. Blount seems interested (he hasn’t beenasleep more than twice), I think it would be a fairthing to give us the last chapter. For, I suppose youdid find the old man’s marked tree, and if so, how?as lawyers say.”

“As you have deduced, with your usual astuteness,202that I must have found it, or we shouldn’t be here, Isuppose, I may lay aside my modesty, and enlightenthe company. The ‘Comstock’ has a well-markedtrack now, if there’s nothing else good about it. OldParkins gave me the bearings of the ‘Lost Gully,’ ashe always called it. Once a year, I always took aloaf round the locality after Christmas, poking aboutdoing a little fishing, when there was any: shootingwallaby or anything worth while that I came across.Got an old man kangaroo bailed up at the head of agully, one day after a big fight with my dogs. I hadfired away my cartridges, and was looking roundfor a stick to hit him on the head with, when I backedon to a stump of an upright sapling, as I thought, outof a ‘whip stick scrub,’ which had grown up since thefire.

“It did not give way, as I expected, and puttingback my hand to feel it, I found it was a stake! Itwas charred all round, but still sound, and hard tothe 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 beenpointed with a tomahawk, and driven well into theground. That clinched the matter. It was the oldman’s peg! The next thing was to clear theground round about of timber and ashes, with allthe accumulation of years. This I did next day, carefully,and it was not long before I discovered acouple of tomahawk marks on a big ‘mess-mate’ notfar off. The bark had partly grown over it. It wasin the form of a cross. Underneath the new barkthe marking was perfect, as I had often seen surveyors’marks, years and years after they had been done.203Then I came upon the cap of the lode, broke off somerock, fifty per cent. ore, no mistake. Blazed my trackand cleared for Hobart. Took up a prospector’sclaim next morning at 10 a.m. Registered in dueform. Met Clarke and accidentally Messrs. Blountand Tregonwell, new—er—that is to say, newly arrivedfrom England, and the great silver property, knownto the world as the ‘Tasmanian Comstock, Limited,’and so on was duly launched.”

“Well done, Charlie, my boy! No idea you’d somuch poetry in your composition! You were notregarded as imaginative at the old ‘Hutchins Institute,’where we both had ‘small Latin and lessGreek’ hammered into us. But you were a sticker, Iwill say that for you. Now that I’m hors de combat,I seem to see that quality in a new light. Mainstrength and stupidity we used to call it in yourcase.”

“I’ve no doubt; you were horribly ill-mannered,even without a sprained ankle,” retorted Herbert,“but we make allowances for your condition as aninvalid. By the time we get that corduroy trackfinished, and traffic other than ‘man-power’ restored,we shall look for improvement.”

The next day, being bright with sunshine, dispersedsome of the gloom which wet, cold and unwontedfatigue had imposed upon the partners. The shaftsof sunlight, flashing through the endless glades andthickets of the primeval forest, formed a thousandglittering coruscations of all imaginable forms andfigures.

The pools of water reflected the glimpses of cloudlesssky, framed in sombre but still burnished shades204of green. Birds called and twittered in approval ofthe change, while strings of water-fowl, winging theirway to the great mountain lakes, told of a happierclime, and the undisturbed enjoyment in which thetribes of the air might revel.

The obvious primary duty after breakfast was toget 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 wasnecessarily narrow, as the labour necessary for clearingit was great and, therefore, expensive. Thetremendous rainfall had turned the adjoining countryinto a quagmire, the only means of crossing whichwas by a corduroy road.

On this inconvenient makeshift the friends stumbledalong until they came to a collection of huts and tents,the usual outcrop of a mining township, which springsup, 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 whichproudly flaunted a large calico flag, with “ComstockEmporium” rudely painted thereon, while a few picksand shovels, iron pots and frying-pans, with a half-emptiedcase of American axes outside the canvasdoor, denoted the presence of the primary weaponsused in the war with nature.

A score or more of shafts, above which were therude windlasses with rope and bucket of the period,disclosed the beginning of mining enterprise, advertisingthe hope and expectation of a subterraneantreasure-house—the hope invariable, the expectation,alas! so often doomed to barren disappointment andeventual despair.

205However, when the prospectors’ claim was reached,within the area of which no intrusion was allowed, thedull grey rock from which Mr. Blount was urged tobreak down a few fragments disclosed a perfectAladdin’s cave of the precious metal. His enthusiasm,slow to arouse, became keen, stimulated by this“potentiality of boundless wealth.” His moreemotional partner was loudly enthusiastic upon theimmense value of the discovery.

“See that stone,” he said, knocking off a corner ofthe “face,” “it’s all fifty per cent. stuff—when it’s notseventy-five. Look at the native silver and themalachite! I’ve been on the ‘Comstock,’ and the‘Indian Chief’ in Denver, and can make affidavitthat in their best days they never turned out betterstone than that—most of it was less than half thepercentage, indeed. The ore bodies were larger, yousay? No such thing. This lode widens out; thedeeper you go, the more there is of it. Easy worked,too. Freight expensive? Wait till the corduroy’sfinished to the main road; we’ll have stores andhotels, the electric light, hot and cold water laid on;a couple of clubs, with the last month’s magazines, andThe Times itself on the smoking-room table. Youdon’t know how everything comes to ‘a big field,’gold, silver or copper, as soon as the precious metal isproved—proved, mind you—to have a settled abodethere. Fortune? There’s a fortune apiece for everyproprietor here to-day—even for Clarke, who’s now inhis bunk reading a yellow-back novel.”

All this fairy-appearing relation turned out to be asober and accurate statement of facts, as far as couldbe gathered from the survey made by the partners in206the enterprise. The stone, which was of surpassingrichness, was principally found in a well-defined lode,forty feet wide, increasing in volume as the shaftspierced 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 toComstock. On being permitted a “private view,”he confirmed Mr. Tregonwell’s wildest flights of fancy.

“Nothing in the Southern Hemisphere as rich, orhalf as rich, has ever been discovered,” he said. Hedoubted, as did Tregonwell, whether in all the minesfrom Peru to Denver such a deposit had ever beenunearthed. He proved by reference to scientific geologicaltreatises that it was so rare as to have beendoubted as a possibility that such a find could occur,but if so, the most apocryphal yield of Peru and Chilewould have paled before the size and richness of thisSilverado of the Wilderness, so long hidden from thegaze of man.

Then an adjournment was made to the “Emporium,”as it was proudly styled, the meagreness ofits materials and adornments being in the inverseproportion to its imposing designation.

But the glory of the future, the assured developmentof the mine, and, as a natural sequence, of the“field,” was shed around with irradiating effect andbrilliancy of colouring. Upon this the proprietorproceeded to dilate, after an invitation to a calicoshielded sanctum, sacred to the account books anddocuments of the establishment. In the centre of thecompartment stood a table composed of the top of apacking case, placed upon stakes driven into theearthen floor. At one side was a stretcher with his207blankets and bedclothes, surmounted by a gailycoloured rug, upon which the visitors were invited tosit, while the host after placing a bottle of whisky ofa fashionable brand upon the festive board, cordiallyrequested his guests to join him in drinking the healthof the energetic and spirited proprietors of the GreatComstock Silver Mine.

“Not that it looks much now, gentlemen; no moredoes 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 agunya as this. I brought up a load of flour for him,and was paid a hundred and fifty pound a ton for thecarriage. The roads were bad certainly—puts me inmind of this hole, in that way; but you could travel,somehow. And look at Ballarat now, with trams, andtown halls, and artificial lakes, and public gardens andstatues—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 thisworld. How came that, gentlemen? Because hewas a hardworking straightgoing chap? No! thatwouldn’t have done it, though he’d always have madea good living—any man of the right sort can do thatin Australia. But the gold was there! It was therethen, and it’s there now. It floated the whole placeup to fortune and fame, the diggers, the storekeepers,the publicans, the commissioners, the carriers, the verypolice made money: some of ’em saved it too. Didn’tone of ’em own a whole terrace of houses afterwards?Well, the gold was there, and the silver’s here; that’sall that’s wanted for miners to know, and they’ll follow208it up, if it was to the South Pole; and mark my words,gentlemen, this place’ll go ahead, and grow andflourish, and make fortunes for us men standing here,and for the er—er—babe unborn.” Concluding hisperoration with this effective forecast, which showedthat his connection, as member, with the Bungareeshirecouncil had not been without effect on his elocution,Mr. Morgan replenished his glass, and invitedhis distinguished guests to do likewise.

Hobart, at length. Mr. Blount was unaffectedlypleased, even joyous, when for the second time hesighted the towering summit and forest-clothed sidesof Mount Wellington, overlooking the picturesquecity, the noble stretches of the Derwent, and theSouthern main. Impatient of delay, and feverishlyanxious to receive the letters which he had not caredto trust to the irregular postal service of Silverado;almost certain, as he deemed, of answers to his lettersfrom Mrs. Bruce and Imogen, even if the master of thehouse had not relented, he had stayed a day to ensurethe company of the mining expert, the road beinglonely, the weather bad, and the conversation of acultured companion valuable under the circ*mstances.Mr. Blount ran rapidly through the pile ofletters and papers which he found awaiting him;indeed, made a second examination of these formermissives.

A feeling of intense disappointment overcame himwhen no letters with the postmark of the village onthe Upper Sturt turned up, nor did he discover thedelicate, yet free and legible handwriting, whichconveyed such solace to his soul at Bunjil.

209Looking over the correspondence, mechanically,however, he came across the postmark of that comparativelyobscure townlet, and recalling the bold,characteristic hand of Sheila Maguire, tore it open.It ran as follows:—

“Dear Mr. Blount,—You told me when youwent away that cold morning, that if anythinghappened here that I thought you ought to know, Iwas to write and tell you. We all thought therewould be a heavy fall of rain, and most likely a bigstorm that night. I expect you just missed it, butthere must have been a waterspout or something, forthe Little River, and all the creeks at the head of thewater, came down a banker. It knocked the sluicingcompany’s works about, above a bit, and flooded theminers’ huts—but the worst thing it did was to drownpoor Johnny Doyle the mailman. Yes! poor chap,it wasn’t known for days afterwards, when the peopleat 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 swimfirst-rate, but the pack-horse was caught in a snag, andhe must have jumped in, to loose the bags, and gotkicked on the head and stunned. So the packer wasdrowned, and him too, worse luck! His riding horsewas found lower down—he’d swum out all right. Theyfished up the pack saddle with the mail-bags, butthe letters were squashed up to pulp—couldn’t bedelivered.

“So, if you wrote to any one down the river, shedidn’t get it.

“I thought it as well to let you know, as you might210be waiting for an answer, and not getting one, go offto foreign parts in a despairing state of mind. Bunjil’smuch the same as when you left, except that Little-River-Jack,the two O’Haras, and Lanky Dixon werearrested in Gippsland, but not being evidence enough,the P.M. here turned them up. A report came thatyou had struck it rich in Tasmania, so you may besure of getting all your letters now and some over.I’ve noticed that. So long. I send a newspaper withthe account in it of the flood.

“P.S.—The cob goes first-rate with me. I’m learninghim to jump. He’s christened ‘Bunjil.’ I’mgoing to live in Tumut after Christmas, and he willremind 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 andwalked up and down the room, after mastering thecontents of the momentous epistle. “This clears upthe mystery of their silence. No wonder they didn’twrite, Bruce thinking that I was willing to letjudgment go by default. Mrs. Bruce and Imogenbelieving Heaven knows what? That I must be ashady character, at any rate, no gentleman, or Iwould have answered one or other of their letters—sentin the goodness of their hearts. So this is theexplanation!”

The temporary relief accorded to the recipient ofSheila’s letter encouraged him to hunt through thepile of newspapers for the unassuming Bunjil, Little211River, and Boggy Creek Herald, which, presentlydescrying, he fastened upon the headlines, “Disastrousflood.” “Great destruction of property.” “Lamentabledeath by drowning.”

“We regret deeply to be compelled to chroniclethe melancholy and fatal accident by which Mr. JohnDoyle, a valued employé of the Postal Department,lost his life last week.

“The mail from the township to the TallawattaPost-Office, by no means inconsiderable or unimportant,is carried on horseback, though we haverepeatedly pointed out its inadequacy as a mode oftransport. Our remonstrance has unfortunately beenemphasised by the drowning of the mail-carrier, andthe total loss of the letters and papers. Mr. Doyle wasa fine young man, of steady habits, a good horsemanand expert swimmer. It is surmised that in attemptingto free the pack-horse, since discovered entangledin a sunken tree root, he was kicked by the strugglinganimal and stunned; the post-mortem examinationbefore the inquest, made by Dr. Dawson, M.D., whocame over from Beechworth for the purpose, discloseda deep cut on the temple and the mark of a horseshoe.The coroner, with a jury of six, brought in averdict of ‘Accidental death by drowning.’ At thefuneral, nearly a hundred persons attended, showingthe respect in which the deceased was held by theneighbours. Father O’Flynn of the Presbytery atHovell conducted the service. This occurrence hascast quite a gloom over our township and the surroundingdistrict.”

So much for poor Johnny Doyle, a game, active,hardworking son of the soil; sober and well conducted,212the chief support of his widowed mother,with a brood of half-a-dozen young children.

There was some argument after the funeral uponthe mystery of permitted evil, and the dispensationwhich allowed the sacrifice of poor Johnny, whoselife was a benefit in his humble sphere, to all connectedwith him, while as to certain worthlessmembers of the body politic, freely referred to byname, the invariable verdict upon an apparentlycharmed life was, “You couldn’t kill ’em with anaxe.”

Though temporarily immersed in thought, Mr.Blount quickly came to the conclusion that, as hisformer letters had been prevented by fate fromachieving their purpose, it would be the obviouscourse to write to the same persons at once, furnishingthe same explanation. He devoted the eveningto that duty solely, and after conveying to Mr. Brucehis regrets for the unavoidable delay which hadoccurred, and lamenting the injurious constructionwhich might be put upon his silence, made an appealto his sense of honour that he should be granted ahearing, and be permitted to explain personally theapparent inconsistency of his conduct.

To Mrs. Bruce he wrote with more freedom ofexpression, deploring the unkind fate which haddenied him an opportunity of clearing away theaspersions on his character. As to his non-appearance,he had been called away by business of thegreatest urgency, affecting not only his own but otherpeople’s interests. His future prospects had beendeeply involved. Nothing short of prompt actioncould have saved the situation. Now, he was rejoiced213to be able to assure her and Miss Imogen, that afortune of no inconsiderable amount was actuallywithin his grasp.

He forwarded a copy of the Hobart Intelligencer, arespectable journal, in which she would find a confirmationof his statement. Also, a detailed accountof the rise and progress of the property, thoughmore rose-coloured than he would care to assert.The value of the property, a mining expert ofeminence had said, could hardly be over-estimated.It was his intention, without more delay than theconsolidation of the directorate and other essentialarrangements required, to return to New SouthWales, and present himself before them at Marondah,no matter what the outcome might be. Theresult he felt would colour his future existence forhappiness or misery, yet he was determined toundergo the ordeal. A final decision, howeverdisastrous, would be more endurable than the conditionof doubt and uncertainty under which he hadexisted for the last few weeks. Accompanying theseletters was a packet containing letters of introductionto the Governors of more than one colony. Theywere from personages of high standing, even of greatpolitical influence. Not couched in the formalphraseology which the writers of such communicationshold to be sufficient for the purpose, theyspoke of the bearer as a young man of great promise,who had unusual opportunities of rising in thediplomatic or other official branches of the CivilService, but had, somewhat inconsiderately, preferredto explore new and untried roads to fortune. Thewriters had no doubt but that he would distinguish214himself in some form or other before his novitiatewas ended.

A short but impassioned appeal had been enclosedin this letter to Mrs. Bruce. Her womanly compassionwould, he trusted, impel her to deliver it toImogen, whose sympathetic feelings, if not a warmeremotion, which he hardly dared to classify, he feltinstinctively to be in his favour.

Having completed his task, he was not satisfieduntil he had posted the letters and packet with hisown hands, and with an unuttered prayer that theywould meet with no mischance similar to the last, hereturned to the Tasmanian Club, where he sleptsoundly till aroused by the fully arisen sun and thehum of labour, combined with the ceaseless clatter ofvehicles.

A man’s mental turmoils and uncertainties doubtlessact upon his physical constitution, but he mustindeed be exceptionally framed who can withstandthe cheering influence of a well-cooked breakfast anda fine day in spring. The surroundings of a first-classAustralian Club are such as to cause the mostfastidious arrival from Europe to recognise the socialkinship of the cultured Briton to be worldwide andhom*ogeneous. The conventional quietude of manner,the perfection of attendance, the friendliness towardsthe stranger guest, all these minor matters, differentiatedfrom the best hotel life, tend to placate thetraveller, much as he may be given to criticise allmore or less foreign institutions, when distant fromthe “Mecca” of his race.

So it came to pass that, on forth issuing from thatmost agreeable caravanserai, his bruised and lacerated215spirit felt soothed by the courtesy of the membersgenerally, as well as of those immediately near to himat the table where he sat. He had drifted easily intoconversation with several manifestly representativemen: with one, indeed, an all-powerful mining investor(as he learnt subsequently), holding the fortunesof a mammoth copper syndicate in the hollow of hishand. Of this gentleman he took special heed, butneither from his appearance, manner nor conversationwas he enabled to make a probable guess as to thenature of his occupation.

He might have been an habitué of cities, or a life-longdweller in the country, interested in commerce,in finance, pastoral or agricultural pursuits; in anyone of these, or in all. But there was nothing to indicateit. A complete negation of the first personsingular marked his conversation, yet he was apparentlyequally at ease in each and every topic asthey arose. One thing, however, could not be mistaken—themassive frame and exceptional capacityfor leadership, which would seem to be wasted on acity life.

Another of a widely different type had been hisright-hand neighbour at the genial but conventionalboard—a young and fashionably-dressed man,“native and to the manner born,” who seemed tobe the recognised arbiter elegantiarum, as well asleader and referee of all sport and pastime. Secretaryto the polo club, steward at the forthcomingRace-meeting and Hunt Club Cup, on the committeeof the Assembly Ball, also imminent, he tenderedan offer to our honorary member to procure seats,tickets, and introductions for himself and friends,216with special facilities for joining or witnessing theseannual celebrations. He also was not affiché to anyknown profession—at least, to none that could begathered from looks or manner. Others of theordinary denizens of club-land to whom he was introducedmentioned his partner, Mr. Tregonwell, asan out-and-out good fellow, and, as a mining expert,a benefactor to this island. He had evidently toneddown his exuberance in the interests of conventionality.Mr. Blount, in contradistinction to themen who had extended the right-hand of friendshipto him, was patently a novus hom*o—ticketedas such by dress and deportment, and assured ofcourteous entertainment from that very circ*mstance.

It was early in the “season” for Hobart to be infull swing as the recuperating region for the exhausteddwellers in continental Australia, where fromPerth to the Gulf of Carpentaria King Sol reignssupreme in the summer months. Still, there was nolack of hospitality, including agreeable réunions,which, more informal than in metropolitan Australiancities, are pleasanter for that circ*mstance. Therewas an old-fashioned air about the environs ofHobart, a pleasantly-restful expression, a total absenceof hurry or excitement. Small farms withaged orchards abounded, the fruit from which, exceptionallywell flavoured and plenteous, recalled thevillage homes of Kent and Devon. Unlike thedwellers on the continent, the yeomen—for suchthey were—seemed fully contented with a life ofmodest independence, which they were unwilling toexchange for any speculative attempt to “betterthemselves.”

217What better position could they hope to attainthan a home in this favoured island, blessed with amodified British climate and a fertile soil, where allthe necessaries of a simple yet dignified existencewere within reach of the humblest freeholder?

No scorching droughts, no devastating floods, nodestructive cyclones harassed the rural population.Mr. Blount amused himself with daily drives throughthe suburbs, within such distances as were accessiblein an afternoon. Having been much struck with theaction of a pair of cab-horses which he took for hisfirst drive, he arranged for their services daily duringhis stay in Hobart. Of one—a fine brown mare,occupying the “near” side in the pair—he becamequite enamoured; the way in which she went up theprecipitous road to Brown’s River, and down thesame on the return journey, without a hint from thedriver, stamped her, in his estimation, as an animalof exceptional quality.

The metalled road, too, was not particularlysmooth, albeit hard enough to try any equine legs.On inquiring the price the owner put on the pair, hewas surprised to find it was but £35. Twenty poundsfor his favourite, and fifteen for her less brilliant companion—usefuland stanch though she was, and afair match for shape and colour. He immediatelyclosed the bargain, and thought he should enjoy thefeeling of setting up his own carriage, so to speak;a barouche, too, chintz-lined, as are most of the cabsof Hobart—obsolete in fashion, but most comfortableas hackney carriages.

Before the fortnight expired, to which he limitedhis holiday, he was sensible of a slight, a very slight,218change of feeling, though he would have indignantlyrepelled 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 beviesof, perhaps, the handsomest women in Australasia, bywhom he found himself to be cordially welcomed,without a slight alleviation of the feeling of gloom, ifnot despair, into which the absence of any recognitionof his letters from Bunjil had thrown him. Moreover,the reports of the richness of the Comstock mine,confirmed, even heightened, by every letter fromTregonwell, were in all the local papers.

“A gentleman, lately arrived from Europe andtouring the colonies, now staying at the TasmanianClub, was known to be one of the original shareholders.And if so, his income could not be statedat less than £10,000 a year. It was by the merestchance that Mr. Valentine Blount (such is the name,we are informed, of this fortunate personage) boughtan original share in the prospecting claim, which mustbe regarded henceforth as the ‘Mount Morgan’, ofTasmania. Mr. Blount is a relative of Lord Fontenayeof Tamworth, where the family possessesextensive estates, tracing their descent, it is asserted,in an uninterrupted line from the impetuous comradeof Fitz Eustace, immortalised in Marmion.”

Valentine Blount, it may well be believed, if popularbefore this announcement, became rapidly more so,reaching, indeed, the giddy eminence of the lion ofthe day. Rank he was declared to possess, heir-presumptiveto a baronetcy, or indeed an earldom, aswell-informed leaders of society claimed to know,with a large income at present, probably an immense219fortune in the future. Of course he would leave forEngland at an early date. Handsome, cultured,travelled, what girl could refuse him? So withoutendorsing the chiefly false and vulgar imputation uponAustralian girls that he was “run after,” it may beadmitted that he was afforded every reasonable opportunityof seeing the daughters of the land underfavourable conditions.

With the more lengthened stay which the “millionaire”malgré lui (so to speak) made in this enchantingisland, the more firmly was his opinion rooted thathe had fallen upon a section of “old-fashionedEngland,” old-fashioned, it may be stated, only inthe clinging to the earlier ideals of that Arcadiancountry life, which Charles Lamb, Addison, Crabbe,and more lately, Washington Irving, have renderedimmortal. In the orchards, which showed promise ofbeing overladen with the great apple crop in thesweet summer time, now hastening to arrive; in thecider-barrels on tap in the wayside inns and hospitablefarmhouses; in the clover-scented meadows, where thebroad-backed sheep and short-horned cattle wanderedat will; in the freestone mansions of the squirearchy,where the oak- and elm-bordered avenues, windingfrom the lodge gate, the ranges of stabling, whenceissued the four-in-hand drags, with blood teams,coachmen and footmen “accoutred proper” at racemeetings or show days, exhibited the firm attachmentwhich still obtained to the customs of theirEnglish forefathers.

These matters, closely observed by the visitor, weredear to his soul, proofs, if such were needed, of steadfastprogress in all the essentials of national life,220without departing in any marked respect from theancestral tone.

At Hollywood Hall, at Westcotes, and at Malahide,where he was made frankly welcome, he rejoiced inthese evidences of inherited prosperity, but still morein association with the stalwart sons and lovelydaughters of the land. “Here,” he thought, as hemused at early morn, or rode in the coming twilightbeneath the long-planted elms, oaks, walnuts andchestnuts, of the far land, so distant, yet home-seeming,“are the real treasures of old England’spossessions, not gold or silver, diamonds or opals (andsuch there are, as Van Haast assured me), but themen and women, the children of the Empire, of whom,in the days to come, we shall have need and shall beproud to lead forth before the world.”

Here, and in other offshoots of the “happy breed ofmen” whom the parent isle has sent forth to peoplethe waste lands of the earth, shall the Anglo-Saxonworld hail its statesmen, jurists, warriors, poets,writers, singers—not, indeed, as feeble imitators ofthe great names of history, but bright with originalgenius and strong in the untrammelled vigour ofnewer, happier lands.

“And why is Mr. Blount so deeply immersed inthought,” asked a girlish voice, “that he did not hearme coming towards him from the rose-garden, wherethe frost has tarnished all my poor buds? You arenot going to write a book about us, are you? for ifso, I must order you off the premises.”

“Now what can be written but compliments, well-deservedpraises about your delightful country, andits—well—charming inhabitants?” replied Blount, after221apologising for his abstraction and shaking handswarmly with the disturber of his reverie.

“Oh! that is most sweet of you to say so. But somany Englishmen we have entertained have disappointedus 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 ‘Toursand Travels in Search of Gold,’ or anything of thesort, I am free to make affidavit. But if I were, whatcould I say, except in praise of a morning like this—ofa rose garden like the one you have just left, of anancient-appearing baronial hall like Hollywood, withcentury old elms and oaks, and the squire’s daughterjust about to remind an absent-minded visitor of theimminent breakfast bell? I saw it yesterday in thecourtyard of the stables, and what an imposing pileit ornaments! Stalls for five and twenty horses—oris 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 acountry house in England.”

“You are flattering us, I feel certain,” said theyoung lady, blushing slightly, yet wearing a pleasedsmile at this catalogue raisonné; “of course I knowthat the comparison only applies to English countryhouses of the third or fourth class.

“Those of the county magnates, like Chatsworth andat Eaton, must be as far in advance of ours, as theseare superior to the cottages in which people livedin pioneer days. However, there is the nine o’clockbell for breakfast; we are punctual also at one forlunch, which may or may not be needed to-day.”

The big bell clanged for about five minutes, during222which visitors and members of the household wereseen converging towards the massive portico of thefaçade of the Hall. It was a distinctly imposingedifice, built of a neutral-tinted freestone, a materialwhich throughout the ages has always lent itselfeasily to architectural development.

Hollywood Hall, standing as it did on the borderof a river stocked with trout, and centrally situatedin a freehold estate of thirty thousand acres of fertileland, might fairly be quoted as an object lessonin colonising experience, as well as an exampleof the rewards occasionally secured by the rovingEnglishman.

The breakfast room though large appeared wellfilled, as Blount and his fair companion joined theparty. Certain neighbours had ridden over, after theinformal manner of the land, in order to break thejourney to Hobart and spend a pleasant hour in thesociety of the girls of Hollywood Hall. Truth totell, the sex was predominant, the proportion of thedaughters of the house being largely in excess of themen. Tall, graceful, refined, distinctly handsome,they afforded a notable instance of the favouringconditions of Australian life. They possessed alsothe open air accomplishments of their class. Hardto beat at lawn tennis, they could ride and drivebetter than the average man, following the houndsof a pack occasionally hunted in the neighbourhood.

The merry tones and lively interchange of badinagewhich went on with but little intermission during thepleasant meal proved their possession of those invaluablegifts of the budding maid—high health and223unfailing spirits, with a sufficient, though not overpowering,sense of humour.

The squire, a well-preserved, fresh-looking, middle-agedman, sitting at the head of his table with anexpression of mingled geniality and command, as thecontest of tongues waned, thought it well to suggestthe order of the day. “I feel sorry that I am obligedto drive to an outlying farm on business, which willoccupy me the greater part of the day. So you willhave, with the assistance of Mrs. Claremont, to amuseyourselves.”

“I think we can manage that,” said the youngestdaughter, a merry damsel of sixteen. “Captain Blakeis 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? youmonkey,” said the host; “I might have known youhad some conspiracy on foot. However, if yourmother approves, it’s all right. Now, does any onecare about fishing, because the trout are taking thefly well, and I heard that snipe were seen at theLong Marsh yesterday; they’re a week earlier thisyear”—this to the son and heir of the house; “whatwere you intending to arrange?”

“Well, sir, I thought of driving over to see Joe andBert Bowyer—they’re just back from the old country—beenat Cambridge, too. I’ve got a fairish teamjust taken up. Mr. Blount with two of the girls, andCharlie 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 a224note to Mrs. Fotheringay early this morning. They’llcome, 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 goaway with a clear conscience, as far as our guests areconcerned?”

“I’ll be responsible, sir! you may trust me andmother, 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 notstart until eleven o’clock, rested tranquil in his mind.Miss Laura, his companion of the morning, let himknow that for household reasons her society wouldnot be available until the drag was ready to start—butthat he would find a good store of books in thelibrary upstairs, also writing materials; if he hadletters to answer, the contents of the post-bag in thehall would reach Hobart at six o’clock.

To this haven of peace Blount betook himself,satisfied that he would have a sufficiency of outdoorlife before the end of the day, and not unwilling toconclude pressing correspondence, before commencingthe round of gaiety which he plainly saw was cut outfor him. There was a really good collection of booksin the spacious library, from the windows of which anextensive view of wood and wold opened out. Hefelt tempted by the old records of the land, calf-boundand numbered with the years of their publication,but resolutely sat down to inform Tregonwell ofhis whereabouts, with the probable duration of hisstay in the district; warning him to write at once if225any change took place in the prospects of theComstock. He also requested the secretary of theImperial Club at Melbourne to forward to hisHobart address all letters and papers which mightarrive. This done, he satisfied himself that he wasoutwardly fit to bear inspection, presented himself inthe hall a few minutes before the time named for thestart of the drag party, which he found was to beaccompanied by a mounted escort. A distinguishedlooking neighbour whom everybody called “Dick,”evidently on the most kindly, not to say affectionateterms with all present, was here introduced to him asMr. Richard Dereker of Holmby—one of thosefortunate individuals, who come into the world giftedwith all the qualities which recommend the ownerequally to men and to women of all ranks, classes,and dispositions. Handsome, gay, heir to a fineestate, clever, generous, manly, he was fortune’sfavourite, if any one ever was. He had already cometo the front in the Colonial Parliament; there it wassufficient for him to offer himself, for society todeclare that it was folly for any one to think ofopposing his election. He had been invited to jointhe party, and as the idea of disappointing thecompany was too painful to contemplate, he agreedat once to join the mounted division. As, however,he had ridden twenty miles already, Philip Claremontinsisted on handing over the reins of the drag to him,and sending for a fresh hackney, prepared to followthe drag on horseback. “Did Mr. Dereker drivewell?” Mr. Blount asked his next neighbour—as hehad noticed the four well-bred horses, in high condition,giving young Claremont enough to do to hold226them, 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—“thebest four-in-hand whip in the island.Phil is a very fair coachman, but there’s a finishabout Dereker, that no other man can touch.”

So, when the all-conquering hero, drawing on hisneatly fitting doeskin gloves, lightly ascended to thebox seat, the helpers at the leaders’ heads releasedthose fiery steeds: as Mr. Dereker drew the reinsthrough his fingers, and sat up in an attitude ofwhich Whyte Melville would have approved, everyfeminine countenance in the party seemed irradiatedwith a fresh gleam of brilliancy, while the teammoved smoothly off. The roads of Tasmania in thatday—formed chiefly with the aid of convict labour, ofwhich an unlimited supply was available for publicworks—were the best in Australasia. Well-gradedand metalled—with mile stones at proper distances—linedwith hawthorn hedges, trimly kept for themost part—passing through quiet villages where thehorses were watered, and the landlord of the innstood with head uncovered, according to traditionalcourtesy, there was much to remind the stranger ofthe mother land; to support the intercolonial contentionthat Tasmania was the most English-appearingof 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, betweenwhom and himself Miss Laura Claremont was seated,he learned that the larger estates from one of which he227was coming, and to another of which he was going, hadbeen acquired by purchase or grant, at an early stageof the occupation of the colony. The area of fertileland being more circ*mscribed than in the colonies ofNew South Wales and South Australia, the homemarket good, and the Government expenditureduring the transportation system immense, whilelabour was cheap and plentiful, it followed thatagricultural and pastoral pursuits became for a successionof seasons most profitable.

Hence, the country gentlemen of the land, as inthe old days of the West Indian planters, wereenabled 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 ofthe land and the richness of the soil, the distancesbetween the estates were not so great as in NewSouth Wales; were therefore convenient for socialmeetings, for races, steeplechases, cricket, shootingand hunting; Reynard’s place being supplied by thewild dog, or “dingo,” who gave excellent sport, beingboth fast and a good stayer. Like his British prototype,he was a depredator, though on a more importantscale: sheep, calves and foals falling victimsto his wolfish propensities. So his pursuit answeredthe double purpose of affording excellent sport, andridding the land of an outlawed felon.

With reference to hunting, of which old Englishpastime Mr. Dereker was an enthusiastic supporter,he explained that owing to the estates and farmsbeing substantially fenced, horses that could negotiatethe high and stiff rails were a necessity. Thebreeding of hunters and steeplechasers had been228therefore encouraged from the earliest days of thecolony. Hacks and harness horses for similar reasons.“So that,” said Mr. Dereker, allowing his whip torest lightly on his off side wheeler, “I don’t thinkyou will find a better bred, better matched team inan English county than this, or four better hackneysthan those which are now overtaking us.”

Certainly, Mr. Blount thought, there was noreason to dispute the assertion. The team they satbehind, two bays and two greys, driven chequerfashion, a grey in the near lead, and another in theoff wheel, would be hard to beat. They were,perhaps, hardly so massive as the English coachhorse, but while less powerful and upstanding, theyshowed more blood and were generally handsomer.This might account for the ease with which theyaccomplished the twenty mile stage in little over thetwo hours, and the unchanged form which theycarried to the journey’s end, with a fairly heavy loadbehind them. As for the hackney division, whenMiss Dalton and her companion overtook the coachjust before they turned into the drive at Holmby,there was a general expression of admiration fromthe party, as the beautiful blood mare that she rodereined up, tossing her head impatiently, while herlarge, mild eye, full nostril, and high croup boretestimony to the Arab ancestry.

“Yes! Zuleika is a beauty!” said Miss Laura,looking with pardonable pride at the satin coat anddelicate limbs of the high-caste animal, “and thoughshe makes believe to be impatient, is as gentle as alamb. She is my personal property—we all have ourown horses—but I lent her to Grace Dalton to-day,229for her palfrey, as the old romancers say, met with anaccident. She is a fast walker, and will show offgoing up the drive.”

“You appear to have wonderfully good horses ofall classes in Tasmania,” said the guest; “indeed inAustralia generally, judging by those I saw in Victoriaand New South Wales—but here the hackneys andharness horses seem to have more ‘class.’”

“For many years,” said Mr. Dereker, “we have hadthe advantage of the best English blood—withoccasional 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 thetreatment of this fascinating subject till after lunch,when the ladies have retired.” As he spoke, heturned into the by road which led to the lodge gate,which, opened by an aged retainer, admitted them toa well-kept avenue shaded by oaks and elms, andlined by hawthorn hedges. The house was a largeand handsome country home, differing in style andarchitecture from Hollywood Hall, but possessing allthe requisite qualifications for hospitality needed by amanor house. As they drove up to the entrancesteps, a fine boy of fourteen ran out and assisted MissClaremont to descend, after which he nimbly climbedup beside the driver, saying, “Oh! Mr. Dereker, isn’tit a jolly team?—won’t you let me drive round to thestables; 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,230who, indeed, took over the reins in a very workman-likemanner, “besides they’ve done twenty miles witha load behind them. Aren’t you going to stay allnight?”

“Might have thought of it, Reggie, but the ladiesare not prepared; we must get your sister to comeinstead—you too, if your father will let you. Isuppose Joe and Bertie are at home? How doesTasmania strike them after the old country?”

“Oh! they’re jolly glad to get back, though they’vehad a ripping time of it. Father says they must setto work now for the next few years. Who’s the manthat was next to you? Englishman, I expect!”

“Yes! Mr. Blount, only a year out. Seems a goodsort, partner with Tregonwell in that new silver mine,the Eldorado.”

“My word! he’s dropped into a good thing, theysay it’s ever so rich, and getting better as they godown. I must get father to let me go to the Laboratoryin Melbourne, and study up mineralogy. It’s thebest thing going, for a younger son. I don’t want tobe stuck at a farm all my life, ploughing and harrowingfor ever. Joe and Bertie will have the old place, andI must strike out, to get anything out of the common.”

“Quite right, Reggie, nothing like adventure, onlydon’t go too fast. Here we are.”

Reggie pulled up in the centre of a square, on all sidesof which was a goodly number of stalls, loose boxes,cow houses, and all things suitable for a great breedingestablishment, where pure stock of all kinds werelargely reared. The horses were promptly taken outand cared for, while Mr. Dereker, admiringly gazedat by the whole staff, exchanged a few words of231greeting with the head groom, and older stable men,before he accompanied Master Reggie to the greathall, which was evidently used for morning reception.

It had magnificent proportions, and was decorated,according to traditional usage, with the spoils of thechase—mostly indigenous, though the forest trophiesgave evidence that the men of the house had notalways been home-keeping youths. In addition tofine heads of red, and fallow deer, kangaroo skins, anddingo masks, “tigers” and “devils” (Australianvariety) stuffed, as also the rarer wombat and platypus,there were trophies which told of hunting partiesin the South African “veldt,” and the jungles ofHindostan. Horns of the eland, and the springbok,alternated with lion and tiger skins, bears andleopards!

The sons of the first generation of landholders hadgone far afield for sport and adventure before theydecided to settle down for life, in the fair island whichtheir fathers had won from the forest and the savage.

There was scant leisure to muse over these, or othergratifying developments, as the buzz of conversation,extremely mirthful and vivacious, which was in fullswing when Mr. Dereker and his young companionentered the hall, was apparently accelerated by theirarrival.

A certain amount of chaff had evidently beendirected against the two collegians, so lately returnedfrom their university. How did the men and maidensof the old country compare with their compatriots here—inathletics, in field sports, in looks (this related onlyto the feminine division), and so forth? Mr. Joe andMr. Bertie Bowyer had been apparently hard set to hold232their ground; beset as they were by sarcastic advice,adjured to keep to the strict line of truth on one side—butnot to desert their native land on the other—theywere in imminent danger of wreck fromScylla, or Charybdis. Their opinions were chiefly asfollows:

In athletics and field sports the colonists held theirown fairly well, with perhaps a trifle to spare.Notably in the hunting field; the small enclosuresand high stiff fences of Tasmania giving them practiceand experience over a more dangerous line ofcountry than any in Britain. In horsemanship,generally, the colonists were more at home, fromhaving 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 Australiansshowed a disposition to excel. Already a fewprofessionals from Sydney had shown good formand staying power. In boating there was a distinctand growing improvement, few of the Oxford andCambridge boat-races being without a colonist inone or other crew. There was often one in both.This state of matters is hailed with acclamation. Thegreat advantage which the old country possessed inthe way of sport lay in the social environment. Thedifference between its pursuit here and in Britainconsisted in the fact that the seasons were carefullydefined, and the laws of each division strictly adheredto. Moreover, in whatever direction a man’s tasteslay, hunting, fishing, shooting, or coursing, he wasalways sure of the comradeship of the requisitenumber of enthusiastic habitués and amateurs.

After lunch, which was a conspicuously cheerful233reunion, it was decided that a start homeward was tobe made at four o’clock sharp. In the meantime,the brothers Bowyer intimated their intention to driveover in a mail phaeton, which they had brought outwith them, built by Kesterton of Long Acre, with allthe newest improvements of the most fashionablestyle. One of the Misses Bowyer and her friend,Jessie Allan, an acknowledged belle from Deloraine,would join the party; Reggie might come too, ashe was a light weight, and would be useful for openinggates. The intervening time was spent in exploringthe orchard and gardens, both of which were on anunusually extensive scale. The fruit trees, carefullypruned and attended to, were of great age. IndeedMr. Blount felt impelled to remark that apparentlyone of the first things the early settlers seem to havedone, after building a house, not a mansion, for thatcame afterwards, was to plant a garden and orchard.

“Our grandfathers,” said Mr. Joe Bowyer, “remindme of the monks of old, who, in establishing theabbeys, which I always examined in our walkingtours, for I am an archaeologist in a very small way,always took care to choose a site not far from a troutstream, and with good meadow lands adjoining,equally suitable for orchard, corn or pasture. Theseestates mostly commenced with a Crown grant of afew thousand acres, such as were given at the discretionof the early Governors, to retired officers of thearmy and navy, many of whom decided to settle permanentlyin the island. The grantee had a certaintime allotted to make his choice of location. This heemployed in searching for the best land, with accessto markets, &c. In a general way, the country being234open, and there being at that time no system of saleby auction of bush land, the nucleus was secured ofwhat 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 becomemore valuable still. Do you look forward tospending the whole of your lives here, you and yourbrother, or retiring to England, where your rents, Ishould suppose, would enable you to live very comfortably?”

“We might have a couple of years in the oldcountry,” said the Tasmanian squire, “before we gettoo old to enjoy things thoroughly, but after a runover the Continent, for a final memory, this is ournative 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, literaturesuch as can be seen and enjoyed in such perfectionnowhere else, why leave them for ever?”

“Yes, of course, all that is granted, but a man hassomething else to do in the world but merely toenjoy himself, intellectually or otherwise. This landhas made us, and we must do something for it inreturn. Luxuries are the dessert, so to speak, of themeal which sustains life. They fail to satisfy orstimulate after a while. We are Australians bornand bred; in our own land we are known and havea feeling of comradeship with our countrymen ofevery degree. The colonist, after a few years, hasan inevitable feeling of loneliness in Europe, whichhe cannot shake off. It is different with an Englishmanhowever long he has lived here. He goes home to235his family and friends, who generally welcome him,especially if he has made a fortune. Even they,however wealthy and used to English life, often returnto Australia. There is something attractive inthe freer life, after all.”

“Yes, I suppose there must be,” and a half sighended the sentence, as he thought of Imogen Carrisforth’shazel eyes and bright hair, her frank smileand joyous tones, a very embodiment of the charmand graces of divine youth. A cloud seemed tohave settled upon his soul, as his companion ledthe way to the entrance hall, where the whole partywas collecting for the homeward drive. However,putting constraint upon his mental attitude, he tookhis seat with alacrity beside his fair companion ofthe morning.

The return drive was made in slightly better timethan the morning journey, the English mail phaetonof the Messieurs Bowyer, with a pair of exceptionaltrotters, taking the lead. The mounted contingentfollowed at a more reasonable pace, as they had fromtime to time to put “on a spurt” to come up withthe drag, harness work, as is known to all horsem*n,keeping up a faster average pace than saddle. However,everybody arrived safely at the Hall in excellentspirits, as might have been gathered from the cheerful,not to say hilarious, tone which the conversation haddeveloped. Mr. Blount, in especial, whose ordinaryoptimism had reasserted sway, told himself that (withone exception) never had he enjoyed such a deliciousexperience of genuine country life. There was nomore time available than sufficed for a cup of afternoontea and the imperative duty of dressing fordinner. At this important function the mistress of thehouse had exercised a wise forecast, since, when thegreat table in the dining-room, duly laid, flowered,and “decored with napery,” met the eyes of thevisitors, it was seen that at least double as manyguests had been provided for as had assembled237at 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 yourleft—wisdom and beauty, you see—so you can’t gowrong. Philip, my boy! you’re to take the rightcentre, with Joe Bowyer and Miss Fotheringay onone side, Laura and Mr. Blount on the other. JackFotheringay fronts you, with any young people hecan get. I daresay he’ll arrange that. You mustforage for yourselves. Now I can’t pretend to doanything more for you. I daresay you’ll shakedown.”

So they did. There was much joking and pleasantinnuendo as the necessary shufflings were made,brothers and sisters, husbands and wives having to bedisplaced and provided with neighbours not so closelyrelated. Nothing was lacking as far as the materialpart of the dinner was concerned—a famous saddleof mutton, home-grown from a flock of Southdownskept in the park, descended from an early Englishimportation; a grand roast turkey, upon which theall-accomplished Mr. Dereker operated with practisedhand, as did the host upon the Southdown, expatiatingat intervals upon the superiority of the breed formutton purposes only. The red currant jelly was aproduct of the estate, superintended in manufactureby one of the daughters of the house; trout from theriver, black duck from the lake, equal to his canvas-backrelative of the Southern States; a haunch, too,of red deer venison, Tasmanian born and bred. Forthe rest, everything was well cooked, well served, andexcellent of its kind. Worthy of such viands was theappetite of the guests, sharpened by the exercise and238a day spent chiefly in the open air, the keen, fresh,island atmosphere.

The host’s cellar, famous for age and quality inmore than one colony, aided the general cheerfulness.So that if any of the fortunate guests at that memorabledinner had aught but praise for the food, thewines, the company, or the conversation, they musthave been exceptionally hard to please. So thoughtMr. Blount, who by and by joined the ladies, feelingmuch satisfied with himself and all the surroundings.Not that he had done more than justice to the host’sclaret, madeira, and super-excellent port. He was onall occasions a temperate person. But there is nodoubt that a few glasses of undeniably good wine,under favourable conditions, such as the close of anadmirable dinner, with a dance of more than commoninterest to follow, may be considered to be an aid todigestion, as well as an incentive to a cheerful outlookupon 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, inthe opinion of the weather-wise, an early summer,which prediction is chiefly falsified. But while thisshort glimpse of Paradise is granted to the sons ofmen, no phrase can more truly describe it. Cloudlessdays, warmth, without oppressive heat, tempered bythe whispering ocean breeze, beseeching the permissionof the wood nymphs to invade their secrethaunts, all flower, and leaf, and herb life responsive tothe thrilling charm—the witchery of the sea voices.

Such had been the day. That the drives and rides239through the green woodland, the hill parks, themeadow fields, had been absolutely perfect all admitted.Now the evening air seemed to have gainedan added freshness. When the French windows ofthe ballroom were thrown open it was predicted thatmany a couple would find the broad verandahs, oreven the dry and shaded garden paths, irresistiblyenticing after the first few dances.

Such, indeed, was the case. What with accidentaland invited guests, the number had been increased tonearly twenty couples, all young, enthusiastic, fairlymusical, and devoted to the dance.

The music, indeed, had been an anxiety to thehostess. The piano was a fine instrument, luckily inperfect tune. Half the girls present could play dancemusic effectively. But another instrument or twowould be such an aid in support.

Then inquiry was made; Chester of Oaklands wasa musical amateur, the violin was his favouriteinstrument, he was so good-natured that he couldbe counted upon. Then there was young Grantof Bendearg, who played the cornet. So, messengerswith polite notes were despatched on horseback, andboth gentlemen, being luckily found at home, weresecured. The band was complete. Mr. Blount, withproper precaution, had secured the hand of MissLaura Claremont at dinner, for two waltzes, a polka,and the after-supper galop; among her sisters andthe late arrivals he had filled his card. These hadbeen written out by volunteer damsels during theafter-dinner wait.

He had, therefore, no anxiety about his entertainmentfor the evening. No time was lost after the240conclusion of the dinner. The young ladies fromCranstoun and Deepdene had, of course, broughtthe necessary evening wear with them. Mr. Blount’sEnglish war-paint had been stored in Melbournewhile he was learning something about gold-fieldsand cattle-lifting, this last involuntarily. He was“accoutred proper,” and as such, not troubled withanxiety about his personal appearance. The Bowyers,of course, were resplendent in “the very latest”fashion; as to canonicals, the other men were fairlyup to the standard of British evening toggery, andfor the few who were not, allowances were made, asis always the case in Australia. People can’t beexpected to carry portmanteaux about with them,especially on horseback, and as they were amongfriends they got on quite as well in the matter ofpartners as the others.

It certainly was a good dance. The music keptgoing nobly. The young lady at the piano wasreplaced from time to time, but the male musiciansheld on till supper time without a break. Whenthat popular distraction was announced half-an-hour’sinterval for refreshments was declared, after which agood-natured damsel stole in, and indulged theinsatiable juniors with a dreamy, interminable waltz.Then the two men recommenced with the leadinglady amateur, and a polka of irresistible swing andabandonment soon filled the room.

Certainly a dance in the country in any part ofAustralia is an object lesson as to the vigour andvitality of the race. All Australian girls dance well—itwould seem to be a natural gift. Chiefly slender,lissom, yet vigorous in health, and sound in constitution,241they dance on, fleet-footed and tireless, as thefabled Nymphs and Oreads of ancient Hellas. Hourafter hour passed, still unwearied, unsated, were thedancers, until the arrival of the soup suggested thatthe closure was about to be applied. But thedawnlight was stealing over the summit of themountain range when the last galop had come to anend, and a few couples were by way of coolingthemselves in the verandah or the garden paths.Here, and at this hour, Mr. Blount found himselfalone with Laura Claremont, who had indeed, inspite of faltering maiden remonstrance, completedher fifth dance with him. He was not an unstable,indiscriminate admirer, least of all a professionaltrifler with the hearts of women, but he had beenstrongly attracted (perhaps interested would be themore accurate word) by her quiet dignity, conjoinedwith refinement and high intelligence.

She had read largely, and formed opinions onimportant questions with greater thoroughness thanis the habit of girls generally. Without being arecognised beauty, she had a striking and distinguishedappearance. Her dark hair and eyes, thelatter large and expressive, the delicate complexionfor which the women of Tasmania are noted, incombination with a noble figure and graceful shape,would have given her a foremost position by looksalone in any society. The expression of her featureswas serious rather than gay, but when the humorouselement was invoked a ripple of genuine mirthspread over her countenance, the display of whichadded to her modest, yet alluring array of charms.

Such was the woman with whom Blount had been242thrown temporarily into contact for the last fewdays, and this night had shown him more of herinward thoughts and feelings, unveiled as they wereby the accidents of the dance and the driving party,than he had ever dreamed of. Returning to theballroom, the final adieus were made, and as hepressed her yielding hand he felt (or was it fancy?)an answering clasp.

On the following day he had arranged to leave forHobart, as he expected to deal with propositionslately submitted for the amalgamation of the originalprospecting claim with those adjoining, thus toinclude a larger area upon which to float a companyto be placed upon the London market, with anincreased number of shares.

This had been done at the suggestion of Mr. Tregonwell,whose energetic temperament was constantlyurging him to cast about for improved conditionsof management, and a more profitable handling ofthe great property which kind fortune had throwninto their hands.

“What is the sense,” he had asked in his last letterfrom the mine, “of going on in the slow, old-fashionedway, just turning out a few thousand ounces of silvermonthly, and earning nothing more than a decentincome, this fabulously rich ore body lying idle, soto speak, for want of organisation and enterprise?The specimens already sent home have prepared theBritish investors for the flotation of a company, ofwhich a large proportion of the shares will be offeredto the public. I propose to call a meeting of theshareholders in Number One and Two, North, andSouth, and submit a plan for their consideration at once.

“With our property thrown in we can increase the243shares to five hundred thousand one pound shares,resuming a hundred thousand paid up original sharesfrom the prospectors. You and I, Herbert andClarke, pool the lot and put them before the public,allotting so many to all applicants before a certainday—after which the share allotment list will beclosed. With the increased capital, we can thencarry out and complete such improvements as areabsolutely necessary for the working of the mine onthe most productive scale, ensuring a return of almostincredible profits within a comparatively short period.In a series of years, the price of silver may fall—themoney market, in the event of European wars, becomerestricted, and in fact the future, that unknownfriend or enemy to all mundane affairs, may blightthe hopes and expectations which now appear sopromising.

“Everything is favourable now, the mine, the output,the market—money easy, machinery availableon fair terms. But we don’t know how soon a cloudmay gather, a storm—financial or political—may burstupon us. The directors in the great Comstock Minein America looked at things in that light—doubledtheir capital, quadrupled their plant, built a railway,and within five years banked dollars enough to enablethe four original prospectors (I knew Flood andMackay well—worked with them in fact—when wewere all poor men) to become and remain millionairesto the end of their lives. Meanwhile giving entertainments,and building palaces, which astonished allEurope, and America as well—a more difficult matterby far.

“Now, what do we want, you will ask, for all thisdevelopment, this Arabian Night’s treasure house?244I say—and I am talking strict business—that we musthave, presuming that the ‘Great Tasmanian ProprietaryComstock and Associated Silver MinesCompany, Limited,’ comes off, and the shares will beover-applied for twice over—what do we want, Irepeat? A battery with the newest inventions andimprovements—a hundred stamps to begin with. Itmay be, of course, increased; we shall provide forsuch a contingency.

“Secondly, we must have a railway—from the mineto the port—to carry our men—materials, suppliesgenerally. We can’t go back to this Peruvian modeof transit-carrying—on men’s backs, at a frightfulwaste of time and money. We can’t afford the time—it’snot a question so much of money as of time,which is wasting money at compound interest. Wewant a wharf at Strahan and a steamer of our own totake the ore to Callao. She’ll pay for herself withinthe year. Is that all? I hear you asking with yourcynical drawl, which you affect, I know you, whenyou’re most interested.

“No, sir! as we all learnt to say in the States—thebest comes last. We want a first-class Americanmining manager—a real boss—chock full of scientifictraining from Freiberg, practical knowledge gatheredfrom joining the first crowd at Sutter’s Mill—andmore important than all, the knack of keeping acouple of thousand miners, of different creeds,countries and colours, all pulling one way, and himkeeping a cool head in strikes and other devilriesthat’s bound to happen in every big mine in theworld, specially when she’s doin’ a heap better thancommon—see! His price is £5,000 a year, not a245cent less—if you want the finished article!” Here,Mr. Tregonwell’s fiery eloquence, albeit confined tocold pen and ink, led him into the mining Americandialect, so easy to acquire, so difficult to dislodge—whichhe had picked up in his early experiences. Inthe class with which he had chiefly associated inearlier years, and to which he belonged in right ofbirth, he could be as punctiliously accurate in mannerand speech, as if he had never quitted it. With acertain reluctance, as of one committing himself to avoyage upon an unknown sea, his more prudent, butless practical partner gave a guarded consent to thesedaring propositions, premising, however, that thecompany must be complete in legal formation andthe shares duly allotted, before a cheque was signedby Frampton Tregonwell and Company, in aid ofoperations of such colossal magnificence.

Mr. Blount excused himself from accepting apressing invitation to remain another week at thisvery pleasant reproduction of English country houselife, on the plea of urgent private affairs, but heacceded to Mr. Dereker’s suggestion that he shouldstay a night with him at Holmby, on the way toHobart, where he would undertake to land him anhour or two before the coach could arrive. This wasa happy conjunction of business and pleasure, againstwhich there was no valid argument. So, with manyregrets by guest and entertainers, and promises onthe part of the former to return at the earliestpossible opportunity, he after breakfast started in Mr.Dereker’s dog-cart from the hospitable precincts ofHollywood Hall.

Holmby, the well-known headquarters of the246sporting magnates of the island, was reached just“within the light,” though, as the road was exceptionallygood—metalled, bridged, and accurately gradedall through—the hour of arrival was not of greatconsequence.

Mr. Dereker was a bachelor, and had mentionedsomething about bachelor’s fare and pot luckgenerally, to which Mr. Blount, feeling equal toeither fortune, had made suitable reply. Rather tohis surprise, however, as his host had driven roundto the stables they saw grooms and helpers busy intaking out the team of a four-in-hand drag.

The equipage and appointments arrested his attention,and caused him to utter an exclamation. Theyconstituted indeed an uncommon turn-out. AnEnglish-built coach—such as the Four-in-hand andthe coaching clubs produce on the first day of theseason, for the annual procession, so anxiouslyawaited, so enthusiastically watched,—complete withevery 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-bittengreys, wonderfully matched, and sufficientlylarge and powerful to warrant their easy action infront of so heavy a drag, as the one in which theyhad been driven over. Their blood-like heads, andstriking forehands, not less than their rounded backribs, and powerful quarters, denoted the fortunateadmixture of the two noblest equine families—theArab and the English thoroughbred: of size andstrength they had sufficient for all or any harnesswork, while their beauty and faultless matchingwould have graced any show-ground in England.

247“This team was bred by a relative of mine, who isa great amateur in the coaching line, and is thoughtto be the best team in Australasia! His place,Queenhoo Hall, is only fifteen miles off. He is aconnection by marriage: therefore we don’t stand onceremony. I suspect he is giving his team an airingbefore driving them to the Elwick Races next month,where he always turns out in great style. You willnot have a dull evening, for his wife and a niece ortwo are sure to have accompanied him.”

In passing through the outer hall, such an amountof mirthful conversation reached the ear, as led to thebelief in Mr. Blount’s mind, that either the number ofthe Squire’s nieces had been under-stated, or that,according to the custom of the country, the coachhad been reinforced on the way. So it proved to be—thehall was apparently half full of men andmaidens, unto whom had been added a few marriedpeople, as well as a couple of subalterns from aregiment then quartered in Hobart. The chaperonswere not noticeably older than their unmarriedcharges, so that the expectation of a dance was fullyjustified.

Mr. Blount was introduced to the “Squire,” as hewas universally called, as also to his nieces, twoattractive-looking girls; and of course, to all theother people, civil and military. He felt as he oncedid in the west of Ireland, where he accepted somany invitations to spend a month, that the numberof months would have had to be increased if he hadnot more than a year in which to keep holiday. Hecomplimented the Squire, with obvious sincerity, onhis wonderful team, and promised, strictly reserving248compliance until after the flotation of the greatmining company, to visit him at Queenhoo Hall inthe summer time now approaching. The dinner andthe dance were replicas of those he had enjoyed atHollywood. Here he had another opportunity ofadmiring the lovely complexions, graceful figures,and perfect grace and fleetness of the daughters ofthe land in the waltz or galop, and when he startedfor Hobart soon after sunrise, the drive through thefresh morning air dispelled all feelings of weariness,which, under the circ*mstances, he might have felt,after hearing the co*ck crow two mornings runningbefore going to bed.

“Heaven knows how long this sort of thing mighthave lasted, if that letter of Tregonwell’s had notturned up last night,” he told himself. “There is atime for all things—and if I do not mistake, it is hightime now, as our pastors and masters used to say, tomake a stern division between work and play—‘poculatumest, condemnatum est,’ so ‘nunc estagendum’ in good earnest.”

Hobart, reached two hours before the coach couldhave drawn up before the post-office, reassured himas to Mr. Dereker’s guarantee holding good. A cabfrom the nearest stand bore him and his luggage tothe Tasmanian Club, where, freed from the distractionsof country houses, he was able to collect histhoughts before attacking the great array of lettersand papers, which met his eye when he entered hisroom.

A copy of the morning paper reposing on thedressing-table disclosed the fact in an aggressiveheadline that the Proprietary Tasmanian Comstock249and Associated Silver Mines Company (Limited) wasalready launched upon the Australian mining world,and indeed upon that of Europe, and the Universegenerally.

“The Directors of this magnificent silver property,which includes the original Comstock Claim—amalgamatedwith the Associated Silver MinesCompany we understand”—wrote the fluent pen ofthe Editor of the Tasmanian Times—“have at lengthsuccumbed to outside pressure, and in the interest ofthe British and Colonial Public, consented to formthese mines of unparalleled richness into a company.The Directors are Messrs. Valentine Blount, FramptonTregonwell, and Charles Herbert and John WesterfieldClarke, names which will assure the shareholdersof honourable and straightforward dealing at thehands of those to whom their pecuniary interests arecommitted. These names are well and favourablyknown in England, in Mexico, in the United Statesof America, and the Dominion of Canada. Commentis superfluous—they speak for themselves.

“Wherever gold or silver mining is carried on thenames of Clarke and Tregonwell are familiar as ‘householdwords’ and always associated with skilledtreatment and successful operations. That thisenterprise will have a beneficial effect not only uponthe mining, but on the commercial, and all otherindustries of Tasmania, lifting her, with her fertilesoil, her equable climate, her adaptability for allagricultural and pastoral products to her properplace in the front rank of Australian colonies nosane man can henceforth doubt. A line of steamersfrom Strahan to Hobart, a short though expensiverailway, and a metalled coach road, are among the250indispensable enterprises which Mr. Tregonwellassured our representative would be commencedwithout delay. Advance, Tasmania!”

Looking hastily through the pile of unopenedletters, but keeping private-and-confidential-appearingcorrespondence strictly apart, and relegating those inMr. Tregonwell’s bold, rapid handwriting, to a moreconvenient season, he started, and trembled, as hiseye fell upon a letter in Mrs. Bruce’s handwritingwhich bore the Marondah postmark. His heartalmost stopped beating, when an enclosed note fellout, still more likely to affect his inmost soul. Yes!it was in the handwriting, so closely scanned, sodearly treasured in the past, of Imogen Carrisforth.For the moment, a spasm of regret, even remorseaffected him painfully. He stood self-convicted byhis conscience of having lingered in frivolous, socialenjoyment, while uncertain of the welfare and feelingsof one who had aroused the deepest emotions of hisbeing, nor had he (with shame he reflected) taken allpossible means to discover to what circ*mstance itwas that his letters had been apparently treatedwith indifference or contempt.

Mrs. Bruce’s letter gave an explanation which,though not fully comprehensive, cleared up a part ofthe mystery, as far as Imogen was concerned. Itran as follows:—

“Dear Mr. Blount,—I am afraid you musthave thought us a very ill-mannered set of people,as it seems by your letter of — that you have notreceived any answer to your letters written the nightbefore you left Bunjil for Melbourne. Yet, it was251scarcely our fault. That poor lad who was drownedin 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 ina sense apologetic for my husband’s attitude incondemning you unheard. We both scolded himsoundly for deciding your case so hastily, in disregardof the laws of evidence. He particularly,who is looked upon as the best magistrate on theMarondah bench. We got him to hear reason atlast, and to write expressing regret that he had madeno allowance for your ignorance of our bush population,and their ways with stock. This letter was in thebags of the mail coach to Waroonga, and it also waslost when two horses were drowned at Garlung: thebridge being six feet under water. None of thepassengers were injured, but the coach was sweptdown the stream with the mail bags, which have notbeen recovered. It certainly was a most unluckyoccurrence, for all concerned.

“When your letter from Melbourne arrived, poorImogen was laid up with a bad attack of influenza,from the effects of which she was confined to bed forseveral weeks, her lungs having been attacked andpneumonia supervening; so that what with nursing her,and Mr. Bruce having left on a three months’ trip toQueensland, all correspondence was suspended for awhile. She was very nearly dying, and in fact wasgiven up by two out of three of the doctors whoattended her!

“Her good constitution pulled her through, andshe has regained her former health, though not herspirits, poor girl!

252“Then, after she was up, all these accounts of yourwonderful success in Tasmania, and large fortunederived from the Tasmanian Silver Mine (I can’trecollect its name) were circulated in the district.On account of this she did not write, as I wantedher to do, fearing (very foolishly, as I told her) lestyou might think her influenced by your alteredfortunes. She is not that sort of girl, I can safely assert.The man who touched her heart would remain thereinstalled, for richer, for poorer, till death’s parting hour.

“Whether you have said more to her than she hastold me—she is very reserved about herself—I cannotsay. I have written fully, perhaps too much so, as towhich I trust to your honour, but my sole intentionhas been to clear up all doubts on your part, as to thefeeling which actuates us as a family, about the pastmisunderstanding. I enclose a scrap which she gaveme reluctantly.

Mr. Blount picked up the half sheet of notepaper,which having kissed reverently, and indeed twicerepeated the action, he read as follows. Very faintand irregular were the characters:—

“What a chapter of accidents since you left! PoorJohnny Doyle drowned! my letter and Hilda’s lost.Your reply also never came.

“My illness, in which I was ‘like to die’ followingclosely.

“We thought you had left without troubling toanswer our letters—at least, they did. My sister haswritten you sheets, so I need not enlarge upon matters.Edward is still in Queensland. The weather is lovely253now, after the cold winter. If you can tear yourselfaway from Hobart, you might see what Marondahlooks like in early summer.

Mr. Blount’s reply, by telegram, was sent with nounnecessary loss of time:—

“Leaving for Melbourne and Marondah by to-morrow’ssteamer.”

Other letters, papers, circulars, requests, invitationsin shoals lay ready for inspection. All the tentativeappeals, complimentary and otherwise, which trackthe successful individual in war or peace, law, letters,or commerce. A large proportion of these were transmittedto the waste-paper basket—a piece of furniturenow rendered necessary by the volume of Mr. Blount’scorrespondence.

He felt inclined to burn the whole lot, exceptingthose relative to the development of the TasmanianComstock and Associated Silver Mines Company(Limited), now stamped on a score of large andportentous envelopes.

Making a final search, a letter was detached from asuperincumbent mass, the superscription of which hadthe Tumut and Bunjil postmarks. This was sufficientto arrest his attention. The handwriting, too, wasthat of Sheila Maguire, whose interest in hiswelfare did not seem to have declined.

“Dear Mr. Blount,—I little thought, when Iused to get up at all hours to make you comfortablein our back block shanty, that this humble individual254was ministering (that’s a good word, isn’t it? I’vebeen reading up at odd times) to the wants of aDirector 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 andalluvial then!

“Shows what a fine country Australia is, when agentleman may be nearly run in for ‘duffing’ onemonth, and the next have all the world bowing andscraping to him as a millionaire! That’s not my line,though, is it? The money, if you had ten times asmuch, wouldn’t make Sheila Maguire more your friend—yourreal friend—than she is now. The other wayon, if anything. And there’s a young lady down theriver—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 comeby that, or any man that’s contented to live like ablack-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 fellacross it.

“‘What the devil’s the girl driving at?’ I hear yousay. 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 inthe Great Comstock Associated. On the groundfloor. Original, like the Broken Hill Proprietary.

“An uncle of mine, old Barney Maguire, of BlackDog Creek, died a month ago, and left us boys andgirls five thousand apiece. He couldn’t read andwrite, but he had ten thousand acres of good freehold255land, river flats, too, and a tidy herd of cattle—everyone knows the ‘B. M.’ brand. Some good horses,too. Comes of saving and screwing. He lived by thecreek bank in an old bark hut with two rooms, nevermarried, and never gave one of us boys and girls thevalue of a neck-ribbon or a saddle-strap while he wasalive. I’m sending a cheque for the scrip, so makeyour secretary post them at once. As you’re adirector, you’ll have to sign your real name, so I’llknow what it is. I never was sure of the other.You’re born lucky, and I’m going to back you rightout. Perhaps I am, too, and might rise in life; whoknows? I’m going to work up my education on thechance. What I learned at She-oak Flat’ll stick to me.So we’ll see. And now for the postscript. I lookedit out—derived from post scriptum (written after).Never thought what ‘P.S.’ meant before. Easyenough when you know, isn’t it?

“Well, ‘let me see!’ says the blind man—oh! Iforgot; that’s vulgar—no more of that for Miss SheilaMaguire—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; comeback to the post, all of you! The straight tip isthis—‘a dead cert.’ I had it from my cousin, JoeMacintyre, her that was maid to Mrs. Bruce. MissImogen hadn’t influenza—only a bit of a cold; butshe was real bad and low, all the same, after a certaingentleman went away. No word, and no letters cameback. She’d sit and cry for hours. No interest in anything;not a smile out of her for days. Then she gotill, and no mistake; lower and lower—close up died.256Doctors gave her up. Had to go to Sydney forchange. I saw her in the train at Wagga. My word!I hardly knew her. She was that dog-poor andmiserable, pale as a ghost, I nearly cried. Now she’shome again, and looks better, Joe says.

“But if some one doesn’t turn up before the summer’swell on, I shall know what to think him whowas a man and a gentleman, but that no one abouthere will call either the one or the other again, leastof all,

“P.S. No. 2.—Strikes me this isn’t very different tothe Church Service, which begins with ‘Dearly beloved,’and ends with ‘amazement.’ What do youthink?”

Mr. Blount couldn’t help smiling at certain sentencesin this frank and characteristic epistle. Buthe looked grave enough at the concluding one. Thiswas the light then in which his conduct would appearto the rural inhabitants of the township and districtof Bunjil.

Simple and chiefly unlettered they might be, butshrewd and accurate to a wonderful degree in theirdiscernment of character.

It was evident that the false cavalier who “loved,and who rode away,” would have small considerationshown him on the day when he might fall in withhalf a dozen Upper Sturt men at annual show or racemeeting. There was a veiled threat in Sheila’s closingsentence, and though, in his or any other defaulter’scase, retributive justice might be stayed or wholly257miscarry, yet it was not a pleasant thought that anyact of his should bear the interpretation of bad faith;or that sentence of excommunication would, so tospeak, be pronounced against him from one end ofthe river and the great Upper Sturt district to theother. By gentle and simple alike there would beunanimous agreement on that score. From the“mountain men” of the Bogongs and Talbingo, tothe sun-burned plain-riders of the Darling, thevigorous English of the Waste would be searchedfor epithets of scorn and execration.

In the old Saxon days of the first Christian King,the epithet of “niddering” (worthless), which mencommitted suicide rather than endure, would havebeen decreed. Even the rude miners of the Westwould feel injured. From club to hotel, from thecool green, sunless forests of the Alpine chain, wherethe snow-fed rills tinkled and gurgled the long, brightsummer through, to the burning, gold-strewn desertsof 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 itrich” in another colony.

Luckily for his state of mind and the condition ofhis business prospects, Mr. Tregonwell happened toturn up a day earlier than he was expected, so thatby sitting far into the night in council with thatexperienced though fervid operator, things were putinto train; so that he and the resident directorswould, with the help of a power of attorney, arrangeall the advertising and scrip printing without furtheraid from Valentine Blount.

There was not much need for pushing ahead the258concerns of the Great Tasmanian Comstock, by whichname it was chiefly known and designated. Thewhole island seemed to be in a ferment. The publicand the share market only needed restraining. Itwas, of course, only in the hurry and crush of applicationsfor scrip, in resemblance to the South Sea—well,we’ll say, Excitement of old historic days. The blocksof silver ore, “native silver,” malachite, and otherspecimens exhibited behind a huge plate glass windowin Davey Street, had driven the city wild. Crowdscollected around it, and a couple of stalwart policemenwere specially stationed there by the inspectorto prevent unseemly crushing and riot. In additionwell-armed night watchmen were provided at theexpense of the Comstock Company for the nocturnalsafety of the precious deposits. The Pateena was toleave for her customary conflict with the rough wavesof Bass’s Straits at 12 a.m. So, after a hard night’swork, the “popular director” took a parting smokeand retired for what sleep was likely to visit him by8 a.m., when the two partners were to breakfasttogether. Mr. Blount had not a tranquil experienceof “tired nature’s sweet restorer.” “Little-River-Jack,”the Sergeant, and Sheila Maguire pursued oneanother through the Bunjil forest, accompanied bythe doomed mail-boy and Mr. Bruce. SergeantDayrell had apparently come to life again, and wasstanding pistol in hand with the same devilish sneeron 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 sparehorses upon which was tied the dead inspector andthe wounded trooper. All things seemed sad, funereal,259and out of keeping with the enforced gaiety andcordial hospitality which he had lately enjoyed. Itwas a relief on awakening to find, all unrefreshed ashe was, that he had ample time in which to recruit,by means of the shower bath and matutinal coffee, hishardly-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 andwas only anxious about the Hobart Courier, enteredthe breakfast room, all tokens of despondencyvanished from Mr. Blount’s countenance.

Then only he realised that a creditably early startwas feasible—was actually in process of operation.

“Look here!” exclaimed that notoriously earlybird, producing two copies of the Courier, of whichhe handed his friend one, “Read this as a preliminary,and keep the paper in your pocket for board-shipliterature.”

It was, indeed, something to look at, as the supplementdisplayed under gigantic headlines thisportentous announcement—

“Acting under legal advice, the Directors havedecided to close the share list of this unparalleledmine, of which the ore bodies at greater depths aredaily disclosing a state of phenomenal richness. Allapplications for shares not sent in by the fifteenth dayof the present month will be returned. If over-appliedfor—of which information will be furnishedby the incoming English mail—applicants will have260shares allotted to them in the order of theirpriority.”

This was to Mr. Blount sufficient information forthe present. The future of the mine was assured,and he was merely nervously anxious that no malignantinterference with the normal course of eventsshould prevent his arriving in Melbourne on the followingday, in time to take his berth in the SydneyExpress that afternoon—which indeed he had telegraphedfor the day before. The partners had arrivedon board the Pateena, now puffing angrily, with fullsteam up, a full half hour before the advertised time,owing to Mr. Blount’s anxiety not to be late, andwere walking up and down the deck, Tregonwell invain attempting to get his fellow director to listen todetails, and Blount inwardly fuming at the delay andcursing the Tasmanian lack of punctuality andgeneral slackness, when two shabbily-dressed menstepped on board, one of whom walked up to thefriends, tapped Mr. Blount on the shoulder, and producinga much crumpled piece of paper, said shortly,“I arrest you in the Queen’s name, by virtue ofthis Warrant!”

To describe Mr. Blount’s state of mind at thismoment is beyond the resources of the English language—perhapsbeyond those of any language.Rage, mortification, surprise, despair almost, struggledtogether in his mind, until his heart seemed bursting.

For a moment it seemed, as he threw off his captorwith violence, and faced the pair of myrmidons withmurder in his eye, as if he intended resistance in spiteof law, order, and all the forces of civilisation. But261his companion, cooler in situations of absolute perilas he was more impetuous in those of lighter responsibility,restrained him forcibly.

“Nonsense! keep calm, for God’s sake, and don’tmake a scene. Just allow me to look at the warrant,”he said to the apprehending constable. “I wish to seeif it is in order. I am a magistrate of the territory.I can answer for my friend, who, though naturallydisgusted, is not likely to resist the law.”

The men were placated by this reasonable treatmentof the position.

“The warrant seems in order,” said Tregonwell.“The strange part of it is that it should not havebeen cancelled all this time, as we know that noproceedings were taken by the police at Bunjil inconsequence of the non-appearance of the prosecutionfor the Crown. How this warrant got here andhas been forwarded for execution is the astonishingpart of the affair. Do you know,” he said, addressingthe peace officer, “how this warrant came into thehands of the Department here?”

“Forwarded for execution here, sir,” said the mancivilly, “with a batch of New South Wales warrants,chiefly for absconders, false pretences men, and otherswho have a way of crossing the Straits. It oughtn’tto have been allowed to run, as the case wasn’t goneon with. The acting clerk of the bench there is asenior constable, not quite up in his work; hehas made a mistake, and got it mixed up withothers. Most likely it’s a mistake, but all thesame, the gentleman must come with us for thepresent.”

“All right, constable, we’ll go with you, and make262no attempt to escape. Bail will be forthcoming—inthousands, if necessary.”

The steamer’s bell began to sound, and after a fewminutes, and a hurried colloquy with the captain, whopromised to see his unlucky passenger’s luggage deliveredat the Imperial Club, the friends descendedinto the boat, and Tregonwell read out the warrantin his hands. It was apparently in order:—

“To Senior Constable Evans and to all Police Officersand Constables in the Colony of Victoria.—Youare hereby commanded to arrest Valentine Blount—knownas ‘Jack Blunt,’ at present supposed to beworking in the ‘Lady Julia’ claim, forty miles fromBunjil, on the Wild Horse Creek, in company withPhelim and Patrick O’Hara, also George Dixon(known as Lanky), and to bring him before me orany other Police Magistrate of Victoria. This warrantis issued on the sworn information of EdwardHamilton Bruce, J.P. of Marondah, on the UpperSturt, and for such action this shall be your warrant.

“(Signed) H. Bayley, P.M.”

The sorely-tried lover felt much more inclined tofling himself into the waters of the Derwent, andthere remain, than to occupy for one moment longerthis ignominious position at the hands of the myrmidonsof the law. However, the next step, of course,was to interview the police magistrate of Hobart athis Court House, and after having explained thecirc*mstances, to apply for bail, so that the period ofdetention might be shortened as much as possible.This process of alleviation was effected without unnecessary263delay, the magistrate being a reasonable,experienced person, and as such inclined to sympathisewith the victim of malign fate, obviously not ofthe class with which he had been for years judiciallyoccupied.

The officer briefly stated the case, produced thewarrant, and delivered up his prisoner, who waspermitted to take a chair. Mr. Parker, P.M., scannedthe warrant with keen and careful eye before committinghimself to an opinion. After which hebestowed a searching glance upon Mr. Blount, andthus delivered himself:

“It appears,” he said, “that this warrant was issued,with several others, upon the sworn information ofEdward Hamilton Bruce, J.P., of Marondah, UpperSturt, who had reason to believe that the personnamed—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,’ instealing and disposing of certain fat cattle brandedE.H.B., the property of the said Edward HamiltonBruce. It is now the 20th of November,” said theworthy P.M., “and I note that this warrant wassigned on the 10th of September last. By a curiouscoincidence I have this morning received a communicationfrom the Department of Justice in Victoriainforming me that separate warrants were issued forthe persons named in the information, but that, owingto deficiency of proof and difficulty of identificationof the stock suspected to have been killed or otherwisedisposed of, the Crown Solicitor has ordered aNolle Prosequi to be entered. ‘In accordance with264which decision, notices of such action were signed bythe bench of magistrates at Bunjil, Victoria, and thewarrants, in the names of Phelim O’Hara, PatrickO’Hara, George Dixon (alias Lanky), and JohnCarter (alias Little-River-Jack), were cancelled. Butthrough inadvertence, the warrant in the name ofValentine Blount (otherwise Jack Blunt) had beenmislaid, and, with other documents, forwarded toJames Parker, Esq., P.M., Hobart. He is requestedto return the said warrant to the Department ofJustice, and if the said warrant has been by misadventureexecuted, to release at once the saidValentine Blount, known as “Jack Blunt.”

“That being the case, I have the pleasure to congratulateyou, sir, on your escape from a very unpleasantposition, and to apologise on behalf of theDepartment with which I am connected, for theunfortunate mistake, as well as for all consequencesto which it may have led in your case. Sergeant, letthe accused be discharged.”

Thus, after undergoing tortures, as to which thesame time spent on a rack of the period—say in thetime of His Most Christian Majesty, Philip of Spain—wouldhave been a trifling inconvenience, was ourunlucky détenu restored to liberty.

After bowing to the genial P.M., who had seen somany discomfitures, disasters, and disorders, thatnothing was likely to cause him surprise or disturb his265serenity, the friends returned to their club to lunch,as well as to make such arrangements for the morrowas might suffice for clearing out to Melbourne withthe least possible delay and public disturbance.Fortunately, another steamer on a different line, justarrived from Callao and the Islands, was due for anearly start in the morning. Mr. Blount resolved, afterdining at the club, to spend the night on board of herso as to have no bother about getting ready beforedaylight, at which time the skipper promised departure.Frampton Tregonwell, the friend in need,would bear him company and help to keep up hisspirits so rudely dashed until the time arrived for thepartial oblivion of bed, which, indeed, it was longbefore he found.

Next morning, however, the excitement of a galetook him out of his self-consciousness for a few hours,and the unfamiliar companionship of the passengersaided the cure. He was only partially recovered froma state of shock and annoyance, but could not helpbeing attracted by the men and women; they were ofrare and striking types, such as were around him, inall directions.

They were certainly cosmopolitan—grizzled islandtraders, sea-captains, and mates out of employmentat present. Adventurers of every kind, sort, anddegree, with their wives and families of all shades ofcolour and complexion. Speaking all languages indifferentlyill, Spanish and Portuguese, French,German and Italian, and, of course, English more orless undefiled. The men were fine specimens physically,bold, frank, hardy-looking, such as might be266expected to reply with knife and revolver to adverseargument. Handsome dark women and girls, withflashing eyes and unrivalled teeth, who seemed perfectlyat home, and regarded the wildest weather withcuriosity rather than with apprehension. Sydneyseemed familiar to many as their port of arrival anddeparture, which, having reached, they were morefree to find passage to the ends of the earth.

Such a happy-go-lucky unconventional crowd ofpassengers, it had rarely been Mr. Blount’s lot toencounter, far-travelled though he was. The captain,mates and ship’s crew were, in their way, equallyremoved from ordinary personages. One couldimagine the captain—a spare, saturnine American—apirate, suddenly converted by a missionary bishop—bearinghis captives of the lower hold, previouslydoomed to torture and spoliation, to a free port, thereto be released, unharmed, with all their goods andchattels scrupulously returned. Here was an opportunityaltogether unparalleled, presented to “anobserver of human nature.”

But it was like many other gifts of the gods, presentedto the dealer in the souls and bodies of hisfellow creatures (intellectually regarded), at theprecise time and place, when, from circ*mstances, hecould make no use of the situation. A banquet ofthe gods, and not the ghost of an appetite wherewithto savour it!

In his present mood, had Helen of Troy, accompaniedby Paris and Achilles, with Briseis as“lady help,” been one of the strangely assortedcrowd (there were half a dozen modern Greeks onboard, miners returning from an inspection of an267alleged “mountain of tin”)—even then he wouldnot have listened with interest to their respectfulcross-examination of the “goddess moulded” as toher adventures since the fall of Troy, or her well-groundedapprehension of her probable fate underadverse feminine rule.

All romance, sympathy, curiosity even were deadwithin him for the present. Fate had counter-checkedhim too often. He expected nothing, hoped nothing,but feared everything—until his arrival at the homesteadon the Upper Sturt, when he could see Imogen,pale, perhaps, and more fragile than when last sheturned her impatient horse’s head homeward—butinfinitely lovely and dearer than all, as having provedher loyalty to him, from their first meeting by thewaters of the Great River, in despite of doubt,calumny, and unjust accusation.

All these were gone and disposed of; now was theseason of faith and fruition—the reward of her love,and truth—of his constancy. Here his complacentfeeling of perhaps scarcely justified self-laudationfaltered somewhat. Yes! he had been true—he hadbeen faithful—any other feeling was merely involuntarydeflection from his ideal, and he was nowgoing to claim his prize!

The wind stilled. The sea went down. The starscame out. The soft air of the Great South Land,hidden away from the restless sea-rover for centuriesuntold, until the keel of the great English captainfloated into the peerless haven, enveloped the wave-wornbark, as with a mantle of peace and forgiveness;their voyage was practically, virtually, at an end.Mr. Blount remained on deck smoking with the more268hardened of the foreign passengers, who apparentlyneeded not sleep at all, until the midnight hour; thenwearily sought his cabin. Cabin indeed, he had none,for, determined to get away at all hazards, he hadexpressed his total indifference to such a luxury, andhis willingness to sleep under the cabin table, ifnecessary, only provided that he got a passage. Thecaptain said if that were so he could come, takinghis chance of a bed or sofa. However, he had beento sea before. A judicious douceur to the headsteward procured him, after a certain hour, one ofthe saloon lounges, and the privilege of dressing inthat important functionary’s cabin. Awake with thedawn, he found himself just in time to witness thesafe passage of the Donna Inez through the tumultuousharbour entrance of the “Rip,” and after a decentinterval, to arrive, undisturbed by anxiety aboutluggage, at the ever open door of the Imperial Club.

Here, with his property around him—apparentlysafe and uninjured—he began to find himself an independenttraveller of means and position again.He had been relieved of the horrible uncertainty ofdelay—the doubt and fear connected with a trial fora criminal offence, and all the other disagreeables, ifnot dangers, of a discreditable position. His railwayticket had already been taken for Waronga, whencethe coach on the ensuing morning, after a daylightbreakfast, would take him on to Marondah.

All went well. He saw again the rippling river,the friendly face of Mrs. Bruce—he had always delightedin that dear woman—so refined, so ladylike,and yet practical and steadfast. The ideal wife andmother—remote from the metropolis, and the frivolous269slaves of fashion—yet how infinitely superior to themall. He saw the fair Imogen coming to meet him,shyly repressing her joy and gratitude for the turnwhich their fortunes had taken, but only refraining onaccount of the spectators from throwing herself intohis arms. This she confessed afterwards, after adecent interval of explanation, and full confessionson both sides. Neither of them would own to havebeen the most overjoyed at the meeting, delayed as ithad been by an apparent conspiracy of all the powersof darkness.

Mr. Bruce had not as yet returned from the“Ultima Thule” of Western Queensland, where hehad a share in an immense cattle station. His stayhad been protracted and unsatisfactory. A dryseason had set in—had followed several rainless years,in fact—nothing could exceed the frightful position ofthe squatters in that district.

The destruction of stock was awful, unparalleled.Never since the first white man’s foot had touchedAustralia’s shore, had there been such loss, andprobable ruin (he wrote to his wife).

He should be glad to get back to Marondah, tosee some decent grass again, and hear the riverrippling through the calm still night, and the river-oaksmurmuring to the stars. That was something like acountry. He would take the first chance to sell outof Mount Trelawney, and never go out of Victoria foran investment again.

So Edward Bruce had written in a peaceablemood. He supposed a general amnesty must bedeclared, and all be forgiven and forgotten. By theway, he met Jack Carter (Little-River-Jack) at a place270not a hundred miles from Roma (he wrote). “He wasin a position to do me a service at a critical juncture,and did it heartily and effectively. So all scores arecleared between him and me. You mustn’t suppose,however, that I am in danger of my life, or thatbushranging, cattle-stealing, and an occasional interchangeof revolver shots, is part of the order of theday. What I mention is exceptional, and I don’twish it to go further for several reasons.

“The Manager, Mackenzie, and I were riding alongrather late one evening, and a good twelve or fifteenmiles from home. The weather (of course) was fine,but the hour was late, and the sun, which had beenglaring 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 Goornongand heading for Burnt Creek. Six men and a blackboy. Depend upon it, there’s something “cronk.”They might see us yet. Yes, they do! They’vehalted. Left two men and the boy with the mob, andthe 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 apart of that crowd that we broke up last year, a verydangerous lot! The big man with the beard is JoeBradfield, the best bushman in all Queensland, andperhaps Australia, to boot. The chap alongside himis “Jerry the Nut.” He’s a double-dyed scoundrel,if you like, twice tried for murder, and ought to havebeen hanged years ago, if he’d got his rights.Supposed to have shot “Jack the Cook,” whoquarrelled with him, and started in for Springsure togive the lot away, but never got there. Found dead271in the Oakey Creek with two bullets in him. Jerrywas proved to have overtaken him on the road; was thelast man seen with him alive. Put on his trial—astrong case against him, but not sufficient evidence.Here they come. We’ve seen them in possession ofstolen horses. I expect they’ve duffed them fromthat Bank station, that was taken over last week.They may think it safer to “rub us out.” They’revillains enough for anything. You’re armed, and my“navy, No. 1” is pretty sure at close quarters. Cutoff by —! we may have to ride for it too—’ As hespoke, three men emerged from a clump of brigalow atan angle from the line at which the ‘horse thieves’were riding. They also made towards us, and ridingat speed, seemed as if they desired to reach us atabout 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 wouldride over us. Then pulled up with the stock-horses’sudden halt, not brought up on theirhaunches, like those of the gaucho of Chile or thecowboy of the Western States, by the mercilesswrenching curb, but with the half pull of the plainsnaffle, the only bit the bushman knows, when withloose rein, and lowered head, the Australian camphorse drives his fore-feet into the ground, and stopsdead as if nailed to the earth.

“‘What the h—l are you two doing here?’ shoutedthe tall man, a Hercules in height and breadth ofshoulder, yet sitting his horse with the ease andcloseness of early boyhood, though his beard andcoal-black hair were already streaked with grey.272Tracking us down? My God! it’s the worst layyou was ever on. Isn’t a man to ride across a plainin the blasted squatters’ country without he has apass from a magistrate? That’s what it’s coming to.Well, you’re on the wrong lay this trip. Come alongback with us, or we’ll make yer.

“‘And look dashed quick about it, or ye’ll notcome back at all. Bring up the darbies, Joe! We’llsee how the bloomin’ swells like ’em.’

“As the last speaker uttered this threat, he and theother men raised their revolvers.

“‘I’ll see you d—d first,’ I replied (excuse badlanguage). ‘We’re from Trelawney this morning, andon our lawful business.’ Here I drew my revolver.

“The encounter looked doubtful, when the three newarrivals rode up, and, like the other bushmen, stoppeddead, with their horses side by side.

“‘No, yer don’t!’ said one of the new arrivals, aman as tall and massive as the first ‘robber’ (forsuch he seemed). ‘I’m not goen’ to stand by andsee Mr. Bruce, of Marondah, double-banked by youQueensland duffers while I’m round. There’s beentrouble between him and our crowd; but he’s a manand a gentleman, and I’m here to stand by him tothe 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 Proosiansat Waterloo, rather late in the day; but “better latethan 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 the273allies go their own way. No one’s goen’ to give youaway, if your own foolishness doesn’t. We’re on ourown ground, so hear reason and clear out. I heard abig 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 getback the way yer kem’ in. Take a fool’s advice, andget into the ranges again. This country’s too openfor your crowd, and you’ll have to do the gully-raker’sracket for a month or two, till the “derry’s”toned down a bit.’

“This apparently reasonable advice seemed to haveweight with the troop of highly irregular horse, as,after a short colloquy, they rode back to their companionsin charge of the horses, and heading themtowards the distant ranges, disappeared shortly fromsight.

“‘O’Hara!’ said I, ‘whatever you and your matesmay have done in the past—at any rate, as far as Iam concerned—is now past and gone. I freely forgiveanything that there may have been to forgive, inconsequence of your manly conduct to-day. If youwill come back with me to the head station, I daresay Mr. Mackenzie can find you something to do inthis bad season. Unfortunately, we have only toomany vacancies for bushmen like yourselves andJack Carter.’

“‘We’ll take your word for it, Mr. Bruce,’ saidLittle-River-Jack; ‘and, if we come to terms, there’ll beno station on the Upper Sturt that’ll lose fewer stock—barrin’from the season—while we’re to the fore.’

274“‘All right,’ said Mackenzie, ‘you’re just the chapswe want this awful season; and, now you’re goingstraight, each of you will be worth half a dozenordinary men.’”

The day was still warm, not much change from the110° in the shade which the sunset-hour had registered,but a gradual coolness commenced to o’erspreadthe heated landscape. “The stars rush out,at one strike comes the dark,” making an appearanceof coolness, to which the abnormal dryness of the airin mid-Australia lends a perceptible relief. Confidentof a welcome, and the hospitable reception of a head-station—alwayssuperior in comfort to the morecasual arrangements of the out-stations—the fivehorsem*n 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 inthe rear.

“‘I’d like to tell you, sir,’ said Carter, ‘how we firstgot acquainted, me and Mr. Blount, to put him rightwith you, because I heard a whisper that you thoughthe must be in with us, in the “cross” butchering line.’

“‘I don’t deny,’ I answered, ‘that I thought it verysuspicious that a man like him should be living withyou fellows, and yet have no idea that dishonest workwas going on?’

“‘All right, Mr. Bruce, don’t spare us. It was dishonest,there’s no two ways about it, and we chapsought to be ashamed of ourselves, as are well able toget a living straight and square, and under fear of noman. Now we’ve had a fright and been let off you’llnever hear another word against us. But I wanted tohave a word about Mr. Blount. If he had beencopped along with us, it would have been a cruelshame, a regular murder, and him as innocent as thechild unborn. His horse was knocked up, or nextdoor to it, when I came across him a few miles fromthe “Lady Julia”; I’d a few cattle with me, andasked him to help me drive them. He stayed at ourplace that night. The man I was selling them to276sent for them before daylight, and all he could hearwas them being let out of the yard.’

“‘He was a dividing mate after that, though?’ saidI, knowing that such mining agreements comprehendall knowledge in heaven and earth, and under thesea.

“Carter answered my unspoken thought when hesaid, ‘He bought Tumberumba Dick’s share, him aswent to Coolgardie, and if he knew mullock fromwash dirt, then, it’s as much as he did. As for cattle,he hardly knew a cow from a steer. Then he losthis moke and went down the river to get word ofhim.’

“‘Yes!’ I said. ‘I met him then; he came on mejust as I was shooting a small mob of wild horses.I had been watching for them for months. Theyseldom came so far in; but I dropped the stallionfirst shot, a noted grey, said to be thoroughbred; themares and foals wouldn’t leave him, so I got them all,one by one.’

“‘Mr. Blount was astonished, I suppose? Seems apity, too, they were a well-bred lot. I’ve had manya gallop after the same lot, thinkin’ to yard ’em, butthey always got away. Anyhow, they’re no blessedgood, if you do yard ’em; mostly sulk and alwaysclear the first chance. His cob, it seems, joined yourhorses, and was run in to the paddock. So you puthim up for the night and sent him home on his ownhorse. Came part of the way with him, you and theladies, and Black Paddy. Nigh hand to the “LadyJulia” you spotted your “E. H. B.” bullock with afresh brand on. And he never said nothen’. Nextday Black Paddy ran our tracks to the claim and the277stockyard, found where the last bullocks had beendriven to the Back Creek slaughter yards. That wasas plain as A B C, and we had to clear. Phelimwaited on to get his horse back that he’d lent him,and start after Pat and Lanky, who were well on theirway to Omeo.’

“‘All quite correct,’ I said; ‘but why didn’t he actstraightforwardly and tell me like a man that he hadbeen working in your claim?’

“‘Because he didn’t want to give us away, and if hesaid what he knew, but didn’t understand, the policewould have been up next day and collared the lot ofus before we had a chance to cut it.’

“‘But why was he so tender about your party?’ Isaid. ‘You had deceived him, and he might naturallyhave felt angry at being let in for aiding andabetting cattle stealers, and all the more anxious tosee you punished.’

“‘That’s all right, Mr. Bruce; but you see there wasanother reason why he stood by us, though he didn’twait an hour after he knew we were on the cross;wouldn’t take his share of the gold neither, which he’dworked as hard for as any of us.’

“‘What was the other reason?’

“‘Well, sir,’ rather shamefacedly, ‘he thought I’dsaved his life, as it were.’

“‘Saved his life? How could that be?’

“‘It was this way, sir.’ As he spoke, he lookedquite sad and confused. ‘You know that RazorBack ridge on the short track to Bunjil?’

“‘Yes! I was over it once, and a brute of a trackit was. That was where Paddy Farrell was killed.’

“‘The same; well, when we was coming along it278from Bunjil to the claim, that cob of his—a flat-countryhorse—got frightened, and had half a mindto 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. Islipped off, and held the cob, while he did the same,and started old Keewah along the track, with thereins tied to the stirrup-iron. My old moke trottedon, and the cob after him, till they came to the trap-yard,where we found them when we came up, halfan hour after. There wasn’t much in it. Any manwho’d lived in rangey country couldn’t have helpeddoin’ it; but he chose to believe I’d saved his life.So it was chiefly that that made him not let on to youabout where he’d lived. Nothing might have comeof it; but it was a close shave, and no mistake.’

“‘I’m very glad to hear the explanation, Carter. Idon’t see how he could have acted differently, as aman or gentleman. I shall write and tell him so.And now, a word with you; which you can pass onto your mates. Make no mistake, you’ve got a freshstart in life! You three fellows are young. Anythingthere is against you, as far as I know, is overand done with. These warrants are just waste paper.But be careful for the future. If you stick to theNundooroo station till the drought’s over, you’remade men. I’ll let the Inspector-General of Policeknow how you behaved.’

“‘All right, sir; we’re on. We won’t go back onyou,’ was his reply.

“‘You may expect to see me at Marondah, withinthe month, though travelling through a desert,as this country is virtually now, is very slow and279unsatisfactory. I must pick up a riding camel, a“heirie,” such as I’ve seen in the East, warranted tokeep going for twenty-four hours on end, withoutwater or food. However, I suppose rain will comesome time or other.’”

Thus fully exonerated, it may be believed thatBlount made the best use of his time at Marondah,where he had the field all to himself with the advantageof the most considerate of chaperons, inthe person of Mrs. Bruce, who had always been, asshe told him, his staunch supporter, even in the darkdays, when her husband forbade his name to bementioned, and when from adverse circ*mstances noletters had arrived to clear his character.

“I never doubted you for a moment,” murmuredImogen, “but it must be confessed, it was hard workholding to my trust in you, when so many rumourswere flying through the country. I never couldmake out why you joined such people at all, or whatyou were to gain by it. If you wished to know whata miner’s life was like, there are plenty of gentlemenglad enough to go into any venture of the sort, withthe aid of a little capital—men such as you havedescribed at the ‘Comstock’ or at Zeehan.”

“But how was I to find them?”

“Just the same way in which you would have donein England, through introductions to men of markout here. They would have advised you for yourgood. And there would have been no risk of yourbeing compromised by any action of theirs.”

“No doubt it was indiscreet of me, but I wantedto see for myself, and form my own opinion by280personal experience of a society so different fromany I had known before.”

“That is where you conceited Englishmen”—hereshe held up a warning finger—“make a mistake,indeed tons of mistakes. In vain we tell you thatthere is no special difference here between the classesof society, or the laws which rule them, and those ofyour own beloved country, which we are proud toresemble.”

“But are they not different?”

“Not radically, by any means. Any departurefrom 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. Looksas if he’d grow into a hunter.’ But there’s no realequality, nor can there be. Jones doesn’t expect it.”

“Mr. Bruce, I suppose, has much the same feelingfor the farmers here, and they meet on much thesame terms. Except when the suspicion of ‘duffing’comes in, eh? then—then—relations are strained,indeed, as between the same classes, if poaching wasdiscovered, and brought home to the guilty ones.”

They had these, with many other, talks anddisquisitions, such as are interesting to lovers, andlovers only, in the long delicious evenings andunquestioned idlesse which are the prerogatives ofthe halcyon days which follow a declared engagement,and before the completed drama of marriage.

The soft, mild months of the southern spring werenow heralding the less romantic season of theAustralian summer. The sun god was daily strengthening281his power, without as yet the fierce noondayglare or burning heat. Chiefly precious to themwere the moonlight walks by the river side when theshadows of the great willows which fringed the riverbank fell over the hurrying tide, when star sheen ormoonrays glinted through the close foliage or sparkleddiamond bright on the rippling bars. There was awinding path a few feet from the bank, accuratelymarked by the cattle and horses, which rovedunchecked through the great meadows.

Here the lovers were at liberty to indulge infullest confidences. He told her that he had lovedher from the very first moment that his eyes fellupon her, when, not knowing that any other thanMrs. Bruce was in the house he had been almostunconventional in the surprise of the meeting andhis instant admiration. “That moment sealed ourdestiny,” he said, “or rather, would have left me alifelong regret had I never set eyes on you again.And what was your feeling, Imogen?” lookingsuddenly into her eyes, which, lit up by a fairymoonray, seemed to his eager gaze to glow withunearthly radiance. So, in old days did the fabledOread enthrall the heart of the doomed shepherd orwoodsman, luring him to follow into her enchantedbower, 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 fellbefore his ardent gaze, “that I must have beensimilarly affected, why, I cannot tell, but the factremains that if you had never returned—and we had282not much time for love-making, had we, between thatday and your return to the ‘Lady Julia’ claim, andthe fascinating society of Mr. Little-River-Jack?—Ishould have ‘fallen into a sadness, then into a fast,thence into a weakness,’ and so on. As it was, I wasvery melancholy and low for a while, and betweenthat and influenza, very nearly ‘went out,’ as mymaid, Josephine Macintyre, phrased it. Then, whenI was coming round, and reaching the stage of ‘thecommon air, the sea, the skies, to “her” are openingParadise,’ and would have written to you, we heardthat you had become a millionaire or a ‘silver king’in Tasmania. It was foolish, I know, but I thought itmight look as if I wanted to recall you because ofyour wealth—a vulgar idea, but still one that worksfor good or evil in this silly life of ours. But now,all will be forgiven, ‘if this should meet the eye,’ &c.,as the advertisem*nts say. You will forgive me, andI will forgive you, and there will never be any moredoubts or despair, will there?”

That Mr. Blount made a short but impressivereply to this query may be taken for granted. Theriver marge, the sighing, trailing willows, the ripplingmurmuring stream, the friendly moon, all these wereconditions eminently favourable to “love’s youngdream.” Nor did they fail in this instance to ratifythe solemn, irrevocable vow, often lightly, rashly,falsely sworn, but in this instance repeated with allthe passion of ardent manhood, responded to withthe 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,283“that some day I should know why you came hereto lead an aimless, wandering life. I always thoughtthere was some mystery about it. Will you tell menow? It is lovely and mild, there could not be a bettertime. How clearly you can hear the ripple in theshallows. Was there a woman in it?”

“Of course there was, but mind, it all happenedseven years ago. So if what I say may be usedagainst me on my trial, I shall be dumb.”

“I’ve copied out depositions now and then, forEdward,” replied the girl, archly. “Having heard theevidence, do you wish to say anything? comes next. SoI’ll promise not to take advantage of your voluntaryconfession, if you make a clean breast of it, once forall. I have no fear of the dear, dead women, whoeverthey were.”

“You need not,” said Blount, as he drew her moreclosely to him, “not if Helen of Troy were of thecompany.”

On their return to the verandah, where they foundMrs. Bruce still occupied with the needlework, whichtook up (so she said), fortunately, so much of her time,Imogen pleaded fatigue and retired, leaving the fieldfree to her sister and the guest, who thereupon commenceda long, and apparently serious conversation.

Mr. Blount spoke more unreservedly of his privateaffairs than he had hitherto thought it expedient todo. Independently of his share in the Great ComstockCompany, for which he had already beenoffered a hundred thousand pounds—he had a handsomeallowance from his father—as also, thinking itmight be needed, a letter of credit upon the ImperialBank for five thousand pounds.

284“It will always be a puzzle to me and Imogen,”said Mrs. Bruce, “how, with all that money at yourdisposal, you should ever have run the risks you didin this gipsy business, with the people we found youwith, or would have done, if you had remained a fewdays longer with them. You didn’t want to learntheir language, like Borrow—what other reason couldthere be?”

“My dear Mrs. Bruce,” he replied, “you have beenso good, considerate, and friendly to me, that I mustmake a clean breast of it. I have already toldImogen all there is to tell of a by no means uncommonevent 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’; wehave not many romances of the kind in these quiethills, but of course they are not wholly unknown,even in our sequestered lives. You are going to tellme of your tragedy.”

“It was not far removed from the ordinary run ofsuch adventures, though there might easily have beena catastrophe. I was young, I said it was seven yearsago, since which I have industriously wasted life’s bestgifts, in trying to forget her. Beautiful, yes, as a dreammaiden! a recognised queen of society, flattered,worshipped, wherever her fairy footsteps trod; butvain, ambitious and false as the Lorelei, or the mermaiden,that lures the fated victim. More than oneman had thrown life, character, or fortune at her feet,unavailingly. I had heard this, but with the recklessconfidence of youth, I heeded not. I met her at thequiet country house of a relative; men being scarce,she condescended to play for so poor a stake as the285heart of a younger son, an undistinguished lover’sexistence, and she won!

“How could it be otherwise? She turned the fullbattery of her charms upon the undefended fort. Werode together, we fished the trout stream, moredangerous still. We read in the old library, morningafter morning, and here my not unmarked universitycareer served me well, as I thought. I had beenreading aloud from a novel of the hour, when, lookingup suddenly I saw a light in her eyes, which gave mehope, more than hope. I took her hand, I pouredout protestations, entreaties, vows of eternal love;whatever man has distilled from the inward fires ofsoul and sense, under the alembic of love at whiteheat, I found words for and poured into her notunwilling ear.

“She was visibly agitated. Her cold nature, serenelylovely as she always was, seemed to kindle into flameunder the fire of my impetuous avowal. I gained herother hand, I threw myself on my knees before her,and drew her down to the level of my face. I claspedher yielding form, and kissed her lips with soul-consumingardour. To my surprise, she made noresistance, her colour came and went, she might havebeen the veriest country milkmaid, surprised intoconsent by her rustic lover’s eagerness. ‘You are mine,say you are mine for ever!’ I whispered into hershell-like ear as her loosened hair fell over her cheek.

“‘Yours,’ she said in a low intense murmur, ‘nowand for ever.’ Then gently, disengaging herself frommy arms, ‘This is a foolish business. I confess tobeing rather unprepared, but I suppose we mustconsider it binding?’

286“‘Binding,’ said I, shocked at the alteration of hertone and manner. ‘To the end of the world, andafterwards, in life, in death, my heart is yours unalterably—towear in true love’s circlet or to breakand cast beneath your feet.’

“‘Poor Val!’ said she, smoothing my hair withher dainty jewelled fingers, ‘yet women have playedfalse before now to their promises, as fondly made,and men’s hearts have not been broken. They havelived to smile, to wed, to enjoy life much as usual—orold tales are untrue.’

“‘Do not jest,’ said I, ‘a man’s life—a woman’sheart, are treasures too precious to win—too perilousto lose; say you are not in earnest?’

“‘Perhaps not,’ she said, lightly. ‘Yes! you mayhave your good-night kiss,’ and we parted. Youwould not think it was for ever.

“The house-party was not large at Kingswood, butit was as much disturbed and excited when ourengagement was given out, as if it had been a muchmore exalted gathering.

“My devotion had not been unmarked, but thebetting had been against me. I was too young, tooundistinguished—what had I done? not even in thearmy—in literature, beyond a few tentative minorsuccesses, I was unknown. How had I presumedto propose to—indeed to win this belle of the lasttwo seasons—the admitted star of the most aristocratic,exclusive, socially distinguished set? I wasfairly good-looking—so much was admitted—myfamily was unimpeachable, old and honoured, butwhere is the money to come from to uphold the287dignity and pay the bills of a queen of beauty andfashion such as Adeline Montresor?

“She had not come down from her room nextmorning when we men adjourned to the grounds fora smoke, and the usual after breakfast stroll.

“I was in the stable examining a strain which hadlamed my hunter a few days since, and which hadaccounted for my presence in the library on theeventful afternoon, when my attention was attractedby an observation made by one man to another whoheld out a morning paper for his friend to see.

“‘I thought there was something “by ordinar,” asour Scotch gardener says.

“‘Death of Sir Reginald Lutterworth, all his moneyand the lovely place left to his nephew, ValentineBlount, 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 personalmerits of our enthusiastic young friend.

“‘A house in town—a place in the country, etc.,presented at Court, Marlborough House in the future—whatgirl of the period could say no to such apresent—with a still more gorgeous perspective?’

“‘Certainly not Miss Montresor, nor any of herset. But what about Colonel Delamere?’

“‘He’ll receive a neat, carefully worded note, whichbeing interpreted, needs only one word of translation,“farewell.”

“‘Perhaps to soften the blow, as the phrase runs, somethinglike “my people so badly off, pressure broughtto bear—feelings unchanged—bow to Fate, etc.”’

288“‘Wonder if she saw it?’

“‘My man says it’s in all the evening papers, butwe were so hard at work at bridge, that no onethought of looking at them. She couldn’t haveseen it, unless the maid took it up to her roomwhen she went to dress for dinner. Ha! didn’t thinkof that.’

“On inquiry, I found that my enslaver and hermaid had left for London by the early train. Anote had been left for me, containing only a fewwords. ‘Dearest, I feel I must go home. See youat Oldacres. Au revoir.’

“I felt disappointed. Still I had no rationalground for distrust. It was most natural that a girlunder such circ*mstances should wish to go hometo her mother, and relieve her heart, when such animportant step had been decided upon. I sent atelegram in answer, and arranged to leave for London,having to make certain arrangements in accordancewith what would doubtless be my altered position.

“We wrote to one another daily. The letters,though not particularly ardent on her side, wereaffectionate and apparently sincere. A few dayspassed in making necessary financial arrangements, inreceiving congratulations, freely tendered by friendsand acquaintances.

“By my own family, I was regarded as a Spanishgalleon, laden with treasure, which had come toredeem the faded glories of the estate, and to aid thewearer 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 proudpossessor of the heart of the loveliest girl in England?289I was invited to her father’s place in the Midlands,for the forthcoming hunting season.

“The kindest, semi-maternal letter informed methat ‘darling Adeline’ had overtaxed her nervoussystem, and not been quite herself for the last fewdays. I could understand why. However, she waslooking her best once more, and all impatience togreet me at Oldacres, next week, when some of theirmore intimate neighbours would be able to pay theirrespects. I made rather a wry face at the extraweek’s delay, thus imposed upon me, but suppressedany impatience as much as was possible, while thinkingof the rapturous delight awaiting me, at the endof the probation. On the morning of the day onwhich I was to leave London, I received another ofthe extra-legal, important-looking documents, withwhich I had been so familiar lately. I was onthe point of throwing it into the drawer of my writingtable to await my return when I should be ableto settle all formal matters in one morning’s work.Something, however, urged me to open the botheringthing, and have done with it, so as not to have ithanging over me when I was impatient of businessof any sort or kind.

“I read over the first page twice before I fullygrasped its purport.

“‘My Dear Sir,—We regret deeply the unpleasantnature of the communication which we are reluctantlycompelled to make. We cannot sufficiently expressour surprise at the apparent carelessness of Messrs.Steadman and Delve, who have been your uncle’strusted lawyers and agents for fifty years, and in point290of fact acted in that capacity for your grandfather, thelate Lord Fontenaye, and we apologise, with sincereregrets, for not having verified with greater care theprecise nature of Sir Reginald’s last will andtestament.

“‘It now appears that the testator made another willa year after the one by which you were to benefit solargely. That other will has been found in a secretdrawer, and is now in the possession of Messrs. Steadmanand 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 triflingannuities and legacies, the whole of the testator’s verylarge estates, together with the sum of £300,000invested in the three per cents, is willed to your elderbrother, the present Lord Fontenaye.’

“This was a thunderclap; indeed, apart from thenatural distaste felt by most men at having beensuddenly displaced from a position of wealth andimportance, my chief regret arose from the feelingof disappointment which my change from wealth tomoderate competence would cause to my belovedAdeline.

“No doubt of her loyalty and good faith troubledme. A legacy from my mother provided a sufficient,if not unusual income, as well as a fair estate, uponwhich we could live in something more than moderatecomfort. Surely no girl would hesitate to declareher willingness to share the fortunes of a man to whomshe had plighted her troth, though dissociated fromthe splendour which surrounded the former position.I lost no time in telegraphing to her father the change291in our circ*mstances, at the same time writing a fullexplanation and requesting a day’s delay before visitingOldacres, on account of necessary arrangements.But little time was lost in telegraphing an answerto my communication. ‘Much shocked by yournews. Please to await letter. Miss Montresor muchovercome.’

“The first news had been disastrous; the secondintimation was unpleasant in tone and suggestion. Icould not but regard it as showing a disposition toretreat from the engagement. But was this possible—evenprobable? Could I think my adored oneguilty of withdrawing from her solemnly pledgedtroth-plight, entirely on account of the change in myfortunes from those of a rich man with an historicrent-roll and estates hardly exceeded by those of anyEnglish proprietor? Was it then the rents and thethree per cents which this angel-seeming creatureaccepted without reference to the man? It wouldappear so. My youth and inexperience, how inferiorin worldly wisdom had they shown me to be to thiscalculating worldling in the garb of an angel oflight.

“If so, of course it was not fully decided so far. Letthe end try the man. I trusted that I should be ableto stand up to my fight, heavy and crushing as mightbe the blow Fate had dealt me. But all light andcolour, all sympathy with and savour of pleasure, so-called,died out of my life. My premonition was buttoo accurate. Following the statement in my legaladviser’s letter, every paper in England had a moreor less sensational paragraph to the effect that theannouncement of the late Sir Reginald Lutterworth’s292testamentary disposition was premature and incorrect.The bulk of that gentleman’s property, his greatestates, and large deposits in the funds, goes to LordFontenaye, the head of the house.

“Soon after this, through some channels of intelligence,came a harmless looking paragraph in thepersonal column of the Court Circular:—‘We areauthorised to contradict the report of the engagementof Miss Adeline Montresor to the HonourableValentine Blount. The arrangement, if any, wasterminated by mutual consent.’ A note of studiedpoliteness from her mother left no doubt on my mindthat her daughter’s engagement to me, too hastilyentered into in the opinion of Mr. Montresor andherself, must now be regarded as finally terminated.‘Mr. Blount would understand that, as no goodpurpose would be served by an interchange of lettersor an interview, he would consult the feelings of thefamily by refraining from requiring either.’

“Such, and so worded in effect, was my congé. Itwas a hard fall. In more than one instance withinmy knowledge a fatal one.

“Last week, fortunatus nimium, I had stood on thevery apex of human happiness. Rich—more thanrich, the possessor of historic estates, with a commensuraterent-roll, above all ecstatically happy asthe fiancé of the loveliest girl in England—high-born,highly endowed, the envy of my compeers, the admiredof the crowd—a few short days saw me bereftof all but a moderate fortune, reduced in position,socially disrated, discarded by the woman of mypassionate adoration.

“What remained, but as was suggested to the victim293of an earlier inrush of disasters? To curse God, anddie? The teaching of my youth, combined with asubstratum of philosophic disdain of the ills of life,forbade the ignominious surrender. I took counselwith my calmer self, with my best friends, made nosign, arranged for regular remittances, and took mypassage for South America.

“How I lived among the wild people and wilderadventurers, whom debt and dishonour, or Bohemianlove of freedom had driven from the headquarters ofart, civilisation and luxury, may be told some day;sufficient to say that during the five years I livedabroad much of my unhappiness and despair of lifewore off by the slow but sure attrition of new occupationsamongst strange companions. From time totime I sent home articles to scientific societies whichgave me a certain vogue in literary circles. At length,and not until the end of the sixth year of wanderinghad been reached, a desire arose to see England andmy people once more. Six months after my departure,Adeline had married an elderly peer, when, asLady Wandsborough, she gained the position andconsideration which I had been unable to offer her.Two years afterwards another excitement was causedamong the smart set by her elopement with ColonelDelamere, ‘a distinguished military man,’ said theCourt Circular, concerning whom there had been agrowing scandal. Socially condemned, dropped anddisowned, what was to be the end of the brilliantwoman, whose entertainments, dresses, jewels, andfriendships, made up so large a part of English andContinental chit-chat?

“Lord Wandsborough without loss of time obtained294a divorce. There was no appearance of the co-respondent.Since then, there had been no authenticinformation about the arrant pair—neither, though Isearched the fashion journals with unusual industry,did I come across the marriage of Colonel Delamereto the heroine of so many historiettes in high life.It was not that I had any strong personal interest inher career, fallen as she was now from her high estatefinally and irrevocably.

“But I couldn’t attain to complete detachment fromall human sympathy for the fallen idol of my youthfuldreams, though perhaps my strongest sentiment connectedwith her was one of heartfelt gratitude for thebrusque manner in which she had discarded me, andso saved me from the keenest—the most exquisitelycruel tortures to which the civilised man can besubjected.

“Of all people in the world she was the last whomI expected, or indeed desired, to see again; yet wewere doomed to meet once more. I told you that Icame from Hobart, the day after my arrest (save themark!), in a vessel from Callao, of which the crewand passengers were strangely mixed, various in characteras in colour and nationality; South Americans,Mexicans, Americans of the States, both Northernersand Southerners. Among them I noted, although Iwas far from troubling myself about their histories, atall, handsome man, who bore on him the impress ofBritish military service. It was Colonel Delamere!I could not be mistaken. I had formed a slightacquaintance with him in earlier days; had watchedhim at cards, with some of the least villanous-lookingof the foreigners, to whose excitable manner and295reckless language his own offered so marked a contrast.I did not intend to make myself known to him, butaccident was stronger than inclination. Seeing alady struggling up the companion (the weather wasstill rough), I moved forward and helped her to aseat. She turned to thank me, and after an earnestsurprised glance at my face—‘But, no! it can’t be!Am I so changed?’ she said reproachfully, ‘thatyou don’t know Adeline Montresor?’ She waschanged, oh! how sadly, and I had not known her.The second time, of course, I recognised the objectof my youthful adoration, the woman by whoseheartless conduct I had been so rudely disillusioned.She glanced at the Colonel, who, engrossed in thegame, had not observed her coming on deck, andmotioned me to take a seat beside her, saying, ‘Howyou have changed since we last met! I treated youshamefully—heartlessly, I confess, but it was all foryour good, as people say to children. You wouldnever have been the man you are if Fate and I hadnot sent you out into the world with a broken heart.Now tell me all about yourself?’ she continued, witha glance which recalled the spell of former witchery,harmless however, now, as summer lightning. ‘Youdon’t wish to cut me, I hope?’

“‘Far from it,’ I replied, ‘you will always find mea friend. Is there any way in which I can serve you?you have only to say. What is your address?’ Shelooked over at the Colonel and his companions with amelancholy air, and replied in a low voice, ‘We aretravelling as “Captain and Mrs. Winchester.” Poorfellow, he cannot marry me, though he would do soto-morrow, if he were free from his wife, as I am from296my husband. But she will not go for a divorce, justto punish us; isn’t it spiteful? You can see—’ hereshe touched her dress which was strictly economical—‘thatit is low water with us. I have tried thestage, and we have been doing light comedy inCallao, and the coast towns. You have seen me inthe amateur business?’

“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘how I admired you!’

“‘I know that,’ and she smiled with a strangelymingled suggestion of amusem*nt and sadness; ‘youwere a first-class lover in the proposal scene, thougha little too much in earnest. I really was touched,and if—if indeed—everything had been different, myheart, my previous experiences, my insane love ofsociety triumphs, dress, diamonds, etc. These Ithought I had secured, and so accepted your honestadoration. But even then I was in love with poorJack—never loved any one else in fact. I have beenhis ruin, and he mine. I see he has finished his game,and is coming over. You may as well know eachother.’ The Colonel looked at me fixedly, muchwondering at our apparent friendly attitude, thenbowed politely and formally. ‘No, Jack, you don’tknow him, though you’ve seen him before. He’s anold friend of mine, though, to whom I did a goodturn, the best any one ever did him, when I brokeour engagement short off, after hearing he’d lost hismoney. Now you know.’

“‘You’re a queer woman,’ said he, putting out hishand in frank and manly fashion, which I shookwarmly. ‘I always said you treated him brutally.It didn’t break his heart, though it might havesuffered at the time. We’re all fools; I nearly297shot myself when I was just of age over ClaraWestbrook.’

“‘Yes, I know,’ assented ‘Mrs. Winchester,’ good-humouredly;‘now she’s eighteen stone and canhardly get into her carriage.’

“‘She was dashed handsome then,’ pleaded theColonel; ‘but hang the past, it’s the future we’ve gotto look at—not a gay prospect, either. Some peoplemake money here, I suppose; we were nearly gettingoff the boat at Hobart and trying our luck at that newsilver mine, the Cornstalk, or something like that.Do you know anything about it?’

“‘I’m a part proprietor, and so on,’ said I, tryingvainly to divest my manner of any trace of importance,cruel as was the contrast between my positionand that of this forlorn pair. ‘It was a chanceinvestment when I came out here.’

“‘The devil! Tregonwell, Blount, Herbert andClarke. Forgotten your name, you know. Why,they say you’re all worth £100,000 each?’

“‘At least!’ I said; ‘quite a fluke, though. Mypartner, Tregonwell, who is a good man of business,wanted to throw it up. I held on out of pureobstinacy, and it turned up a “bonanza.”’

“‘Your luck was in, and ours is dead out,’ said‘Mrs. Winchester,’ ‘there’s no denying that, but oursmay turn again some day. Where are we going next,Jack?’

“‘Checked through to Coolgardie, West Australia,’said the Colonel. ‘Know some fellows. Believe thereare immensely rich gold mines there. Saw somequartz specimens in a window in London, as muchgold as quartz.’

298“‘Quite true. There have been wonderful yieldsthere,’ said I; ‘it’s an awful hot place, very primitiveand rough. Still, the women—there are ladies, too—manageto live and keep up their spirits.’

“‘What do you say, Addie, hadn’t you better staybehind 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 toldme,’ said the Colonel; ‘perhaps Mr. Blount willkindly recommend an hotel?’

“‘I know a good one,’ said I, ‘handy to your boat.I’ll see you on board to-morrow. The Marloo leavesin the afternoon. I can give you letters to somepeople on “the field” as they call it.’

“We went to ‘Scott’s,’ where I arranged certainthings with the management. So that when theColonel paid his bill next day, and we left together ina cab for the Marloo, he told his wife that the chargeswere most reasonable. She looked at me with ameaning glance and wrung my hand as the Colonelhurried 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 yougoing to get married?’

“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘next week.’

“‘I wish you joy, with all my heart, what there is ofit, that is. Is she beautiful, innocent, devoted toyou?’

“‘All that,’ said I, ‘and more.’

“‘Then tell her my story, and when for vanity,pleasure, or the tinsel trappings of society she is299tempted to stray from the simple faith of her youth(I had it once, strange to say), let her think of me asI am now, poverty-stricken, degraded, and, except forpoor Jack, whom I have dragged down to ruin withme, 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 hereyes, changed as she was, from all that she had beenin her day of pride. ‘But we can take nothing fromyou, of all men. God bless you!’

“Here came the Colonel. ‘Come along, Addie, weshall be left behind. Ta-ta, Blount, you’re a dashedgood fellow, too good altogether, if you ask me.We’ll let you know how we get on.’

“As the coasting steamer churned the far fromlimpid waters of the Yarra, I waved my hand once andturned my head. They went their way. She andher companion to a rude life and a cheerless future,I to love and unclouded happiness, with fortune andsocial fame thrown in as makeweights. So there youhave the whole of it. Last dying speech and confessionof a sometime bachelor, but henceforth able toproudly describe himself ‘as a mawwied man,’ like theswell in the witness-box, ‘faw-mally in the awmy!’”

Edward Bruce came back from Queensland, andfor fear of accidents the wedding was solemnisedquietly, but with all due form and observance, betweenValentine FitzEustace Blount, bachelor, and ImogenCarrisforth, spinster, of Marondah, in the parish ofTallawatta, district of Upper Sturt, colony of Victoria,Australia. The day was one of those transcendantglories of a summer land, which, as combining300warmth with the fresh dry air of the Great SouthLand, are absolutely peerless. The lightly-woodeddowns, verdant as in spring in this exceptional year,were pleasing to the eye as they stretched away mileafter mile to the base of the mountain range. Theexotic trees, oaks and elms, with a few beeches,walnuts, and an ash-tree, hard by the back entrancewere in fullest leaf, most brilliant greenery. Thegreat willows hung their tresses over the river bank,swaying over the murmuring stream, while theyalmost covered the channel with their trailingwreaths.

The glory of the wattle gold had departed; thegraceful tender fern-frond appearing chaplets were nolonger intertwined with the lavish spring gold which,following the windings of every streamlet and ravine,seems to penetrate the dim grey woodlands withgolden-threaded devices. Herald and earliest notein tone and tendril of that manifold, divinest harmony,the Voice of Spring. A souvenir of the ocean in theform of a gladsome, whispering breeze came throughthe woodland at noon, tempering the sun’s potentinfluence, until all comments and criticisms united inone 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 offfrom these persistent seekers after happiness. EdwardBruce had arrived from Queensland, sunbrowned,rather harder in condition than when he left home,but hale, strong, in good spirits, and even jubilant,301having heard by wire of a six-inch rainfall since hisdeparture.

Little-River-Jack and the O’Hara brothers hadcrowned themselves with glory on Crichel Downssince they had been employed there. Energetic,athletic, and miraculously learned in every departmentof bush lore, they had thrown themselves into thework of the drought-stricken district with an amountof enthusiasm that rejoiced the manager’s heart,moving him to declare that they were worth theirweight in gold, and had saved the lives of sheep andcattle to the value of their wages six times over. Hewas going to give Little-River-Jack the post of overseerat a back outstation, and felt certain that no onewould get hold of calf, cow, or bullock with theCrichel Downs brand as long as he was in charge.Phelim and Pat O’Hara were kept on the homestation, and for driving a weak flock of sheep at night,or “moonlighting” the outlying scrub cattle, no onein all Queensland, except Jim Bradfield, was fit to“hold a candle” to them.

It was for various reasons, the bride’s recent illnessand other considerations, that what is known as “aquiet wedding” took place, yet were there certainadditions to the family circle.

Pastoral neighbours, such as the MacRimmons, theGrants, the MacAulays, the Chesters, the Waterdales,could not decently be left out. Besides the seniors,they included large families of young men andmaidens born and reared among the forests andmeadows of the Upper Sturt. The climatic conditionsof this Highland region proved its adaptability for thedevelopment of the Anglo-Saxon and the Anglo-Celt,302for finer specimens of the race than these youngpeople who rode and drove so joyously to this popularfunction would have been difficult, if not impossible,to find. The men, tall, stalwart, adepts in everymanly exercise; the girls, fresh-coloured, high-spirited,full of the joyous abandon of early youth, as yetunworn by care and with the instinctive confidence ofall healthy minded young people in the continuanceof the joie de vivre, of which they had inherited solarge a share.

It was noticed by some of these whose eyes weresharp and general intelligence by no means limited,that at the breakfast there was a new damsel whoassisted the waiting maid, Josephine Macintyre(chiefly known as Joe Mac), a smart soubrette of prepossessingappearance.

With her the bride and bridegroom shook handswarmly before they departed “for good.” Well andbecomingly dressed, she was an object of more thanordinary interest to some of the youthful squirearchy.

“Why, it’s Sheila Maguire, from Bunjil!” said oneyoungster to his comrade. “Thought I’d seen herbefore, somewhere. Doesn’t she look stunning?”

“My word,” was the reply. “They say she’s beenleft a lot of money by old Barney, her uncle.”

“She’s a fine, straight, jolly girl, with no nonsenseabout her,” declared the first speaker, “a man mightdo worse than make up to her, if he had to live in theback blocks.”

“Why don’t you try the experiment?”

“Thanks, awfully! Hope I shall do as well—butI’m not ‘on the marry’ just yet. Want to seeanother Melbourne Cup or so first.”

303There was no “marriage bell,” yet all went wellwithout that obsolete summons. Every one turnedup at the right time, not even the best man wasabsent. He came the evening before—a cool, unpretendingperson, very correctly dressed, and with“soldier” written all over him—in spite of the vaindisguise of mufti. He was presented as ColonelPelham Villiers, D.S.O., Royal Engineers, just downfrom Northern India. That he had “assisted” atsuch functions before was evident by the air ofauthority with which he put the bridegroom throughhis facings, and even ordered the bridesmaids about—“likea lot of chorus girls”—as Susie Allertonobserved.

She had (she said) “a great mind to refuse toobey,” but after once meeting the look in a pair ofstern grey eyes—hers were hazel—she capitulated.He took her in to breakfast, it was noticed, wherethey seemed excellent friends.

Punctually at three p.m. the drag came roundwith Edward Bruce on the box—behind such a teamas only one station on the Upper Sturt could turnout. The leaders—own brothers—cheap at a hundredapiece, were a “dream,” as an enthusiastic girlobserved, while the solid pair of dark bays in thewheel were scarcely behind them in value.

Out came the bride in travelling suit of grey, onthe arm of “the happiest man in Australia,” as hehad that day professed himself to be. Black Paddynoiselessly relinquished the rein of the nearsideleader, a fine tempered, but impatient animal, andlike one horse, the well-broken, high-mettled teammoved off. The road was level, and smooth for the304first half mile, then came a long up grade prettymuch against collar, the team, at a touch of the rein,broke into a hand gallop, which they kept up easilyuntil the crown of the hill was reached. There onthe long down-grade—high above the river bank onone side, and scooped out of the mountain side onthe other, the powerful leg-brake was applied, and theladen vehicle rolled steadily, and well controlled, untilthe level track of the river meadow was reached.There was a full quarter of an hour to spare whenthe railway station was neared, and with the luggagechecked through to Menzies Hotel, Melbourne, andan engaged carriage for Imogen and himself, Mr.Blount decided that the first stage of matrimonialhappiness was reached.

Hobart, where it was decided to spend the honeymoon,from their joint experience of its unequalledsummer climate, and picturesque beauty, was reachedon the following day. A charming villa “by the sadsea 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 bridegroomremembered driving there in a tandem cart,drawn by a refractory pair, which he had reduced tosubjection, doing the twelve miles out, at a creditablepace, though not quite in time for dinner. But theview, the isolation and the forest paths of this idealprivate paradise had imprinted themselves indeliblyon his memory.

As it happened, the person in charge of the cottagewas absent, but refreshment was sent in by the housekeeper,which they were in a mood thoroughly toenjoy, looking forward to the many divine repastswhich they would share in this enchanting retreat.

From the open window of the morning room,306looking eastward, they gazed over the south arm ofthe Derwent; a broad estuary having the cloudeffects and much of the spacious grandeur of theocean. The headland, on which the bungalow stood,commanded a wide and varied view, in which sea andcrag, land and water were romantically mingled.Scrambling down the cliff by a precipitous path tothe beach, they found to their great delight that araspberry plantation had been formed on the cliff-shelteredslope, much of which was in full bearing.The modified English climate of Tasmania is eminentlyfavourable to the production of the smallerfruits, such as the currant, strawberry, gooseberry,raspberry and blackberry—this last growing in wildprofusion in hedges and over fences.

“Oh! how delightful,” cried Imogen, as, seated ona large stone she applied herself to the consumptionof an enticing raspberry feast spread upon a leafplatter, 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 thereever such an ideal honeymoon lodge? And theselovely raspberries. We can get cream at the house.And what a leaf platter! Where did you learn tomake one, sir? you must have had practice.”

“At Nuku-heva! I was stranded there for sixmonths once. The girls taught me.”

“Girls, indeed! That sounds very general andcomprehensive. No savage maiden in particular.Quite sure, now? No photograph?”

“If there was, I’ve forgotten all about her. Idon’t keep photographs. There’s only one damselthat is imperishably engraved upon heart and soul—memory,307aye, this mortal frame—by a totally newprocess. It has the effect of destroying all formernegatives—the best specimens of photography areput to shame, and obliterated.

“And that is called—?”

“The last love of the mature man—the answeringfondness of the woman—the best love—the true love—theonly 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 thedark depths of despair.”

“Oh! I daresay—fascinating creatures, I suppose—werethey not?”

“I have forgotten all about them. There is onefascination for me, henceforth, and one only. It willlast me until my life ends or hers. I pray that minemay 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 atime it takes to cast itself at a man’s feet. Howlong—long—endless, wretched, unendurable are thedays of doubt, grief, anguish unutterable, if he provefaithless, or the girl has over-rated his attachment.It nearly killed me, when I thought you had goneaway without caring.”

“And suppose I had never returned? I began tobelieve you had decided not to answer my letters.That Edward had not relented. That you did notcare—transient interest, and so on. It is so withmany women.”

“Transient interest!” cried Imogen, jumping up308and scattering the raspberries in her excitement.“Why, there was not one single hour from the timeyou left Marondah till I saw you again, that myheart was not full of thoughts of you. Why shouldI not think of you? You told me you loved me—thoughit was so short a time since we had met, andmy every sense cried out that your love was returned—redoubledin fervour and volume.”

“How little we know of women and their deeperfeelings,” mused Blount. “How often you hear of apair of lovers, that he or she has ‘changed theirmind.’ The ordinary platitudes are rehearsed tofriends and acquaintances. When they separate—perhapsfor ever—the outside world murmurscynically, ‘better before marriage than after,’ and theincident is closed.”

“Closed, yes,” answered Imogen, “because oneheart is bleeding to death.”

While rambling through the old house, which washandsomely furnished, though not in modern fashion,they came upon a morning room, which had evidentlybeen regarded as a fitting apartment fortreasures of art and literature, etchings, etc.

In it was a bookcase, containing old and choiceeditions. The dates, those of the last century, tolda tale of the family fortunes, presumably at a higherlevel of position than in these later days. A “dowerchest” of oak was rubbed over, and the inscriptiondeciphered; a few rare etchings were noted andappreciated. Through these the lovers went carefullyhand in hand, Blount, who was a connoisseur ofexperience, pointing out to Imogen any special value,or acknowledged excellence; when, suddenly letting309go her hand, he rushed over to a dim corner of theroom, where he stopped in front of an oil painting,evidently of greater age and value than the otherpictures.

“Yes,” he said, first carefully removing the dustfrom the left hand corner of the canvas, under which,though faint and indistinct, the name of a oncefamous artist, with a date, could be distinguished.

“I thought so, it is a Romney. He was famed forhis portraits. But what a marvellous coincidence!Perfectly miraculous! I was told that in TasmaniaI should fall across curious survivals, as at one timethe emigration of retired military and naval officerswas officially stimulated by the English Government.The promise of cheap land and labour (that ofassigned servants, as they were called) in a Britishcolony with a mild climate and fertile soil, attractedto a quasi-idyllic life those heads of families, whosemoderate fortunes forbade enterprise in Britain.Special districts, such as Westbury and New Norfolk,were indicated as peculiarly adapted for fruit anddairy farms.”

“I remember quite well,” said Imogen, “when Iwas here at school in Hobart, that many of the girlsbelonged to families such as you mention. Suchnice people, with grand old names, but so very, verypoor. The parents were not the sort to get on in anew country, though the sons, as they grew up,mostly altered that state of affairs. But they did notremain in Tasmania. No! they went to Queensland,New Zealand, or Victoria till they made money.Then they generally returned to marry an old sweetheartand settle down for life near Launceston or310Hobart. They were very patriotic, and awfully fondof their dear little island. But what is all thiscoincidence? You seem quite excited about it.”

“Will you have the goodness to look at thispicture, Mrs. Blount?”

“I am looking,” said she. “It must be a verylife-like portrait of somebody. And how beautifullypainted! Quite a gem, evidently. The more youlook at it the more life-like it appears. What lovelyblue eyes! A girl in the glory of her youthfulgraces; I mustn’t add airs, I suppose, for fear ofbeing thought cynical. But the expression musthave 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 believeit is its value is great. The original was found in anold manor house belonging to the De Cliffords. Thehouse—once a king’s—though not untenanted, waslet to people unacquainted with art, and had been soneglected as to be almost in ruins. The owner ofthe estate, an eccentric recluse, was a very old man.He refused to have any of the furniture removed, orthe paintings taken down from the walls. At hisdeath, people were permitted to view the place,which was afterwards sold. The heir-at-law turnedeverything he could into money, and emigrated toTasmania.”

“Quite the proper thing to do. We did somethingof the same sort, whereof the aforesaid Imogen (I wasso described in my settlement) met with one Blount,and marrying him, became the happiest girl inAustralia or out of it. Didn’t she?”

Blount responded appropriately; it would seem311convincingly, for the dialogue was resumed as theyagain went out. She desired to know why, andwherefore, this particular portrait was so very precious.Other young women, doubtless, in that longdead time, had had their portraits painted.

“Because this is the very picture, I am almostcertain, which inspired Robert Montgomery withthose lovely lines of his: ‘To the Portrait of anUnknown Lady.’ Have you never read them?”

“No! I have heard some one speak of them,though.”

“Well, the picture disappeared before the sale. Thefamily would never explain. There was evidentlysome mystery, painful or otherwise, connected withit. Montgomery’s lines had made it famous. Andit was a disappointment to intending buyers, manyof whom came long distances to bid for it.”

“Rather a long story, but wildly interesting. Tothink that we should have come across it on ourwedding trip, and here of all places. Well, as apunishment for your taking so much interest in anunknown lady you shall repeat the lines. I daresayyou know them by heart.”

“I think I do. At any rate I know the leadingones. If there are more we can read them togetherafterwards.

312Here the girl’s head sank on her lover’s shoulder,and as her slender form reclined with the unconsciousabandon of a child against his breast, while hisarm wound closely and yet more closely around heryielding waist, “Oh! go on, go on, my darling! letme hear it all,” she murmured:

“There are more verses; I will show you the poem sothat you may enjoy the spirit of it. It was a favouriteof mine, since boyhood. And now I see the crestsof the waves towards the southern skyline, rearinghigher. The sea breeze is often chill. Suppose wescramble up the path and go inside?”

“What a lovely view! and what delicious verses,”cried the girl. “Shall we always be as happy as weare now? I feel as if I did not deserve it.”

“And I am lost in wonder and admiration at thesupernatural state of bliss in which I find myself,”answered Blount. “I ought to throw something ofvalue into the deep, to avert the anger of Nemesis.Here goes,” and before Imogen could prevent him, hehad unfastened a bangle which he wore on his wrist,and hurled it far into the advancing tide. “Let ushope that no fish will swallow it, and return it, throughthe agency of the cookmaid.”

“Now, I call that wasteful and superstitious,” quothImogen, pretending to be angry. “You will need allthe silver in the South Pacific Comstock, if you throw314about jewellery in that reckless fashion. And whogave you that bangle, may I ask? You never showedit to me.”

“I won it in a bet, long ago. The agreement wasthat whoever won was to wear the bangle till he orshe was married. After that, they might dispose ofit as they thought fit. I forgot all about it tillto-day. So this seemed an auspicious hour, and Isacrificed it to the malign deities.”

“And this is man’s fidelity!” quoted Imogen.“For of course, it was a woman. Confess! Didn’tyour heart give a little throb, as you pitched awaythe poor thing’s gift?”

“Hm! the poor thing, as you call her, is happilymarried ‘to a first-class Earl, that keeps his carriage.’I daresay she’s forgotten my name, as I nearly didthat of the possessor of the bangle.”

The allotted term of happiness passed at theHermitage, for such had been the name given to it bythe original owner, who lived there for the last remainingyears of a long life, too quickly came to an end.For happiness, it surely was, of the too rare, exquisitelyattempered quality, undisturbed by regrets forthe past, or forebodings for the future. Such woundsand 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 medicamentsof the old established family physician, Time.They were not “his fault,” so to speak. Such sorrowsand smarts are not of the nature of incurable complaints.The agony abates. The healthful appetitein youth for variety, for change of scene, the solace315of bodily exercise, and the competition with newintelligences, extinguish morbid imaginings: thusleaving free the immortal Genius of Youth to rangeamid the unexplored kingdoms of Romance, wherein defiance of giants and goblins, he is yet fated todiscover and carry off the fairy princess.

“And I did discover her, darling, didn’t I?” saidhe, fondly pressing her hand which lay so lovinglysurrendered to his own, as after a long stroll throughthe fern-shadowed glades of the still untouchedprimeval forest, they came in sight of the Hermitage,and halted to watch the breakers rolling on the beachbelow the verandah, where during their first deliriumthey had so often watched the moon rise over asummer sea.

“All very well, sir,” replied Imogen, with the brightsmile which irradiated her countenance like that of ajoyous child, “but the ‘carrying off’ ‘hung fire’ (toreturn to the prose of daily life), until the princessbecame apprehensive, lest she might not be carried offat all, and was minded to set out to reverse the process,and carry off the knight. How would that havesounded? What a deathblow to all the legends ofchivalry! The page’s dress would be rather adifficulty, wouldn’t it? Fancy me appearing amongstall those nice girls and men at Hollywood Hall!Inquiring, too, for ‘a gentleman of the name ofBlount!’ I hardly did know your name then,which would have been a drawback. I am tallenough for a page, though, and could have arrangedthe ‘clustering ringlets, rich and rare,’ like poorConstance de Beverley. How I wept for her, whenI was a school-girl, little thinking that I should316have to weep bitter tears for myself in days tocome.”

“And did she weep, my heart’s treasure, in her trueknight’s absence?”

“Weep?” cried she, while—in the midst of hermockery and simulated grief, the true tears filled hereyes at the remembrance, “‘wept enough to extinguisha beacon light’—I took to reading dear Sir WalterScott again in sheer desperation. Ivanhoe and RobRoy saved my life, I really believe, when I wasrecovering from that—hm—‘influenza.’ Oh, howwretched I was! As the Sturt, that dear old river,flowed before my window, more than once I thoughtwhat a release it would be from all but unendurablepangs. I don’t wonder that women drown or hangthemselves in such a case. I knew of one—yes—twoinstances—poor things!”

“Any men?”

“Yes; two also. So the numbers are even. Wedon’t seem to be growing cheerful, though, do we?I feel just a little tired; afternoon tea must be nearlyready. There’s nothing left for us now (as Stevensonsays), ‘not even suicide, only to be good,’ a fineresolve 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 thesmoothness of their idyllic life. An incursion of theemissaries of Fate was imminent.

“Mr. Blount’s presence was absolutely, urgentlynecessary at the mine. There was industrial troublebrewing. The ‘wages men’—as those labourers at317a mine are called, who are not shareholders—hadincreased necessarily to a large number; they wantedhigher pay, the weather being bad and the discomfortsconsiderable. The British shareholders werein a majority on the London Board and were beginningto make their power felt. No serious dispute,but better to arrange in time. Would have comehimself to Hobart, but thought it imprudent atpresent to leave the mine. Very rich ore bodyjust opened out. Prospects absolutely wonderful.Sorry to bother him, but business urgent.”

“What a terrible man!” moaned Imogen. “Whereverwe are he will always be coming suddenly downupon 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 isto my decision, not his, that we retained the sharewhich is now likely to become a fortune.”

“Oh! but there must be some special qualityamong your bundle of qualities which you are so fondof decrying,” said Imogen, with wifely partiality;“some quick insight into the real value of things,which is in so many cases superior to mere industryand perseverance.”

“There must be,” said Blount thoughtfully, acceptingthe compliment, “or how should I have securedone priceless treasure to which all the mines ofGolconda are but as pebbles and withered leaves.”

“What treasure? Oh, flatterer!” said the girl;“how you have capped my poor but honest belief inyou. Well, time alone must tell how this particularlyclever human investment is going to turn out. It318won’t do for this lady to ‘protest too much.’ Nowwhere shall I stay until my knight returns fromthe war?”

“In Hobart, I should say, most decidedly. It isa cheerful city at this season of year. The coolnessof the summer, the charm of the scenery, the cheerfulnessof the society—this being the play-place of sixother colonies. Any chance of Mrs. Bruce comingover? Suggest the idea.”

“Perhaps she might.”

“Tell her I have taken a cottage between SandyBay and Brown’s River for her specially; one of theloveliest suburbs. If she’ll come over and take careof you, I shall be eternally indebted to her for thesecond time. You remember the first? How goodshe was. But for her —, etc.”

“She must come as our guest, and bring BlackPaddy and Polly, and the babies, for offside groomand nurserymaid—(that’s good Australian, isn’t it?nearly equal to ‘Banjo’ Paterson).”

“Stuff and nonsense! Australians talk the purestEnglish; rather better, in fact, than the home-grownarticle. But oh! how I should love to have her hereand the dear chicks. Edward could come for herafterwards.”

So that was settled. Mrs. Bruce, replying, wrotethat Edward had given her leave to come for a coupleof months. It was really getting very hot and babywas pale. He, Edward, not the baby, was going toSydney on business; thought of selling out of Queensland,so would cross over and spend the end of thevisit with them.

319These arrangements were carried out. Mrs. Bruce,with her servants and children, were safely bestowedat 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’sayah from Madras. Mr. Blount was free to departfor the South Pacific Comstock (Proprietary), whichincluded a decided change from these Arcadianhabitudes. Arrived at Strahan, he perceived variousimprovements, which he correctly attributed toTregonwell’s boundless energy and aroused imagination.

Long stretches of corduroy, regularly repaired,rendered the transit business comparatively free fromdifficulty. Great gangs of men were employed in clearingthe track for the projected railway. The work ofpiercing the forest was tremendous. The great size ofthe trees (a scientist had measured one eighty feet incircumference), the density and confused nature of thejungle, through which the way had almost to betunnelled, if such an expression can be applied tooperations above ground, retarded progress. Themasses of fallen timber at the sides of the track, thewhole laborious task carried on under ceaseless rain,was sufficient to over-task the energies of all but thestubborn, resistless Anglo-Saxon.

But on the mining fields of Australasia, if but theprecious metal, gold, silver, or copper, be visible, oreven believed to be within reach in sufficient quantities,no toil, no hardship is sufficient to daunt theresolute miner; neither heat, nor cold, the burningdust storms of Broken Hill, the icy blasts that sweepfrom the solitudes of Cape Nome over the frozen soil320of Klondyke, have power to stay the conqueringmarch of the men, ay, of the women of our race, orslake the thirst for adventure which is as the breathof their nostrils.

So, by the time Mr. Blount arrived on the scene,after a single day’s journey from the coast, the melodramaticaction of a progressive mining town was “infull blast.”

The hotels and stores were comparatively palatial.Tall weatherboard buildings with balconies, enabledthe inmates to gaze over the waving ocean of tree-topsand to mark where the jungle had been invadedby the pioneer’s axe, that primary weapon of civilisation.The streets, miry and deep-rutted, had yetside walks with wooden curbs, which provisionally, atany rate, preserved the foot passengers from theslough into which the ceaseless trampling of bullocks,horses and mules had worn the track. As in all suchplaces in their earlier stages, money was plentiful.Wages were high, labour was scarce. The adventurerswho came to inspect the “field” necessarilybrought capital with them. Under the Mining Actand Regulations of the colony, allotments had beenmarked out in the principal streets to be acquired bypurchase or lease. Legal occupation had succeededthe early scramble for possession. A Progress Committeehad been formed, precursor of municipalaction, of which Mr. Tregonwell, of course, was theelected President. Its members advised the Governmentof the day of urgently necessary reforms, ordemanded such, with no lack of democratic earnestness.Behind all this life and movement there wasthe encouraging certainty of the still-increasing richness321of the principal mine, the original shares in whichrose to a height almost unprecedented.

Among other necessities of civilisation, a newspaperhad, of course, been established. The Comstock Clarionsubserved its purpose by clean type, smart local intelligence,and accurate reviews of all mining enterprisesfrom Australia to the ends of the earth.Having been waited upon by the editor without lossof time, Mr. Blount found himself thus presented toan intelligent and enterprising public:—

“Yesterday morning we had the honour of welcomingto our thriving township a gentleman, to whosecourage and enterprise the public of Comstock areindebted for the inception of a great national industry,the founding of a city fated to rival, if not surpass, inwealth and population both Hobart and Launceston.Mr. Blount courteously supplied, in answer to ourrequest, the following interesting notes of his originalconnection with the great mine in which he owns acontrolling interest.

“Visiting Tasmania en route for England a fewyears since, he was offered shares in a newly-prospectedsilver mine. Mr. Tregonwell was then associatedwith him in mining ventures. The partners wereoffered a half share in the claim newly taken up offour men’s ground, Messrs. Herbert and Clarkeowning the remainder. Mr. Tregonwell, thoughexperienced and sanguine—of which qualities we haveample proof before our eyes—advised the rejection ofthe ‘show.’ Mr. Blount, for a reason not stated, was322firm in retaining it. He was in a position to find thecash for payment of lease application, rents, andworking expenses until the discovery of the richestsilver lode south of the line was an accomplishedfact. ‘Si monumentum queris, circ*mspice.’”

The Latin quotation was inappropriate, inasmuchas it was not proposed to erect any kind of memorialstructure 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 alleyes to the visitor, unobtrusively dressed as he was,whenever he appeared. He was, of course, fêted andinvited to banquets given by leading citizens ormining celebrities. The financial condition of themine was eminently satisfactory, even brilliant. Itheld a high place among British investors and foreignsyndicates. Members even of the British Parliamentdid not disdain to take passages in the “P. and O.”or “Messageries’” boats for the special purpose ofinspecting the wonderful mine. They returned ladenwith lumps of ore, being fragments of a silver mountainwhich they had seen with their eyes and drivena pick into when personally conducted by theAmerican “mining Captain,” who received £5,000 ayear salary, and was promised another £1,000 shouldthings continue to go well.

As the season had advanced the weather even inthat austere and dreadful wilderness relaxed its icygrip. The forest trees, the giant eucalypts andtowering pines, “had a tinge of softer green.” Themoss looked bright “touched by the footsteps ofspring,” haunting even that unlovely wild. Mr.323Blount, though loyally impatient to return to hisImogen and the calm delights of Hobart, felt distinctlyin better spirits. He even took a mildgratification in marking the heterogeneous element ofthe stranger hordes that arrived daily, gathered asthey were from the ends of the earth, of all nationsapparently, and several colours. “Gentle and simple,”forlorn workers and wayfarers from many a distantland, mingled with derelicts of the classes akin to “Mr.and Mrs. Winchester.” The men feverishly anxiousto strike some lucky find or chance investment, thewomen poorly dressed, working at the humblesthousehold tasks, all wearing the vague, yearning,half-despairing expression, which comes of the heart-sicknessof “hope deferred.” Theirs was the harderlot. Still, with but few exceptions, they faced therude living and unaccustomed toil with the couragewomen invariably show when hard fortune makes acall on their nobler attributes.

Nowhere is the ascent of the “up grade” of miningprosperity, when the tide of fortune is flowing, andthe financial barometer is “set fair,” made easier thanin Australasia. Rude as may be the earlier stages,the change from the mining camp, the collection ofrude cabins, to the town, the city even, is magicallyrapid. To the gold or silver deposit, as the case maybe, everything is attracted with resistless force as bythe loadstone mountain of Sindbad. Time, distance,the rude approach by land travel, the stormy seas,all are defied. And though delays and dangers areso thickly strewn before the path of the adventurer,he and his like invariably arrive at their goal andwould get there somehow, if behind every tree stood324an armed robber, and were every trickling creek aturbulent river.

Mr. Tregonwell had proved himself capable of carryingout the rather extensive programme, financial andotherwise, which he had produced for the inspectionof his partners on their first meeting at the mine.The manager of world-wide experience and unequalledreputation had been procured from America;had been paid the liberal salary; had proved himselfmore than worthy of his fame. The railway toStrahan was in process of completion. Contracts, letat many different points, were nearing one anotherwith startling rapidity.

The price of provisions had fallen. Wages werehigh—yet the contractors were making as muchmoney as the shareholders. With the exception ofthe very poor and the chronic cases of ill-luck fromwhich no community is, ever has been, or ever willbe free, the Great Silver Field was the modernexemplar of a place where every one had all that hewanted now, and was satisfied that such would be thecase for the future.

The wages misunderstanding had been settled, anarrangement made with one of the most stable banksin Australia, by which the Directors agreed to cashMr. Tregonwell’s drafts for all reasonable, and, indeed,unreasonable, amounts, as some over-cautious, narrow-mindedpeople considered. The predominant partnerbegan to revolve the question of an early departure.The juniors, Charlie Herbert and Jack Clarke, hadearned golden opinions from Tregonwell as cheerfulworkers and high-couraged comrades. He willinglyagreed to their holidays at Christmas time, now325drawing nigh, if one would remain with him forcompany, and perhaps assistance in time of need,while the other enjoyed himself among his relativesand friends in one of the charming country houses ofhis native land. As for himself, he did not requirechange or recreation, his duty was to the shareholders,who had entrusted him with such uncontrolled powersof dictatorship.

Mr. Blount would be within easy reach of telegramsat Hobart, whence he could come up for aweek when a difficult point or question of furtheroutlay needed to be settled. Comstock was not sucha very uncomfortable place now, and would be lessso in the near future, and Frampton Tregonwell hadlived and thriven amid worse surroundings.

So, as the short summer of the West Coast creptslowly on towards the “great Festival” which heralds“Peace on Earth, and good will towards men,” allthings seemed moving in a tranquil orderly mannertowards organised success and permanent prosperity.The big mill with the newest improvements, and ahigh-grade German scientist from Freiburg in command,had just been completed and was turning outunprecedented returns. Everything went smoothly,socially and otherwise. Although so near to whathad once been an accumulation of the most desperatecriminals the world could show, only kept under bythe merciless uniformity of a severe administration—thepresent crime record was curiously low, andtrifling in extent. Labour was well paid, well fedand lodged. All men had, moreover, the hope ofeven greater benefits, as results from their toil. Underthese circ*mstances the list of offences is invariably326light. The inducements to crime were so small, asalmost to lead to an optimistic belief that incursionson the goods and persons of neighbours would at anearly date cease and determine. The dream of thephilanthropist would at last be fulfilled.

Perhaps, also, that other dream of a socialisticdivision of labour with equal partition of the fruits ofthe earth, and the partition of the fruits of labour(chiefly other men’s labour) for the benefit of the poorbut honest worker would be an accomplished fact.

So, in the ordering of things mundane, it came topass that Mr. Blount, to his great contentment andsatisfaction, had everything arranged and “fixed up,”as Tregonwell expressed it (culling his phrases fromall nations and many tongues), and departing viaStrahan, bade farewell for the present to MacquarieHarbour, Hell’s Gates, and the other lonely and moreor less historic localities. The passage, for a wonder,was smooth, the wind fair, and it was with joy andsatisfaction, which he could hardly forbear expressingin a shout of exultation, that he found himselfonce 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 informedas to the time when the Strahan steamer might beexpected, and appeared at the wharf driving themail phaeton. Black Paddy was beside her on thebox; in front was the bay mare, “Matchless,” withher mate “Graceful,” in top condition, and ready tojump out of their skins, with rest and good keep.This valuable animal, formerly hard worked, with butlittle rest, and far from luxurious fare, had beencontented to rattle up and down the hills between327Hobart and Brown’s River and the Huon, withoutso much as a hint from the whip. Under presentcirc*mstances, she naturally took a little holding.

But Imogen and Mrs. Bruce had been accustomedto ride and drive almost as soon as they could walk.With great nerve and full experience, fine hands, anunequalled knowledge of the tempers and dispositions,management and control, of all sorts andconditions of horses, very few secrets of the nobleanimal, whether in saddle or harness, were hiddenfrom them. So when Imogen drove up to theTasmanian Club, where her husband had temporarilydeposited himself, his specimens and belongingsgenerally, he had no misgivings as to the competencyof his charioteer, nor did he offer, as most men wouldhave done, to take the reins himself.

“How well they look,” he remarked, after the firstgreeting, “‘Matchless’ has fallen on her legs incoming to this establishment. Does she give anytrouble in her altered condition?”

“Hardly any, only she doesn’t like waiting, nowthere is no cab behind her. Burra burrai, Paddy!Mine thinkit mare plenty saucy direckaly.”

That swart retainer understood the position, andhelping the club servant with the heaviest trunk on tothe back seat, stepped up beside it with noiseless agility,while at the same moment “Matchless” and “Graceful”moved off with regulated speed, which soonlanded them at “home”—a word which Mr. Blountpleased himself by repeating more than once.

“Hilda looks just as she did,” said he, “when I firstsaw her at Marondah. I admired her then. Iadmire her now—how little I thought that I should328see her again, as a sister-in-law! or that a certain‘vision of delight was to burst upon my sight’ sosoon 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 asister in the house. Secondly, when the girl aforesaidappeared, unexpectedly in all her fresh and smilingloveliness—pardon my partiality—I was completelyknocked over, so to speak, and couldn’t help a sort ofrapt gaze—as at a wood nymph, which you unkindlycall staring. I fell in love—at first sight as men say—deep,deeper, miles deep next morning, and so willremain till my life’s end.”

“I am afraid it goes rather like that with me, if Imust confess,” admitted Imogen, “though the heroineof a modern novel would never have behaved sobadly, now would she?”

“All’s well that ends well,” said the returnedvoyager. “I’ll hold the horses while you run in,Paddy!”

The luggage having been taken in, Paddy ascendednimbly, and drove soberly round to the stable.

Christmas having actually arrived, it was the commencementof the “season” in Hobart and Tasmaniagenerally. The dear little island, so true an epitomeof the ancestral isle in the climatic conditions, in thestubborn independence of the population, in theincurious, unambitious lives of the rural inhabitants,was filled with strangers and pilgrims from everycolony in Australasia.

Persons in search of health, haggard men from the329Queensland “Never Never” country, the far “Bulloo,”and “The Gulf,” where hostile blacks and feverdecimated the pioneers! Outworn prospectors fromWest Australia—a rainless, red-hot, dust-tormentedregion, where, incredible as it may appear, the wateris charged for separately as well as the whisky.

Commercial, pastoral and legal magnates, whoseover-taxed brain craved little save rest and coolness—contentedto lie about inhaling the evening breeze—toread, to fish, to muse, to think maybe, of aheaven, where lawyers’ clerks, even with briefs, werenot admitted. Sailors too, from the half dozen menof war from the South Pacific fleet, having a runashore, and playing their part nobly, as is their wonton land, in all picnics, balls and cricket matches, evenin drives to the Huon River nearly fifty miles outand back. This was rather an object lesson forBritish tourists, as to the capabilities of Australianhorses, and Australian drivers, inasmuch as theleading drag with four horses, hired from a well-knownlivery stable proprietor, and driven by anative-born Tasmanian, negotiated the fifty-milestage, allowing two hours for luncheon and boatingon the river, between breakfast time and dusk, thewhole being performed not only without distress tothe well-bred team, but with “safety to the passenger,and satisfaction to the looker on.” The road was byno means of average description, far from level,indeed, having shuddering deeps, where it woundalong hillsides, and sudden turns, and twisted at rightangles, when the leaders ran across a dip in the gully,which crossed the road, and the wheelers had theirheads turned at right angles to the leaders. Then330the down grade towards the sea, on the return trip,when the heavily laden coach rolled, lurching at timesnear the edge of the precipice, and the “boldest heldtheir breath for a time.” But through every change,and doubtful seeming adventure, in darksome forest,and ferny glade, where the light of heaven wasobscured, the watchful eye and sure hand of thecharioteer guided team and coach, with practised easeand assured safety.

Then the race meeting, to which you went by landor water, as taste inclined. The deep sea fishing inthe harbour, or the streams so clear and cold insummer, where the trout lay under bridge or bank,and when skies were dull, took the fly much as inBritain.

The hunting with country packs, the shooting, thelong walks over hill and dale—the halts, when a peepthrough the forest glades showed a distant view ofthe foam-crested ocean! What joyous days werethose, when with Imogen by his side, who walked aswell as she rode and drove, they started with a fewpicked friends for that exceptional piece of exercise,which includes the ascent of Mount Wellington. Itis an Alpine feat, only to be attempted by the youngand vigorous, in the springtime of life. “The way islong, the mountain steep,” and if limbs and lungs arenot in good order, the pedestrian is sure to tire halfway, to collapse ingloriously before the summit isreached. Rough in some places is the track—overthe ploughed field’s (so called) painful march. Asprained ankle may easily result, from a slip, or worseeven, a dislocated knee, most tedious and troublesomeof the minor injuries, and which has lamed for life331ere now the too confident pedestrian. Anotherdanger to be feared, is the sudden envelopment bythe mountain mist, under the confusing conditions ofwhich more than one person has lost his way and hislife, perishing in some unnamed retreat. No suchdangers affrighted Imogen and her husband. Theyreached the summit, and standing there, hand in hand,beheld the unrivalled scene. High over forest andvalley they gazed o’er the boundless ocean plain—sostill and shining, three thousand feet below them.The forest, with apparently a level surface above itsumbrageous eucalypts, looked like a toy shrubbery.The city nestled between the sea wall and theenormous mountain bulk, under whose shadowit lay.

The busy population looked small as the denizensof a populous anthill. “It is a still day, ‘Grâce àDieu,’” said Blount; “there’s no tyrannous south windfrom the ocean—coming apparently straight from theice fields of the Pole, to chill us to the bone, andcause the poor forest trees to cry and groan aloud intheir anguish. Wind has its good points, probably,but I confess to a prejudice against the Euroclydonvariety. Especially when we are doing this Alpinebusiness. By the way, there is Mr. Wendover’s delightfulwoodland châlet—only a mile away. Supposewe make a call there.”

“I scorn to acknowledge myself tired,” saidImogen; “but raspberries and cream—this is theseason—would be an appropriate incident on this dayof days. They recall the Hermitage, do they not?I can’t say more.”

“And Mrs. Wendover is so charmingly hospitable,”332said a girl companion. “She has always the newestbooks, and music too, which, with the before-mentionedraspberries, takes one far in the pursuit ofhappiness.”

“While youth, and the good digestion which waitson appetite, last,” said a middle-aged person with abright eye and generally alert expression. “Youthis the great secret. Heaven forbid that any of thisgood company should confess to a hint of middleage, but I have a haunting dread lest the world’sbest joys should be stealing away from me.”

“Are there not compensations, Captain Warrender?”asked a lady, whose refined, intellectual castof countenance suggested literature. “Think howdelightful to hear of one’s last new book being rushedfor new editions, and simply being devoured all overthe world.”

“Success is pleasant in whatever state of life itcomes to one, but were I allowed to choose betweenreading and writing, my vote would be distinctly infavour of the former. The delightful self-complacencywith his task which the author of a successful bookis supposed to feel is over-rated, I assure you. Itbecomes a task, like all other compulsory labour, andthere are so many times and seasons when one wouldmuch rather do something else. The chief, almostthe only valuable result to the producer (except themoney, which, of course, is not despised) is, that thereputation of successful authorship brings with it ahost of agreeable acquaintances, and even some trueand lifelong friendships.”

“Have you found other authors free from envy,malice, and so forth?” asked Mrs. Allendale.

333“I can truly say that I have, with the rarestexceptions. Now and then a man writing on partylines will administer a dose of unkind, perhaps unfair,criticism which he calls ‘slating’ your book. Butthere is little real ill-nature in the article, howevermuch you may feel annoyed at the time. And thefreemasonry which exists among literary people,great and small, makes on the whole for friendlyrelations. A man says: ‘Oh, you wrote Cocoanutsand Cannibals, didn’t you? Had rather a run whenit came out. Queer place to live in, I should think.’Then you foregather, and become, as it were, thehonorary member of a club. Not that one volunteersthis information, but it leaks out.”

“Oh, here is the châlet gate, and I see Mrs.Wendover’s pet Jersey cow, ‘Lily Langtry,’” saidMiss Chetwynde. “How nice she looks among thered and white clover. Puts one in mind of dear oldEngland, doesn’t it?”

“Where you never were,” laughed another maidenof the happy isle.

“I know that, but I’ve read so much about thegrand 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 meantimehere comes Mrs. Wendover, all smiles, welcome, anda picture hat, dear creature! I wonder what MissMitford would have thought of this forest, whichcomes 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 whenthey are on fire; this place is safe enough. Sunburnis our worst danger just now, and there’s the naval334ball this evening. My cheeks are on fire, just feelthem.”

“Oh, certainly, Miss Chetwynd!” said a smallmiddy, who was of the party. “Anything else Ican do for you?”

“I was not speaking to you, Mr. Harcourt. I wasreplying to Clara Mildmay, and I shall cancel thatdance I promised you this evening if you’re not morerespectful.”

“Oh, here you are!” cried Mrs. Wendover, inaccents of genuine welcome. “This is the most luckychance. You must all positively stay to lunch. Iwas getting tired of my own company for once in away. John had sent a messenger to say that hewould not come out till the evening. So you areevidently sent by Allah to cheer my loneliness.”

“We should all be charmed,” replied Imogen,taking her place as chief chaperon, “but it is simplyimpossible. Captain Warrender will tell you that weare all going to the naval ball this evening, and bythe time we get to Hobart we sha’n’t have a minuteto spare, to dress in time and get the sunburn offour faces.”

“Then you must come in and have raspberries andcream. It’s quite a charity to take them off ourhands. Walter and Nora and I are going to theball too, so I must insist.”

Cooled and refreshed, indeed invigorated by theraspberries and Jersey cream, with suitable accompaniments,the jocund crew bade adieu to theirhostess, and trooped off to the Fairy Bower, thatfern-shaded trysting place in the heart of the forest,dear to so many generations of holiday folk, where335the four-in-hand drag awaited them by the fountain,and bore them safely to their several destinations.The naval ball was a pronounced success. Couldit be otherwise “manned” by the officers of thehalf-dozen men-of-war then in harbour? The band,the waiters at the buffet, the assistants who held thedividing line in the ball-room, the attendants at thedoors of the supper-room, were all in uniform, whilethe epaulettes and profusion of gold lace lit up themass of civilian costumes. It was a contentionseriously debated at the time, and never satisfactorilysettled, as to whom the honour of being the belle ofthe ball should be awarded. But all agreed that thecrown of the Queen of Beauty, if there had been atournament, as in the days of chivalry, at which topresent it, should have been awarded either to Mrs.Blount (née Imogen Carrisforth) or to Miss Leslie,a native-born Tasmanian, whose complexion washeld to be unapproachable south of the Line, andwhose pre-eminence in loveliness had never beforebeen disputed.

Each had their partisans, sworn admirers andliegemen. Each was declared to be the prettiestgirl, or the handsomest woman in Australasia—forthe New Zealand competitor “took a lot of beating,”as an ardent youthful admirer phrased it. It remained,however, undecided, and will probably berevived, like other vexed questions from time to time,with similar lack of finality. As to one thing, however,the unanimity was pronounced and decisive—thesuccess of the entertainment. When “God Savethe Queen” was played, it was nearer three o’clockin the morning than two, and all but the most inveterate336dancers had had enough of it. Some ofthe junior division indeed petitioned for just onemore waltz and a galop; but discipline being thesoul of the navy, as well as the army, the Admiral’sfiat had decided the matter irrevocably. Carriageswere ordered, shawls and wraps were donned by thematrons and maids who had “seen it out,” as theirpartners expressed it, and the curtain fell upon oneof the most successful comedies or melodramas, asthe case may be, still popular, as in old historic days,on the mirthful, mournful, but ever mysterious stageof human life.

After this crowning joy came a succession of fêtes.Meetings of the Racing and Polo Clubs, with a gymkhanaarranged by the latter society, also picnics andprivate parties, the Garden Party in the lovelygrounds of Government House, where that befittingarchitectural ornament overlooks the broad windingreaches of the Derwent. All these had to be attendedand availed of. The great events of the PoloClub, in “potato and bucket” race, when the competitorswere compelled to dismount, pick up apotato from the ground and deposit the same in abucket, placed for the purpose; as also the tandemrace, when the aspirant riding one horse, had todrive another, with long reins, before him, also tonegotiate a winding in and out course, before returningto the starting point, were both won by an activeyoung squatter from the Upper Sturt, to the unconcealedjoy 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 othergymkhana contests. But won it was, by the pastoral337champion, though only by a nose. So after aninquiry meeting by the committee of the club, it wasto him adjudged, and the trophy borne off in triumph.It is not to be supposed that the squirearchy of the landwas unrepresented at these Isthmian Games, or thatunder such circ*mstances they left their wives anddaughters, aunts and cousins behind; or, if such anunnatural piece of selfishness had been for a momentcontemplated, that the women of the land would nothave organised a revolt, declared a republic, elected apresident, and marched down with banners flying toinvest the capital, and make their own terms withthe terrified Government of the day. No suchAmazonian action was, happily, rendered necessaryby sins of omission or commission on the part oftheir liege lords or legal protectors.

That they had sufficient courage and martialspirit for such an émeute, no one doubted. But withthe exception of a quasi-warlike observation by aTasmanian girl, on beholding the phalanx of alienbeauty arrayed at the naval ball, that on the nextoccasion of the sort she intended to bring her gunand shoot a girl or two “from across the Straits” byway of warning, no specific action was taken.

So the old antagonism (veiled, of course, and conventional)that has existed between the home-grown andthe imported feminine product, was conducted withdiscreet diplomacy, and the admirers of Helen orBriseis had to content themselves with displayingpersonal or conversational superiority in lieu of lethalweapons.

So on the ground in drags, mail phaetons, buggiesand dogcarts of the period, the female contingent338arrived, chiefly before the first gun of the engagementmetaphorically aroused the echoes in the glens andforest glades around Mount Wellington. The HollywoodHall family was fully represented, the Claremonts,the Bowyers. The magnate of Holmby,Mr. Dick Dereker, in all his glory, had deposited himselfand his most intimate friend, John Hampden, anew arrival from England, at the club, and was dailyto be viewed by the admiring population of Hobart inDavey or Macquarie Street in company with otherstars of the social firmament. Mr. Blount noticedwith interest the extraordinary popularity whichencircled this favourite of fortune in the chief city ofhis native land. As he walked down the street it wasa kind of royal progress. He was the people’s idol,the uncrowned king of the happy isle. Men of noteand standing crossed over to greet and shake handswith him. Even the shady characters had a soft spotin their hardened hearts for “Dicky Dereker.” Whywas this adulation? Other country gentlemen werehandsome and chivalrous. All of them rode, drove,shot well; they, like him, had been born “in theisland,” and as such had the claims of a patriot forthe suffrages of their countrymen.

But the difficulty was to find all these virtues,personal recommendations, gifts and graces, centredin one individual. The popular verdict so declaredit. And if the “classes and the masses” in Tasmaniahad been polled as to his fitness for any post ofeminence, from the vice-regal administrator of thegovernment downward, every man, woman and childin the island would have gone “solid” for “DickyDereker.”

339Of this resistless, all-conquering sway, Mr. Blountwas shortly to have proof and confirmation, had suchbeen needed. Sooth to say, he felt more than slightmisgivings; indeed, something near to what is calledan accusing conscience, with respect to his markedattentions to and quasi-friendship for Laura Claremonton the occasion of his last visit to HollywoodHall. He was then (it may be stated for the defence)in the somewhat perilous position of having beenwarned off, as he considered it, by the family atMarondah, and was thus unprovided with an attractionof counterbalancing interest. “Full many aheart is caught on the rebound,” and doubtless thesympathetic manner and intellectual superiority ofLaura 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 overflowinghappiness of the recent honeymoon, wouldthe sympathetic “friend” in whose society he had soopenly delighted look coldly upon him? Would herfriends and compatriots combine to denounce him asan unworthy trifler, who, after paying compromisingattentions, not only “rode away,” but married aformer flame, not even permitting a decent interval toelapse between his preference for the old love anddesertion of the new?

Much troubled by these considerations he had eventhought over an indirect way of breaking the news, ina 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 withpainful promptitude. So, fortunately (as it turned340out), he decided to trust to time and chance for extricationfrom the dilemma. For, as he was enteringthe hospitable portal of the Tasmanian Club, with aview to luncheon and the later news items, he was joinedby Claude Clinton, who at once questioned him as tosubscriptions for the forthcoming ball, given by themembers and players of the polo club. “How manytickets shall I send you? They’re a guinea for menand half as much for ladies; and have you heard thelast engagement? No? It was only given out thismorning. Laura Claremont has made up her mind atlast; Dick Dereker is the happy man!”

“Send me a dozen tickets,” said Mr. Blount, whofelt like John Bunyan after his burden of sins hadbeen removed. “They have my heartiest congratulations.”

“All right,” said the omnipotent Secretary for HomeAffairs; “by the way, wasn’t the fair Laura rather afriend of yours? The Tenby girls thought you weremaking strong running at the Hollywood Ball.”

“Every man of sense and taste must admire MissClaremont,” he replied with diplomatic gravity, masking,however, emotions of such intensity that he hadsome difficulty in preserving calmness. “I was noexception to the rule, that was all.”

“Perhaps it helped to bring Master Dick to thescratch—the affair has been going on for years; if so,you did her a service. Dick is a splendid fellow, butwhen a man has a whole island to pick from he feelsinclined to dally with a decision. However, they areto be married at once—before the House meets—not tolet the honeymoon interfere with his legislative duties.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” Mr. Blount affirmed,341with such evident sincerity that Mr. Clinton departedto overtake his multifarious duties, with the convictionthat he was a fine, large-hearted, generous personage,as well in the matter of ball subscriptions as in themore romantic passages of life’s mystery. The younglady referred to had not come down to the naval ballfor reasons of her own, or otherwise, the Squire’shealth requiring her attendance upon him at the Hall.Such, at any rate, was the explanation given by thefamily friends:—“Dear Laura was so attached to herfather, and so self-denying and conscientious in thedischarge of her duties.”

Some of the frivolous division, perhaps a trifle impatientof perpetual proclamation of “Aristides theJust,” hinted that there is such a device known to thefemale heart—inscrutable as are its myriad emotionsand minor tendencies—as the encouragement of afervent admirer, up to a certain point, for the stimulationof a laggard lover, the adorer No. 2 being knownin the unstudied phrase as the “runner up.” Howeverthat may have been, Mr. Blount took care tocommunicate the momentous intelligence to his wifeand sister-in-law immediately upon his arrival athome. Mrs. Blount, with natural curiosity, expresseda wish to see this wonderful Laura Claremont—whomeverybody praised and indeed referred to as one ofthe few girls in the island worthy of Dick Dereker.“I suspect you flirted with her on that driving tour—andat 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, etcetera, the idea is preposterous.”

342“He hadn’t got our letters then, poor fellow!”said Imogen, who, fortunately, was not of a jealousdisposition. “So if he made ever such a little swervefrom what is called the path of duty I suppose I mustforgive him. You won’t do so again, sir, I’ll see tothat!”

“I hope you and Miss Claremont will be greatfriends. She is just the sort of woman you wouldlike. I’ll make a point of introducing you at thePolo Ball. Here are the tickets, and a few tospare.”

“You have been most generous,” said Mrs. Bruce.“I’ll keep three for Edward, myself, and a friend, ifone 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 turnup.”

“Quite likely,” said Imogen; “perhaps even fromBunjil! 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, goingoff again into fits of laughter; “but I shall not tellyou just yet. It is a secret.”

The male relative looked puzzled, admitting thatthe solution was beyond him; at which stage itseemed destined to remain.

A description of “the season” in Hobart, whetherregarded as a summer land for tourists, a safe runashore for the men and officers of the South Pacific“fleet in being” detailed at Hobart, or as an objectlesson for untravelled inhabitants—would seem toconsist mainly of a record of recreational events. Alist of picnics and pleasure parties, driving and fishingexcursions, 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 shareof patronage, it would seem, in the entertainment ofreckless revellers, whose polo meets and gymkhanasalternated with the legitimate annual races andsteeplechases.

There must have been business transactions, butthey were eluded or postponed—the only exceptionbeing the Great Silver Bonanza, which kept its bond-slaveshard at work, by means of remuneration onthe higher scale. Night and day, work proceeded withthe regularity of one of its own steam-engines. TheHobart weather was delightful—occasionally threateningrain but chiefly relenting, and ending towards theclose of day with soft and cooling sea breezes, which344refreshed the pleasure-driven crowds to the inmostfibre of the nervous system.

In all these ingenious projects for lessening the strainupon the minds and bodies of ordinary humanity theofficers and men of H.M. Royal Navy were conspicuouslyeffective. At all aristocratic entertainments“Man-of-War Jack” was utilised to keep thegangways clear, to hold the rope of division in theball-room, and otherwise, as “the handy man,” inspotless array, to display his disciplined alertness.Even the naval Church parade was attended by thefair ones of perhaps the last night’s entertainment.On each Sunday morning, therefore, boat-loads ofworshippers, in silk or muslin, might be descriedcrossing the waters of the harbour, rowed by anample crew, under the charge of an all-importantmiddy, to the flag-ship or frigate, where divineservice was celebrated by the Chaplain of the Fleet,or other amphibious clergyman, provided by theLords of the Admiralty.

In this sense, perhaps, the gay season of Hobartconstituted a social federation of the AustralasianStates, when other matters, not of ephemeral weight,might be suitably discussed. From the wave-beatenisles of New Zealand, where the mountain-crestedbillows rolled on their stormy march from the ice-fieldsof the ultimate pole, to the mangrove-borderedmarshes of Northern Queensland; from the “Never-Nevercountry” and the “back blocks”; from “theGulf” and the buffalo lands of Essington and Darwin,came languid, fever-stricken squatters, to breathe thecool air of this southern Lotus Land, differing amongthemselves in minor respects as to manner, accent,345stature and ordinary habitude, but in heart and brain,British to the core. Roving sons of the Great MotherLand, holding God’s Commission of the strong hand,the steadfast brain, to occupy the Waste Places ofthe earth and develop their inborn trend towardsjustice and mercy, law and order. With such inheritedgifts, going forth conquering, and to conquer, to weldinto one solid, enduring fabric, the Empire of Britain.Thus, handing down to their children’s children landsof freedom “broad-based upon the people’s will,”where equal laws administered with moderation andmercy are to be the heritage of England’s sons. TheGreater Britains of the South, for all time; andwhether in peace or war, loyal, self-contained,immovable, one and indivisible.

The great event of the season was to be the PoloBall, looked forward to with almost feverish eagerness,not only by the young men and maidens of theHappy Isle, but by the large important contingentsfrom abroad, which exceeded in number, and socialvalue, those of any previous year. Hence applicationsfor tickets were beyond all calculation.

Requests, even entreaties poured in, almost untilthe opening of the doors of the great hall securedfor the function. Claude Clinton was, as he said,“walked off his legs,” having indeed hardly time todress and eat his dinner, while the committee, whohad the onerous and responsible task of decidingupon the fitness of applicants, had to improvise a latesitting, so as not to disappoint the arrivals by the trainfrom Launceston, just landed from the New ZealandCompany’s extra service boat, the Rotorua. The fundsof the Club, however, would be benefited to such an346extent, that the secretary and committee workedloyally till the last moment, and when Mr. Clintonhad given a last authoritative order, and made a finalinspection of the decorations, he sat down to hisdinner at the Travellers’ Club, and drank his pint ofchampagne with a conviction that everything hadbeen done to deserve success, and that the issue laywith Fate.

Imogen had condescended to inform her relationsthat 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 theOrient Hotel, where rooms had been secured for herpreviously.

She had written confidentially to Mr. Clinton andhad her name properly submitted to and passed bythe committee. All was arranged, and she would gounder Imogen’s chaperonage to the ball, and perhapsstay 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 notcertain whether you will recognise her. She comesfrom 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 handsomestgirls I ever saw came from that sequestered spot.However, we must wait till she shows up. Was shea schoolfellow of yours?”

“No, not exactly, but I knew her when she wasyounger. You will know all about her when the347time comes. I feel desperately hungry, after thisexciting day. Oh, I hear the dinner gong.”

The dinner was not unduly prolonged, as any one ofexperience in the anxieties and precautions which precedesuch an important function will understand. Sothat after an adjournment to the drawing-room, when,about nine o’clock, the maid delivered a message, sottovoce, to Mrs. Imogen, who forthwith left the room,everyone revolved great expectations. These werechiefly realised, when the hostess reappeared, accompaniedby a tall, handsome, exceedingly well-dressedgirl, who blushed and smiled, as she was introduced tothe company as “Miss Maguire of Warranbeen.”“Very pleased to meet you, Miss Maguire,” beganBlount, but, with a sudden alteration of tone andmanner, “Why, it’s Sheila! by all the Powers, whata transformation!” as Mrs. Bruce shook her warmlyby the hand, while Imogen stood by her charge,apparently charmed with the metamorphosis whichleisure, the use and reputation of “money” hadeffected 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 seethat. I had half a mind to ask you what you’dlike for breakfast. I’m turned into a young lady,nowadays, you see! And Mrs. Blount, in her greatkindness, persuaded me to come to the ball to-night,with her and Mrs. Bruce. I’ve been to the ShowBall at Wagga, and one or two in Tumut, by way ofa start. But this is such a grand affair; I feelfrightened.”

“I am sure, Sheila, you have no cause to be,” said348Mrs. Bruce, reassuringly; “you native girls can alldance—it seems an instinct; your dress is charming,and you will gather confidence as the ball goes on—andyour card is filled. You are a mysteriousstranger, for the present. That alone will be anattraction. We’ll see to your introductions; andthere are naval men in profusion.”

“I like sailors,” said Sheila, “they are so unaffectedand jolly, put on no side” (she had been at a countryball at the age of sixteen, to which the officers of aman-of-war, then in Sydney, had been bidden by aliberal-minded squatter, who had invited the whole ofthe “township” inhabitants, in one act, and a greatsuccess it was), for Sheila bore about with her for alltime the memory of two polkas, a waltz, and a galopdanced with the Honourable Mr. de Bracy, midshipmanof the period, to their mutual satisfaction andenjoyment.

“I think you will have your share of partners,Sheila,” said her hostess; “you certainly do credit toyour dressmaker, and the Upper Sturt complexionwill 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 havebelieved it. Of course she has fined down since theBunjil days. I believe old Barney sold a Queenslandstation, with 30,000 head of cattle, just before theseasons turned dry. So she and her sister are considerableheiresses. 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 it349goes a long way in this, or any other country,especially combined with looks, and other goodqualities. You had better dance the opening set oflancers with her for a start.”

Mrs. Imogen’s predictions were verified. Therewas a certain amount of romantic interest attachedto the fresh-looking, handsome stranger, reputedwealthy, and who danced so well. “Came, too”(people said), “with that nice, high-bred-looking Mrs.Bruce and the bride.” She danced the first lancerswith Mr. Blount, and while exhibiting familiarity withthe figures, moved with the graceful indifferencewhich has succeeded the erstwhile precision withwhich the “steps” were anciently performed. Mr.Blount managed to secure an early waltz, and thenaval men coming by shiploads, as it appeared toher, Sheila’s programme was filled in no time.

That there could not have been a better ball, allthe authorities combined to declare. The ever-successfulsecretary and plenipotentiary had oncemore covered himself with glory; the arrangementswere perfect, the supper was “a dream,” and whenSheila found herself taken in by the Captain of theflag-ship, the Admiral and the Governor being inthe immediate vicinity, she wondered whether shewas likely to fall down in a fit, or if some otherkind of death would result from such an overflowingflood of triumphant, ecstatic bliss.

However, she did not die, or indeed was she likelyto perish of nervous excitement consequent on pure,unadulterated pleasure; the early bush-training, togetherwith a naturally good constitution, wouldalways preserve her from such an untimely fate.

350Imogen was carefully, prudently, introduced toMiss Laura Claremont, who prophesied that theywould be great friends, and invited her and her sisterto Hollywood. Both of which Imogen acceptedconditionally on her husband’s—she laid a slightemphasis upon that very possessive word—“on herhusband’s not being hurried away by Mr. Framptonto that horrid Zeehan.” The Upper Sturt party, aswe may for convenience describe them, got their fullshare of partners it may be believed, being all of theage when, if there be an ear for music, and a terpsichoreantaste “what time the raving polka spinsadown the rocking floor,” with good music, suitablepartners, and a smooth surface, nothing much betteramong 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 shoulddeny himself the fleeting indulgence of once moregliding and sliding about with her in the acceptedfashion.

She graciously acceded to his request for an aftersupper dance, and in one of the partly deserted side-roomsthey came to a mutual understanding, whicheach felt was more or less needed.

“I owe you a few words,” she said, “if our friendshipis to continue—and I should be sorry for it toend abruptly. It appears to me that we were bothin an exceptional state of mind when we met atHollywood for the first time, and if something hadnot happened—which did happen—one of us wouldhave felt a right to blame the other.”

“You have stated the position most fairly,” he said.

351“I hope you don’t think I am so logical,” she replied,“as to be deficient in feeling. Believe me when Itell you”—and here her dark eyes glowed with atransient gleam of hidden fire, which he had neverbefore noticed in them—“I don’t exaggerate when Isay that it was a fateful crisis, such as I had neverbefore experienced.”

“It was most truly a supreme moment in mydestiny,” he replied, as she faltered and then stopped,overcome by emotion.

“But, let me go on, I entreat, to make open and fullconfession, for I can never recur to the subject, and Itrust you to make a similar promise.”

“It is given,” said Blount in all sincerity.

“Then,” said Miss Claremont, “I will not denythat 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 anyone with whom I had previously come into contact.This impression was confirmed as we saw more ofeach other. I recognised your mental qualities. Iapproved highly of your opinions, your personalattributes and general character appealed to mestrongly. My heart was in an unsettled state; I wasweary of waiting, and began to doubt whetherRichard Dereker, with whom I had been in love eversince I could remember, intended to declare himself.I am not believed to be impulsive, but, under certainconditions, am very much so.”

“All women are,” interjected Blount.

“Possibly; but let me finish;” and she hurried on—hervoice changed from the deliberate calmnesswith which she usually spoke, to a hurried monotone—“If352you had proposed to me that night, I shouldhave consented, I believe. But your departure nextmorning gave me time to reflect; saved me, mostlikely, 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 thehappiest girl in Tasmania. I need not ask aboutyour feeling—it is written in large print over both ofyou, and—here she comes! I don’t wonder.”

“I was in a most forlorn and wretched state,” saidBlount, “when you took pity on me and healed mywounds by your sympathetic kindness. Never thinkyou could have done me an injury—and you must letme say, even under our changed conditions, that Ishould not have been a life-long sufferer. But, as inyour case, the fairy princess was persuaded of herknight’s fidelity; the falsehoods set about by enemieswere disproved, and the castle rang with troubadourballads, and the usual merry-making, when the‘traitours and faitours’ were put in their properplaces; and so the incident is closed, and in allgratitude and enduring friendship it is a case of ‘asyou were.’”

“Yes; I know, I know,” said the fair Laura; “nomore protestations, or else your wife will requireexplanations, too. Who is the very handsome damselshe has with her?”

“Well; a great friend of mine, who stood by mestaunchly in my tribulations and rendered me timelyaid. She is a New South Wales heiress. I will tellyou about her another time.”

“We have been looking for you, Miss Claremont,”353said Imogen. “I was anxious to introduce my friend,Miss Maguire, a friend of my husband’s, too, who didhim important service at a critical juncture withoutwhich (between you and me) things might haveturned out differently.”

“Mr. Blount gave me to understand as much,” saidMiss Claremont, “and I am most happy to welcomeany friend of yours or his to our island home. Ihope you have enjoyed yourself, Miss Maguire?”

“More than I ever did in my life before,” saidSheila, with such evident sincerity, that no one couldhelp smiling. “I think the people here are thekindest and pleasantest I ever met. I have oftenheard of Hobart hospitality, but never expected tofind it anything like this.”

“I hope we shall continue to deserve such a goodcharacter. Strangers do generally approve of us,and there is no doubt we are always delighted to seethem. 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’tdead with fatigue. We owe a great deal to him.”

“That we do,” said Sheila, naïvely, “he told me hehad been hard at work since daylight, arrangingthousands of things. Poor fellow! I quite pitiedhim. I was nearly offering to help with the supper—Iam supposed to be clever in that line.”

“You might have come off as well as the girl whovolunteered to take the parlourmaid’s place when hersister was short of one at a big dinner, and afterwardsmarried a baronet with ten thousand a year,who thought she said ‘Sherry, sir?’ so nicely!”

“I see Claude Clinton over there,” interposed354Blount, who thought the situation was becomingcritical. “He’ll be fast asleep if we don’t go and pelthim with congratulations. Say something nice tohim, Sheila!”

“That I will,” said she, with effusion, “I quite lovehim for his kind-heartedness.”

“You’re not the only grateful one,” said MissClaremont, “but you’ll have to wait your turn. Dickmust make a speech, and we’ll all say Amen.”

“I’ll do anything if you’ll come home,” said thatgentleman. “You girls would stay till daylight, Ibelieve. Claude, my boy! come here and be publiclythanked. These ladies have constituted themselvesa deputation and wish to assure you that this is thebest ball they ever were at in their lives; that itwouldn’t have been half as good but for you; thatthey will be everlastingly grateful for the perfectarrangements you have made. Miss Maguire can’texpress her feelings in words, but is most anxiousto—”

“Oh! Mr. Dereker!” cried Sheila, blushing to theroots of her hair, “pray don’t—Oh!”

“Don’t interrupt. She’s most anxious to say‘Amen.’”

“Amen!” said Sheila, gravely, and evidently muchrelieved.

“For what we have received, etc., etc.,” continuedMr. Dereker. “Now for shawls and the carriage. Canwe set you down at the club, Claude? And you canmake a suitable reply on the way.”

Possibly he did, as he was wedged in, close toSheila, and what he had to say was in a softly,murmurous tone; akin to that of the surges on the355shore, which the silence of the summer night madeclearly audible.

After the triumphant success of the ball, otherentertainments followed in quick succession, in whichthe visitors, civil, naval and military, vied with eachother in keeping up the excitement, so that theseason of 18— was long known as the most successful,harmonious, and generally mirthful periodrecorded in Tasmanian annals. Races, regattas,picnics, gymkhanas, were in turn attended by crowdsof visitors from all the colonies.

Of four-in-hand drags there was quite a procession.Agriculture was prospering. Stock was high in priceand quality. Mining operations and investments notonly in this, but in all the other colonies, werephenomenally payable. The financial glow shed bythe ever increasing, almost fabulous yield of theComstock, and of the great copper and tin mines,Mount Lyell and Mount Bischoff, gave a magicallustre to all monetary transactions. A kind ofArabian Nights’ glamour was cast over the existenceof the dwellers in the land, and of all the excitedcrowds who had hurried to the favoured isle, whereAladdin’s Cave seemed suddenly to have opened itstreasure chambers in real life and in broad day, to thefavoured inhabitants of the Far South Isle.

Foremost among the gay throngs who seemed bentupon taking fullest advantage of the revelries of theperiod—so appropriate, so suitable, so thoroughly inharmony with the spirit of the hour, were the festivecelebrities of the Victorian party, by which namethey began to be known.

356Mr. Blount had no notion of receiving all thebenefits of his newly acquired possessions withoutdoing something in requital. His liberality was unbounded.He subscribed generously to all charitablesocieties and local institutions. He gave picnics,dances and fishing parties. He even went the lengthof chartering a steamer and carrying off a largefashionable party to the weird, gloomy solitudes ofMacquarie Harbour.

Here the frolic-minded crowd found their spiritslowered, and their imagination darkly disturbed, asthey roamed amid the ruinous prison-houses, whererotting timbers told the tale of long neglect; of fast-fadingmemories of crime and suffering. They gazedon the immense, tenantless buildings, with hundredsof cubicles, the mouldering walls, roofless and ivy-grown,the church where it was deemed that thewretches whose lives were one long foretaste of hell,might be turned to hopes of Heaven, after completinga life of imprisonment, torture and despair. Vehicleswere in attendance, besides saddle-horses and guides,under whose safe conduct the revellers made theirway to the silent, deserted settlement, whence longago the ghastly procession of chained men marchedat morn to commence each day—a day in whichthey cursed their birth hour at dawn and eve, endingit by trusting that each night might be theirlast. 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 morethan one such desperate felon had been literally tornin pieces, or escaped the hounds to die a more terribledeath amid the sharks which swarmed around the357pier. These and other relics of the bad old days ofmystery and fear, having been shudderingly regardedby the awed and whispering company, the Albatrossdeparted with a fair wind, a smooth sea, and her muchrelieved visitors, who,

Yet as the stars came out and sat upon thrones,looking with sleepless eyes upon the shadowy outlinesof the darksome forest and the savage coast,a wailing nightwind arose sounding as a ghostlyaccompaniment to the dirge-like murmur of the greatarmy of the dead—buried and unburied—around theaccursed charnel-houses, which had polluted eventhat Dantean wilderness!

“Oh! let us get away from this dreadful place!”said Imogen, clinging to her husband’s arm, “and Ivote against seeing any other Chamber of Horrors.We come to Hobart for rest and pleasure while thishalcyon season lasts. Let us not sadden our souls byone thought of the terrors in which this place issteeped. I should like to blot out their very memoryand consume the relics off the face of the earth.”

It must not be considered, either, that the “Truceof God” (as cessation of siege or battle wasmedievally termed), which the Happy Isle proclaimedto the war-worn denizens of other colonies, lesshappily situated for rest and recreation, was entirelydevoted to Play. This year was the session, wiselyordained as fitting in with the general vacation, forthe meeting of the Society for the Advancement ofScience.

358Hither came, therefore, to leaven the ordinaryfrivolities, learned professors from Australasianuniversities, legal luminaries, judges, the Q.C. andthe rising barrister, mercantile magnates, statisticiansof world-wide fame, even, indeed, Sir Gregory Gifford,also Sir Harold Harfa*ger, an ex-Proconsul of ourIndian empire. They were vice-regal guests. Minorluminaries, such as authors, war correspondents,politicians, home-grown and foreign—in fact almostall the men of “light and leading” were representedat this unique gathering. Missionaries from farPacific Isles, who had faced cannibal hordes, andheard the yell from crowded war canoes, whenpoisoned arrows were in the air. They had theirphilological treasures and hard-won trophies toexhibit. The crowded lecture rooms testified to theinterest taken in the soldiers of the Army of Peace.To add to the satisfaction with which the variousexcitements and entertainments were availed of bythe party from the Upper Sturt, it so chanced that, inconsequence of the favourable seasons Edward Brucewas enabled to join them a month earlier than he hadexpected. He was, moreover, in excellent spirits,openly avowing his intention to devote his stay inHobart to pleasure unalloyed, as compensation forhis late pastoral anxieties. He was not contented,however, after a fortnight’s “idlesse,” without organisinga trip to The Mine, which had lately so developedin wealth, prestige, and reputation, that it wasdifficult to say whether it belonged to Tasmania orTasmania belonged to it.

Everything and everybody appeared to be in astate of unprecedented prosperity in that happy and359care-free annus mirabilis if ever there was one.Mrs. Bruce and Imogen mildly reproached Bruce forbeing in such a hurry to leave his family after so longan absence, and what was worse, carrying offImogen’s husband. However, he, a man of unrestingenergy and enterprise, declared that he couldnot stand any more of this lotus-eating life, and thatif he did not get away out to the mine, he wouldhave to return to Marondah.

At this dreadful threat Mrs. Bruce capitulated,fearing a premature departure from this land ofUtopian delights, where the children were improvingso fast, and gaining a reserve of vigour impossible ina hotter climate. This consideration, in the devotedmother’s eyes, overbore all others, and caused her tolook philosophically upon the proposed expedition—whichwas accordingly decided upon, and a day fixedfor the start, the which came off without accidentor delay.

It may be doubted whether, except in theatricalstage life, anything surpasses in rapidity of transformationthe change from a fragment of the primevalwilderness into a thickly populated town, founded ona gold or silver field of proved richness. Macadamisedstreets and level footpaths take the place ofmiry dray tracks and sloughs of despond. So wasit in the city of Comstock. Handsome hotels andshop fronts, with plate glass windows, had succeededweatherboard and slab shanties with bark roofs.The electric light in globe and street lamps shed itssearching radiance through main thoroughfare andalley.

360The diurnal coach, by which our travellers arrived,was well horsed and punctual to a fault. The policemagistrate and warden of goldfields, assisted by astrong body of police, preserved order and punishedevil-doers with such deterrent strictness that offencesagainst the laws were almost unknown. A municipality,with mayor, councillors, and aldermen hadbeen formed after the British pattern. Thus thefoundations of earliest English law had been laid,and as the erstwhile barren, hopeless lodge in thewilderness increased in wealth and population, so theState, “broad based upon the people’s will,” emergedready made, only awaiting that gradual developmentwhich comes instinctively in Anglo-Saxon communities,to pass from the rude stage of the mining campto the perfected organisation of the city. It wassoon made apparent to the party that Hobart wasnot the only place where public entertainments andfestive gatherings were to be found. The mayorand corporation of Comstock, waiting upon thedistinguished visitors, whose arrival was duly chronicledin the Clarion, invited them to a formalbanquet, where champagne in profusion was exhibited,and the health of their guests proposed by the mayor,Mr. Frampton Tregonwell, who made honourablemention of that distinguished pastoralist and explorer,Mr. Edward Hamilton Bruce.

Before this function they had been taken to thelower levels of the mine, when the “drives” beinglighted up, and a few judiciously selected masses of“native silver” and malachite looked up for theoccasion, Mr. Bruce formed the opinion that he stoodin a “quarry” of one of the chief precious metals.361Being a man of business habits, as well as of pastoralexperience, he took the opportunity, under Mr.Tregonwell’s authority, to inspect the accounts ofthe Company, and, after examining the astonishingvalues of crude and treated ore, he came to theconclusion that his sister-in-law (untoward as hadbeen the early stages of their acquaintance) haddisplayed the unerring instinct with which her sexis credited in her venture in the matrimonial lottery.The audit demonstrated the cheering fact that anincome of from ten to twenty thousand a year wasassured to each of the four original shareholders inthis most fortunate enterprise.

“I suppose you and Imogen will be taking a triphome in a few months?” he said. “With all thismoney, and the prospects of the season in London,Australia will lose some of its interest.”

“Such is our intention; unless anything unforeseencomes in the way after the Hobart season has cometo an end and you good folks have wended your wayback to the Upper Sturt, I think of taking ourpassage by the first P. and O. steamer from Sydney.”

“Won’t it be rather cold to arrive in England soearly in the year?”

“We propose to stay a month or two in Cairo onthe way, refreshing our memories of the ArabianNights; trans-shipping by the Brindisi route, andafter a week or two in Paris, reaching London inMay, in time for Imogen to hear her first nightingale.”

“A very sensible programme, I wish we were goingwith you. However, later on, if the seasons and thestock keep up, we may come and stay at yourcountry seat.”

362“It was the most fortunate day of my life when Istayed at yours, though appearances were against me,I confess. However, I look forward to seeing youand Hilda in my native county, which is not whollywithout interest, especially in shooting, hunting, andfishing. However, I think it’s drawing on to feedingtime. Champagne goes better after subterraneanexperiences than before.”

The banquet was a success. Blount found himselfreferred to, not only as the original capitalist in theformation of the great Mineral Property, which hadadvanced Tasmania by half a century, socially, commercially,and mineralogically (the last word a trifleslurred), but as “a patron of the fine arts, a generoussupporter of local charities, and a citizen of whomthey would all be proud, and would remember gratefullyin days to come. They trusted that even in thesplendid 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 ‘tightlittle island,’ called Tasmania would not be whollyforgotten. Their honoured guests had acceptedinvitations to be present at a ball to be given thatevening for the purpose of supplementing the funds ofthe local hospital, and all hoped to meet them there.They knew that there were several representative institutions,including the library, of which they werejustly proud, to inspect. They would not detain theguests by making further remarks.”

Mr. Blount had no hesitation in saying that he wasnever more genuinely surprised than by witnessingthe astonishing, he might say unparalleled, progressmade by the town and district since his last visit. In363the formation of the streets, in the water service, inthe installation of electric lighting, in the hospital andlibrary, Comstock was ahead of many old-establishedcountry towns in Britain. Personally, he shouldalways take a deep interest in the municipal, as wellas the material, progress of the city, and feel genuinepride in having contributed to its inception anddevelopment.

A general inspection of the local institutions filledup the afternoon. The free library attracted muchattention. It had been commenced by subscription,and with private donations, supplemented by booksfrom tourists and visitors, who generally left any theybrought to read by train or steamer on the journeyup. It was a heterogenous collection, ranging fromvery light fiction to works on metallurgy, theology,and civil engineering. However, there was no lackof works of solid value, so that the minerwho wished to improve or distract his mind hadno difficulty in finding books to suit his taste.At the hospital, apart from typhoid fever anddysentery patients, the cases were mostly fractures andother injuries resulting from mining accidents. Thisestablishment, as at all gold and silver fields, wasmost liberally supported, irrespective of race, creed,or colour. No working miner knew whose turn itmight be the next to be carried there in agony orinsensibility. Many were the gifts, unostentatiouslybestowed, by former patients in the shape of necessariesor luxuries for convalescents. These duty visits performed,dinner was undertaken at the Palace Hotel, astately three-storeyed building, with a verandahnearly twenty feet wide and balconies to match.364After a more or less sumptuous repast in the salle àmanger, electric lighted, where they were served bywell-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 accompaniedby a dozen dignitaries to the Town Hall. In thisimposing building, a crowd of dancers in “plainor fancy” dress were already in the full swing ofpleasurable excitement.

A gold or silver field of decent rank and reputationmust always compare favourably in its amusem*ntswith a town. In the wide range of hisexperiences, in war and peace, on land and water,British or foreign, the roving miner may challengecomparison with all sorts and conditions of men.Thus, he is never at a loss for a character torepresent, a costume in which to disguise, or toheighten his personal attractions. The same ruleapplies to the women of the family, who have followedhis wanderings, sharing in his privations ortriumphs, as the case may be. Bearing with exemplarypatience the inevitable hardships, they arenone the less eager to recoup themselves whenlegitimate opportunities arise for amusem*nt.

When Messrs. Bruce, Blount, and other magnatesarrived on the scene, they were accommodated withseats on the daïs, where they sat proudly in fullpublic view, reflecting how sharply contrasted wasthe scene before them with any possible gatheringon the site of the “Comstock Claim”—“of fourmen’s ground”—little more than a year ago! Thegreat hall, seventy feet in length, by thirty in366width, was brilliantly lighted, draped with flags ofall nations, above which, surmounting the daïs, theUnion Jack reigned supreme. Upon the satin-likeHuon pine floor strolled a motley crowd. Piratesand princes, peasants and brigands, ballerinas andmatadors, mingled with dairy maids and broom girls,flower sellers and fishwives (whose “caller herrin’”had the smack of the well-remembered cry), whiledowagers and duch*esses, grisettes, tricoteuses, shepherdsand sundowners, jostled here and there, in thedance, with a Red Indian, a cow-boy, or even anaboriginal in his blanket.

“The distinguished visitors,” so described in themorning’s Clarion, paid due respect to their municipaland other entertainers. They stood high in theestimation of their partners, whose looks and enthusiasmfor the dance they would have been indeedhypercritical to have criticised. Charlie Herbert andJack Clarke, the latter having got rid of his unfortunatelameness, were habited as a bushranger and astock-rider, respectively. They remained till supperwas over, during which exceedingly festive refection,Mr. Blount’s health, as a fearless explorer, was enthusiasticallytoasted, while Mr. Tregonwell was referredto as a world-renowned mining captain, and the fatherof the field. Charlie Herbert was eulogised as a worthyson of the soil, who, like Mr. Dereker—the speaker mustsay “Dick” Dereker (cheers)—was an honour to hisnative land, and like him, destined to make a namein the great world. Here every one rose, and cheeredto the echo. The speeches in requital of this courtesywere brief but pointed; and long before the conclusionof the function, Messrs. Bruce and Blount367quietly departed and soon after sunrise were on theway back to Hobart, accompanied by Charlie Herbertand Clarke, who deemed themselves to have a justclaim to exceptional recreation after their pioneerexperiences. Moreover, they explained that theycould afford to enjoy themselves with a clear conscience,while Mr. Tregonwell remained on guard—aman never known to sleep on his post. So theseyoung men chartered a four-in-hand drag, a fewmiles out of Hobart, and having borrowed a coach-horn,entered that city with all proper pomp andcirc*mstance. When Charlie Herbert proceeded to“swing his reefing leaders,” and pull up at theGeneral Post-Office, quite a crowd had assembled,eager to gaze on, and to welcome the prospectorsof the wondrous Comstock mine.

After depositing themselves and their belongings atthe Tasmanian Club, the junior shareholders statedwith decision that, having had a fair allowance ofhard work and hard living, they were now going toenjoy themselves; also to make some return for thehospitality they had enjoyed in former years. Aspleasant detrimentals, though suspiciously regardedby cautious matrons, they had always, on the whole,been popular, their want of capital being overlookedin favour of their engaging manners and family connections.Now, as original shareholders in the greatmining property of the day, they were princes,paladins, long-lost brothers; in fact, most desirableand distinguished. Everybody, from the SupremeCourt judges downward, called on and made much ofthem. Without them no party was complete. Atthe polo meets they were conspicuous; they rode368splendidly, every one said, as indeed they did, butnot having been able to keep ponies in former years,this was their first opportunity of exhibiting thataccomplishment in public.

Of course, they were not long in letting peopleknow that they wanted to give their friends, and moreparticularly the ladies of Hobart, some kind of entertainment;the question now being of what patternand dimensions it should consist. To this end graveconsultations were held; of balls and parties therehad been nearly enough—the young people were,strange to say, beginning to be tired of dancing.

Laura Claremont talked of going home to Hollywoodsoon. If not earlier, certainly next week.Mr. Bruce was becoming impatient; he began tothink about mustering those polled Angus bullocks inthe river paddocks for the Melbourne market, when achance remark by Mrs. Blount settled the matter, anddecided the character of the entertainment.

“How would it be to have a picnic party to theHermitage?” she inquired, with an air of muchinnocence and simplicity. “There is a lovely road byBrown’s River, and such a view! No one is at theBungalow now but a caretaker. There is one finelarge 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 nightsare so lovely. We can have all the men-of-warpeople, and just in time, too; I heard they were to beoff to the islands soon.”

“Magnificent!” cried out Charlie Herbert andJack Clarke in one breath. “Mrs. Blount, you havesaved our lives. Jack and I were getting quite low-spirited369and suicidal. We could think of nothingworth while. Balls are played out. The races atElwick were about the last excitement. A picnic ona vast and comprehensive scale is the very thing. MissMaguire, when does the Admiral give the order forNukuheva?”

Sheila blushed, and seemed taken aback, but rallying,answered, “‘The captain bold does not confidein any foremast hand, Matilda!’ Isn’t that in oneof the Bab Ballads?”

“Oh! I thought Vernon Harcourt might havetold you,” said Charlie. “You and he seemed soconfidential 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 thatshe had “given herself away,” looked confused.

“Tell him not to be rude, Sheila. What business isit of his? Say you won’t go to his picnic, and thenit will be a dismal failure.” Mrs. Blount stood alongsideher protégée and looked threateningly at MasterCharlie, who pretended to be shocked at his fauxpas, and went down on one knee to Sheila to imploreforgiveness.

“I’ve a great mind to box your ears, Mr. Herbert!”she said, as her face lighted up with a smile of genuinemirth, “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 wasafraid the mare would jump over the cliff once. The370road is lovely; I feel sure all the world will come.We must have half-a-dozen four-in-hands—Imogenand I will be chaperons. I suppose you young mencan forage up two more?”

“Miss Claremont!” suggested Jack Clarke. “She isso nice.”

“Quite agree with you,” said Imogen; “but she isnot 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 youyoung married women get so dreadfully proper, andtalk alarmingly about your husbands. I’ll findsecurity for good behaviour.”

“Only my fun,” said Imogen. “But I’m afraidyou’ve hurt Sheila’s feelings. Has she forgivenyou?”

“Oh! Mrs. Blount, don’t tease him any more,”cried Sheila. “He looks really sorry. It was all myfault, 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. “Shehas a habit of authority, as the wife of the Premier ofthe Golden West Colony—(“and, though this is a silvermine, ‘Shivoo,’ the relationship is obvious,” this interpolationwas Mr. Jack Clarke’s). Those who are infavour, hold up your hands! Against it, nobody. Theresolution is carried.”

“Now for ways and means,” said Charles Herbert.“First of all, the four-in-hand drags—there mustn’tbe fewer than half-a-dozen, with power to add to371their number; the men, too, must be able to drive.Claude Clinton and I will see to that. Of course wemake him an honorary member of the committee ofmanagement. The affair wouldn’t be complete withouthim.”

“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 andMrs. Blount’s are available, and this is such a grandroom to sing in. Music after breakfast—when you’venothing 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 thinkwe’re going out of our minds.”

The tribute to Mr. Clinton’s merits having beenrendered with feeling, Sheila’s fresh voice holding agood position, the council went on to strict business.

“The drags first,” said Mr. Herbert, “the affairmust be started properly—now, who are there? There’sGerald Branksome from W.A., he can drive, I know—hewon the tandem race at the Polo Gymkhana, andthe Victoria Cross race at Hurlingham last year. Hecan be guaranteed. There’s Jim Allanson just downfrom Sydney, a well-known whip, I’ve seen him driveto Randwick from the Union Club. The Quorn Halldrag with its four greys will take some beating. Iwired to Dick Dereker, he’ll turn up. Jack, are yougood for the brake, with that off leg of yours? It’s aresponsible position.”

“Count me in,” said that gentleman, who had beento San Francisco; “Joe Bowman will help with thebrake business.”

372“That’s good enough,” said Herbert, “Joe will keepan eye on you going down hill. I’ll have one, if I haveto wire to Melbourne for a team, that makes the half-dozen,doesn’t it? I daresay there’ll be another ortwo by and by. Buggies, tandem carts, and privatecarriages may be left to their own discretion, or thatof their owners—there’ll be no lack of them, I daresay.”

Once the great event was decided upon, neitherdifficulties nor delays were considered worthy of notice.The date was fixed: the invitations were sent outnext morning. The social status of the entertainmentbeing exceptional, no one dreamed of refusing.Rumours of the scale of magnificence upon which itwas to be carried out commenced to circulate—for oneof the conditions of unparalleled advantage in suchaffairs, an unrestricted bank balance, was in this casenotorious.

Money being no object to these youthful MonteChristos, they were able to indulge, therefore, all thefancies of generous dispositions, with excited imaginations.No expense was spared; no thoughtful kindnessomitted. A large proportion of the hackneycarriages and other livery stable vehicles were secured.As at a contested election, they plied from the GeneralPost-Office to the Hermitage, with free transit for allholders of invitation cards. The arrangements werecomplete and successful, beyond all previous holidayexperiences, and when Charlie Herbert took the leadwith an impressive team, and the belle of Hobart onthe box seat of his drag, life, it may be confidentlystated, had few richer moments, or more dazzlingtriumphs in store for him.

373If he did not quote “let Fate do her worst,” therecould be no doubt that he felt, deep down in hisheart, the delicious, ever new, ever fresh sentiment ofthe poet.

Next in order came Edward Bruce, with Sheila onthe box beside him, wild with joy and the excitementof such a position, of which, except in a dream fairytale, she had never realised the possibility. Imogen,beside her, had insisted on relinquishing the place ofhonour. “No, Sheila, my dear! My fortune is told,your turn has yet to come, and you have all our bestwishes, you know.”

“You are too good, Miss Imogen, Mrs. Blount, Imean! 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 hassent all the roses to your cheeks. Why, you mightpass for a Tasmanian girl, really—and we know whatthat means.”

“Now, you girls!” said Edward Bruce, in accentsof veiled command, “keep your eyes about you, goingdown this hill. It’s trying with a heavy load, and I’veheard of accidents. Imogen, put your foot on thebrake that side, and give me the least bit of help.Now, we’re on the level again. Isn’t that view of thesea lovely?”

Reginald Vernon Harcourt, R.N., Flag Lieutenantof H.M.S. Orlando, was understood to be of thatopinion, as he leaned forward from his seat in thebody of the coach, immediately behind the two youngwomen aforesaid, and remarked as much. This wasnot the only statement he made before the processionpulled up at the Sandy Bay Hotel, at the base of the374hill immediately below the Hermitage. And it didnot go unnoted, that, being favourably situated fortalking to Sheila over her right shoulder, he madeprompt use of the position, as a naval strategist ofexperience, while Imogen and Jack Clarke similarlysituated, did not appear to be quite so eager forconversation.

The enumeration of the drags and traps followingwould resemble that of the Greek ships at the siegeof Troy. It will be sufficient to say that Mr. Dereker’sgrey team was held to be the best, as to matchingand style; Dick Dereker, the most finished exponentof the coaching science—worthy of the great annualpageant in Hyde Park. There were a few dissentients,who thought the Quorn Hall team and dragfaultless. But the opposition votes were too powerful.He was “Dick Dereker,” therefore unapproachablein love, war, sport, and every other form of manlyexcellence. There was nothing more to be said. Hisname settled the matter.

As it happened, nothing could possibly have beenmore deliciously perfect than the weather. Warm,without oppressive heat or sultry feeling, the faint seabreeze, the murmuring lazy surge-roll, completed themagic spell, which invited to sensuous enjoyment, thehappy possessors of unworn youth—in which class,the greater proportion of the guests were fortunatelyincluded.

The day, the season, the environment and attendantcirc*mstances being propitious, so was the gathering,which was beyond all precedent successful. All thefour-in-hands had turned up; there was such a crowdat the General Post-Office, that traffic was temporarily375impeded. But that did not matter in Hobart,as it certainly would have done in Melbourne orSydney—where indignation would have been aroused.The Tasmanian population is kindly and forbearing,especially to the stranger within their gates, throughwhom, in the season, it must be admitted, theirrevenues are substantially benefited. So, as thefour-in-hands passed in single file down DaveyStreet, cheers rent the air, and hearty popularenthusiasm was evoked. The hill below theHermitage was long and steep, so it was arrangedthat the drags and carriages were to be left at thehotel, where adequate accommodation had been provided,as well for the horses, as for the grooms anddrivers to them appertaining. The walk up hill wasneither long nor unduly fatiguing; providing alsofor reasonable deviations into the forest paths, whencemore extended views might be enjoyed, or confidentialcommunications exchanged. This arrangementseemed to suit the majority of the guests, who might,without loss of time, have been seen scattered overthe sides and summit of the forest hill. At the soundof the great Chinese gong, a fragment of loot fromthe Summer Palace at Pekin, in the half-forgottenChinese war, a strong converging force prepared toinvest the Hermitage. Here were seen tables ontrestles in the principal room, laden with all the goodthings which a very active, well-paid caterer had beenable 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 miraculousarrangement, rendered the choice of viands376difficult, and the taste of the most fastidious“gourmet,” easy to satisfy. With the popping of thefirst champagne corks, the conversation began tostrike the note of cheerfulness proper to the occasion,after which the “crescendo” was maintained at anuninterruptedly joyous, even vivacious level.

Speeches were sternly deprecated; an immediateadjournment to the beach was proposed and promptlycarried out. The shining sands invited to every kindof game and dance suitable to an open air revel.Sets of lancers were formed; games such as “twosand threes,” “oranges and lemons,” “hide andseek,” found enthusiastic supporters, while thosepairs who had anything particular to say to eachother found quiet paths and shady nooks in the forestfringe, which lay so conveniently close to the beachesand headlands.

There was, apparently, no lack of mutual entertainment,or necessity for the givers of the feast toinvent fresh frolics, for, just as the low sun gavewarning, and the last game of “rounders” came to anend—in which, by the way, Sheila, who was as activeas a mountain colt, had particularly distinguishedherself—the recall bugle was sounded. A late afternoontea was served, and a descent made to the lowerlevel, where the drags, carriages, buggies and dog-cartsstood, with horses harnessed up, ready to start.Among these last-mentioned vehicles was one, a dog-cart,which was originally intended to accommodatemore than one pair. The driver regretted his inabilityto 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 leaving377Hobart, holding the ancient averment, “two’s company,three’s none,” still to be in force and acceptation.However, after the inevitable amount of bustle andoccasional contention of ostlers, all the teams wereduly mustered and loaded up in the same order asbefore.

There were, of course, certain reconstructions,among which it was noted that Mrs. Blount had relinquishedher seat next to Miss Maguire, in favourof the Flag-Lieutenant of the Orlando, alleging preferencefor the higher seat behind, as by this removalshe commanded a more extensive view of the gloriouslandscape, spread out by sea and shore, below andaround. Sheila and Lieutenant Harcourt did notappear to be so deeply interested in scenery—atleast, on this occasion—as they kept their heads downmostly, and spoke, though uninterruptedly, in rather alow tone during the homeward drive.

On one occasion, however, they looked up suddenlyas a fresh young voice commenced the opening verseof a well-known song, and before the magical coupletof “The ship is trim and ready, and the jolly daysare done,” was well over, the whole of the occupantsof the drag, as well as those of the one immediatelybehind, joined in with tremendous enthusiasm, until,when the comprehensive statement that “They alllove Jack” was reached, the very sea-gulls on thebeach were startled, and flapped away with faintcries of remonstrance. Then, for one moment, theFlag-Lieutenant and Sheila looked into one another’seyes, and read there something not wholly subversiveof the sentiment.

The moon had risen, illumining the broad estuary,378over which, in shimmering gleams, lustrous lines offairy pathways stretched to the silvery mist of thehorizon; star-fretted patches of lambent flame traversedthe wavelets, which ever and anon raised a glitteringspray upward, while from time to time the low butdistinct 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 favourableto those avowals which the moon has, from timeimmemorial, had under her immediate favour andprotection. If some of the merry maidens of theday’s festa listened to vows more ardent than areborn of the prosaic duties of every-day life, whatwonder? Next morning there was great excitementat the clubs, and among all the inner circles ofHobart society. Two engagements were “given out,”one being that of Lieutenant Vernon Harcourt, of theOrlando, to Miss Sheila Maguire, of Tumut Park,New South Wales, and the other of Mr. CharlesHerbert, and a young lady to whom he hadlong been attached, though circ*mstances hadhitherto delayed his declaration. Suspicions hadbeen aroused as to Mr. Jack Clarke and another fairmaid, but nothing was as yet “known for a fact.” Ofcourse, little was done on the day following thisstupendous entertainment. Everybody was too tired,or declared themselves to be so. The members ofthe Polo Club got up a scratch match, however, justto “shake off the effects of a late sitting at whist.”

A few ladies rode out to this affair, the groundbeing situated picturesquely on the bank of thebroad Derwent. Among these Dianas was Sheila,riding a handsome thoroughbred, and escorted379by Mr. Bruce, also exceptionally well mounted.Mr. Harcourt was observed to join them from time totime, when his “quarter” was up at polo. He wasthe show player of the fleet; always in a foremostposition at the gymkhana. In this particularmatch, Sheila was observed to take great interest,turning pale, indeed, on one occasion when he wasknocked off his horse in a violent passage at arms.

His opponent was adjudged to have been in thewrong, and well scolded by the captain of his side;the game went on, and Sheila recovered her roses—herspirits also, sufficiently to join in the cheeringwhen Lieutenant Harcourt’s side won the matchby a goal and two behinds.

Both of the engagements met with generalapprobation. The Tasmanian young lady and herlover belonged to (so to speak) “county” families,known from childhood to all the squirearchy of theisland—always general favourites. So everybodycongratulated sincerely and wished them luck. Theover-sea couple were, of course, strangers, and underother circ*mstances, local jealousy might have beenaroused by a girl from another colony carrying off ahandsome naval officer, always a prize in colonialcities. But Sheila’s simple, kindly, unaffected mannerhad commended her to even the severe critics ofher own sex, the more sensible members excusinghis invidious preference among so many good-looking,well-turned-out damsels, something after thisfashion:

“You see, he’s only a lieutenant; it may be yearsbefore he gets a ship. He couldn’t afford to marryyet, without money. They say she has tons of it,380and she is certainly very good-looking, and nice in hermanner. So Mr. Harcourt hasn’t done himself sobadly.” One person was slightly dissatisfied. Thatwas his captain. “He is my sailing-master, and avery good one, too,” he said, in an ill-used tone ofvoice. “He’ll always be thinking of her now, andcounting the days till he can leave the service. Supposethe ship runs on a rock, I get my promotionstopped, and all because of this confounded girl.”Different point of view!

As for Sheila and her lieutenant, they were perfectly,genuinely, unmistakably happy. They wereboth young, she just twenty, he not quite arrived atthirty. He was a rising man in his profession, andSheila’s money, which was, very properly, to be settledupon herself, would allow them to live most comfortablywhile he was on shore; besides aiding—asmoney always does, directly or indirectly—in hispromotion. So the immediate prospect was bright.Sheila declared that she had always loved sailorssince that eventful ball, where she had joined in thedance 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 becomesince!

This memorable picnic, often referred to in afteryears, was considered to be virtually, if notofficially declared, the closing event of the season.The fleet was to sail in a week or ten days for “theislands,” a comprehensive term for a general lookround the lands and seas of the South Pacific, in theinterests of British subjects. They would be backin Sydney in three or four months, at the end381of which time—a terrifically long and wearisomeperiod Sheila thought—she and her sailor wereto be married. The Admiral’s ship and officerswould then return to England, after a month’sstay in Hobart and Sydney—the time of his commissionhaving expired—and another Admiral, withanother flag-lieutenant, would replace them. Sheilawould also go to England, but not in the Orlando,modern regulations having put a stop to that pleasingprivilege. But she could take passage in a P. and O.steamer, leaving about the same time, and be in Englandready to receive him in a pretty house of theirown—their very own—where they would be as happyas princes—happier indeed than some! After thedeparture of the fleet, a certain calmness—notexactly a dullness, but bordering on something ofthat nature—began to settle upon the Isle of Restand Recreation. The Queenslanders, the New SouthWales division, the Victorians, South Australians,and New Zealanders were taking their passages.Edward Bruce began to get more and more fidgety—hewas certain that he was wanted at the station;really, if his wife and Imogen could not make uptheir minds to leave, he must go home and leavethem to follow.

Matters were in this unsettled state, when suddenlyin the cable column appeared the startlingannouncement, “The Earl of Fontenaye died suddenlyyesterday, at Lutterworth, soon after hearingthe news of his eldest son’s death at Malta from anaccident at polo. The title and estates devolve uponthe younger son, the Honourable Robert ValentineBlount, at present in Australia.”

382This news, it may well be imagined, was receivedwith mingled feelings by the people most nearly concerned.The Earl had been in failing health foryears past; but as a confirmed invalid, had notaroused apprehension of a sudden termination to hissuccession of ailments. Blount and his father hadbeen on excellent terms; their only serious disagreementhad been on the subject of the younger son’sunreasonable wandering—as the old man termed it—tofar countries and among strange people. Hehad not gone the length of prohibition, however, andhis last letter had assured the errant cadet of hisfather’s satisfaction at his marriage, and of his anxietyto welcome the bride to the home of their race. Nowall this was over. Blount would never behold the kindface lighting up with the joy of recognition, or havethe pride of presenting Imogen in all her grace andbeauty to the head of his ancient house. His brotherFalkland too, who used to laugh at his pilgrimages, ashe called them, and ask to be shown his staff andscrip, with the last news of the Unholy Land, ashe persisted in naming Australia. What goodchums they were, and had always been! Hisbrother had never married; in that respect onlywithstanding his father’s admonitions, but promisingan early compliance. Now, of course, in default ofa baby heir Blount was Lord Fontenaye, the inheritorof one of the oldest historic titles and estates of therealm—a position to which he had never dreamedof succeeding; the thought of which, if it had evercrossed his mind, was dismissed as equivalent inprobability to the proverbial “Château en Espagne.”Perhaps his most powerful consolation, independently383of the change involved in becoming an English nobleman,with historical titles and a seat in the Houseof Lords, was the contemplation of Imogen as LadyFontenaye.

To her, the feeling at first was painful rather thanotherwise. She sympathised too deeply in all herhusband’s mental conditions, not to share his grief forthe sudden loss of a father and brother to whom hehad been warmly attached. He would never beable to tell that father now how deeply he regrettedthe careless disregard of his feelings andopinions. Nor could he share with his brother, inthe old home, those sports to which both had beenso attached since boyhood’s day. The pride of provingthat in a far land, and among men of his ownblood, he had been able to carve out a fortune forhimself, and to acquire an income, far from inconsiderableeven in that land of great fortunes: eventhis satisfaction was now denied him. Imogen too,dreading always an inevitable separation from hersister, felt now that their absences must necessarily begreater, more lengthened, until at last a correspondenceby letter at intervals would be all that was left tothem of the happy old days in which they had sodelighted.

Why could not Fate indeed have left them wherethey were, provided with a good Australian fortune,which they could have spent, and enjoyed amongtheir own people, where Valentine would have,in time, become an Australian country gentleman,bought a place on the Upper Sturt, and lived likea king, going of course to Hobart in the summer,and running down to Melbourne now and then?384Why indeed should they have this greatness thrustupon them?

So when Imogen was called upon by variousfriends, ostensibly to inquire, but really to see “howshe took it,” and whether she showed any foreshadowingof the dignities, and calmness of exaltedrank, they were surprised to see from red eyes, andother signs, that the young woman upon whom allthese choice gifts had been showered had evidentlybeen having what is known in feminine circles,as “a good cry,” and was far from being upliftedby the rank and fame to which she had beenpromoted.

This state of matters was considered to be so unwise,unnatural, and in a sense ungrateful, to the Giverof all good gifts, that they set themselves to rate herfor the improper state of depression into which shehad allowed herself to fall. She was enjoined tothink of her duty to society, her rank, her positionamong the aristocracy of the proudest nobility in theworld. Of course it was natural for her husband tobe grieved at the death of his father and his brother.But time would soften that sorrow, and as she hadnever seen them, it would not be expected of her togo into deep mourning or to wear it very long. Inthe face of these, and other practical considerations,Imogen felt that there would be a flavour of affectationin the appearance of settled grief, and allowed herfriends to think that they had succeeded in clearingaway shadows. But she confided to Mrs. Bruce, inthe confidence of the retiring hour, that Val and shewould always look back to their quiet days at Marondah,and their holiday, lotus-eating season in Hobart,385as part of the real luxuries and enjoyments of theirpast life.

“However, you will have to come and see me atFontenaye!—how strangely it sounds—with Edwardand the dear children, and we must get Mr. Tregonwellto make something happen to the TasmanianComstock, so that we will come out like a shot. But,oh! my dear old Australia! how I shall grieve atparting with you for ever!”

Then the sisters kissed, and wept in each other’sarms, and were comforted—so women are soothed intime of trial. On the next morning Imogen appearedat breakfast with an unruffled countenance, talkingsoberly to her husband and brother-in-law about thewonderful change in their future lives, and theirdeparture by the next mail steamer.

This, of course, was imperative. The situation becameurgent. Mr. Bruce agreed to remain until theP. and O. Rome, R.M.S. came for her load of so manythousand cases of Tasmanian apples, and with incidentalpassengers steamed away for Albany, Colombo,Aden, Cairo, and the East—that gorgeous, shadowyname of wonder and romance. Then would theAustralian family return to their quiet home by therippling, winding waters of the Sturt, and the Englishdivision return to become an integral portion of therank 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 Heaventhe “flag that’s braved a thousand years, the battleand the breeze.”

It came to pass during one of the necessary conversations386relative to the voyage, that Lord Fontenayesaid to her ladyship, “Does anything occur to you,relative to Sheila Maguire, my dear Imogen?”

“Indeed, I have been thinking about her a greatdeal, lately,” said the youthful countess. “She can’tbe married until Lieutenant Harcourt and the fleetreturn from the Islands. Till then, she will have tostay in Hobart.”

“Won’t that be a little awkward for her? She hasno friends, that is to say, intimate friends, over here—though,of course, we could get her efficientchaperonage—eh?”

“I know what you are thinking of, Val! It wouldbe the very thing—and oh! how kind of you.”

“What am I thinking of, and why am I so kind—haveI married a thought reader, my dear Imogen?”

“Why, of course, you are intending to ask her togo home with us, and to be married from Fontenaye.It is a splendid idea. It would be unspeakably nicefor her, and she would be such a help and comfort tome, on our travels.”

“The very thing! Do you think she will like theidea?”

“Like it? She will be charmed. He will come toEngland with the men of the Orlando, who are to bereplaced, and they can be married as soon as she canget her trousseau together. We shall go to Englandmuch about the same time as the Admiral, so thatMr. Harcourt will be on full pay the whole time. Idare say it will be two or three months before he getsanother ship. Poor dear Sheila, she never dreamed ofbeing married from a castle, any more than I did ofliving in one after I was married.”

387“Or that I should give her away, as I suppose Ishall have to do,” rejoined her husband. “‘Givingagreeable girls away,’” he hummed—“I shall feel likethe Lord Chancellor in Iolanthe.”

When this deep-laid plot was unfolded to Sheila, sheentered into the spirit of it with enthusiasm, expressingthe deepest gratitude, as with tears in her eyes,she thanked her tried friends for their thoughtfulkindness. “I was rather down about being left alonehere,” she confessed. “It was all very well when Ibelonged to your party, but being here by myself tillthe fleet returned, and fancying all sorts of things inMr. Harcourt’s absence, was different.”

“The advantage is not altogether on your side,Sheila. You will be company for me when myhusband is away. We’re both Australians, you see,and there are many things in common between us;old bush memories and adventures, that an Englishfriend, however nice she was, wouldn’t understand.Really I feel quite cheered up, now I know you’recoming with us.”

“And what do I feel?” cried Sheila—“but I won’tdescribe it.” Her colour deepened, and her dark greyeyes glowed, as she stood up and looked at herbenefactress with passionate emotion in every lineof her expressive face. “Yes! I feel that I coulddie for you”—she clasped Imogen’s hand as shespoke, and kissing it again and again, rushed from theroom.

“Her Irish blood came out there,” said Blount;“how handsome the girl has grown, and what a figureshe has! She’ll rather astonish our untravelledfriends in England. You’re quite right, though, as to388her being a comfort to you in foreign parts, and youcan talk about the Upper Sturt, and dear oldMarondah together, when you feel low-spirited.”

“Dear Marondah!” said Imogen, softly; “Iwonder when we shall see the old river again, andthe willows, dipping their branches into its clearwaters.”

“Oh! you mustn’t let yourself run down, that way.Bruce will be home next summer, if bullocks keepup and the price of wool. Think how they’ll enjoycoming to stay with us, and what shooting and huntinghe and I can have together. Sheila can hunt too.I’ll smoke a cigar in the garden, and you’d better goto bed, my dear.”

But little more remains to be told concerning thefortunes of Imogen and her husband, now Lord andLady Fontenaye. They decided on a month’ssojourn in Cairo, where they revelled in the mildclimate, and the daily marvels and miraculous sightsand sounds—the enchanted Arabian Nights’ surroundings,the veiled women, the Arab horses, thebalconies, almost touching across the narrow streets.The old-world presentment of the East was inexpressiblyfascinating to Imogen and Sheila, seen forthe first time.

They “did” Egypt more or less thoroughly, as theyplanned not to reach England before April—Imogendeclaring that “the cold winds of March” would layher in an early grave. So they went up the Nile asfar as Philæ, filling their minds with such glories andmarvels as might suffice for the mental digestion of alifetime. They rode and explored to their hearts’389content, “Royal Thebes, Egyptian treasure-house ofboundless wealth, that boasts her hundred gates”;Luxor, with its labyrinth of courts, and superbcolonnades; Karnak, that darkens the horizon with aworld of portals, pyramids, and palaces.

“Perhaps we may never see these wonders again,”said Imogen. “But I shall revel in their memoriesas 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 inthe process, besides meeting people of mark and distinction.Val tells me we may have a fortnight inParis, for hats and dresses, before arriving in dear oldEngland some time in April, which is a lovelymonth, if the spring is early. And this year they sayit 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, Ihope, before the ‘merry month of May,’ when I shallhave the honour of showing you two ‘Cornstalks’what a London season is like.”

“Oh! and shall we able to ride in the Park?” quothSheila, with great eagerness. “I do so long to seethe wonderful English horses that one hears so muchabout—the Four-in-hand and Coaching Clubs too!What a sight it must be! I must have a horse worthlooking at, price no object—new saddle, and habittoo. Oh! what fun it will be! And you’ll give390Mrs. Bl—I mean, her ladyship—a horse too, won’tyou?”

“You’re a true Australian, Sheila,” said he. “Ibelieve you all care more about horses, than anythingelse in the world. Now that the ‘Comstock’ is soencouraging in the way of dividends, I believe it willrun to a hundred-and-fifty-guinea hackney or two—witha new landau, a brougham, and other suitableequipages.”

These rose-coloured anticipations were duly realised.A wire was sent from Paris, and the “wanderingheir” was duly received and welcomed in the hallsof his ancestors. The time-honoured feasting oftenants and “fêting” of the whole countryside wastransacted—a comprehensive programme having beenarranged by the land steward, a man of great experienceand organising faculty. The younger sonof the house, it was explained, had always been themore popular one. And now that he had “cometo his own,” as the people said, their joy was unbounded.Everything was done on a most liberalscale. Correspondents came down “special” fromthe great London dailies, by whom full andparticular descriptions were sent through all Britainand her colonies, as well as to the ends of the earthgenerally.

The beauty and gracious demeanour of Lady Fontenaye,and her friend Miss Sheila Maguire, anAustralian heiress of fabulous wealth, were descantedupon and set forth in glowing colours. Archiveswere ransacked for the ancestors of all the Marmions,from the days of Flodden and those earlier times whenRobert de Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye in Normandy,391followed the Conqueror to England, and after Hastingsobtained 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 thehouse, and being knighted with FitzEustace for gallantryat Flodden, attained to wealth and distinction;eventually through marriage with one of the co-heiressesof the house of Marmion, extinct in defaultof male heirs, became possessed of the title and estates.Hence, Robert Valentine Blount, the present LordFontenaye, has duly succeeded to the ancient towerand town, amid appropriate festivities and rejoicings.We are not aware that his Lordship presented a gold“chain of twelve mark weight” to the pursuivants, orthe gentlemen of the press, but that the hospitalitywas thoughtful, delicate, and unbounded in liberality,no one honoured by its exercise will deny; while thebeauty and gracious demeanour of the Lady of theCastle, so efficiently supported in her duties by herfriend, the handsome Australian heiress, Miss Maguireof Tumut Park, lent additional lustre to the entertainment.

There for a while we may leave them, in the enjoymentof youth, health, and historic rank. If suchgifts do not confer unclouded happiness, it must beadmitted that but few of the elements of which it issupposed to be compounded were wanting.

Some delay in Sheila’s marriage, however, tookplace. The Orlando, after having been ordered toChina, to the dismay of the captain, and at least twoof the senior officers, who had private reasons for notdesiring to explore the Flowery Land, either in peace392or war, was as suddenly recalled, and the cruiserCandace ordered to take her place. The Orlando waspaid off, and the Royal Alfred, with a new crew andofficers put into commission, and despatched to theAustralian station at short notice. A telegram fromFontenaye caused Commander Harcourt, R.N., tobetake himself to that vicinity at once. He had beenpromoted to the rank of Commander for a dashingexploit in bringing off a boat’s crew at Guadalcanar,in the teeth of tremendous odds, and a shower ofpoisoned arrows. There was no need for delay now—Sheilahad her trousseau ready weeks before, and theLieutenant—I beg his pardon, the Captain—didn’trequire much time to make his preparations.

So there was another entertainment at Fontenaye,of comparative splendour and more true kindness andgenuine friendship. All the neighbouring gentrywere bidden to the feast, as well as the brotherofficers of the bridegroom. Lord Fontenaye gaveaway the bride, and made a feeling speech at thebreakfast. When Commander Harcourt, R.N., andhis lovely bride—for Sheila, in a “confection” fromParis, looked beautiful exceedingly—walked down theaisle of the old Abbey church, a girl of the periodsaid “it put her in mind of Lord Marmion and LadyClare, only that Marmion was a soldier, and not asailor, and (now that she remembered) he turned outbadly, 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 hisposition in society.”

393After this momentous function, Lord Fontenaye onefine morning looked up from the Times, which, afterthe fashion of secure husbands, he read duringbreakfast, with a sudden exclamation that causedImogen to inquire what it was about.

“The death of Mrs. Delamere, poor thing! Thatwill make a difference.”

“Difference to whom?” inquired Imogen. “Oh! Isee—now, those two can get married. Have you heardfrom 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 ‘GoldenHoof,’ or some such name, and was likely to make abig rise out of it, as he expressed it. What a turnof 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 auriferousearth, partly by sifting it, and then by blowing awaythe lighter dust particles, when the gold, if there isany, remains behind. Then, their tent caught fire oneday, when she was away for an hour marketing (fancyAdeline buying soap and candles at a digging!),and everything they had in the world was burned,except what ‘they stood up in,’ as my informantphrased it.”

“But you will send them something, poor things!How I pity them. Oh! how stupid I am! You did—Iknow you.”

“Yes! and she sent it back—a decent chequetoo.”

394“Quite right—they couldn’t take it from you—youof 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 diggersround about to form a relief committee, and to letthem subscribe their share, then spread mine out insmall amounts among the genuine ones. They couldn’trefuse 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,’ andhelped to give the forlorn ones a fresh start.”

“Quite another romance—I suppose you have aslight tendresse in that direction still?”

“Not more than a man always has for a woman hehas once loved, however badly she treated him; andthat is a very mild, strictly rational sentiment; butyou ought to have.”

“Why, I should like to know?”

“Because, of course, when she broke my heart, andsent me out into the world drifting purposeless, I fellacross one Imogen Carrisforth, who towed the derelictinto port—made prize of him, indeed, for ever andever.”

“Well, I suppose she did shape our destiny, as yousay—without the least intending it; and now Isuspect she’ll shape the Colonel’s for good and all.They will be remarried quietly, live in the south ofFrance, and the gay world will hear no more ofthem.”

Fontenaye was always reasonably gay and truly395hospitable; to the Australian division notably. Notunduly splendid, but comfortably and reasonably fine,on occasion. The nearest pack of hounds alwaysmet there on the first day of the season, when sometimesLady Fontenaye, sometimes Mrs. VernonHarcourt, appeared, superbly mounted and among thefront rankers, after the throw off. Sheila was a frequentguest in her husband’s necessary absences at sea.Imogen was a little slow to accustom herself to beaddressed and referred to as “your ladyship” and“her ladyship” at every turn, but took to it bydegrees.

“Now, what became of Kate Lawless and herbrother Dick?” asks an eager youthful patron ofthis veracious romance (not by any means whollyuntrue, dear reader, though a little mixed up).

“And the roan pony mare ‘Wallaby’ that carriedKate ninety miles in a day to warn the police aboutTrevenna,” screams a still younger student. “Youmustn’t leave her out.”

As might be expected, my dear boys, they came toa sad end. Dick and his sister disappeared after thefight at “the Ghost Camp.” They were rumoured tohave been seen on the Georgina River, in the Gulfcountry. There were warrants out for both, yet theyhad not been arrested. But one day, word came tothe police station at Monaro, that near a grave, at adeserted hut between Omeo and the Running Creek,something was wrong. The Sergeant, taking onetrooper who drove a light waggonette, rode to thespot. “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 then396and went over. She was wild, poor thing! I wonderif that’s her lying across the grave.”

It was even so. A haggard woman, poorly dressed,showing signs of privation and far travel, lay facedownward on the little mound. “Lift her up,Jackson!” said the Sergeant; “poor thing! I’d hardlyhave known her. She came here to shoot herself,look about for the revolver. Just on the temple, whata small hole it made! Shot the mare too! best thingfor both of ’em, I expect. So that’s the end of KateLawless! Who’d have thought it, when that flashcrowd 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 herfault. Let’s lift her into the trap. She don’t weighmuch. There’ll be the inquest, and she’ll haveChristian burial. They can’t prevent that in thiscountry. And she’s suffered enough to make a dozenwomen shoot themselves, or men either.”

So the dead woman came into the little township,and after the coroner’s jury had brought in theirverdict that the deceased had died by her own hand,but that there was no evidence to show her state ofmind 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 theidentification of the woman’s corpse, but none whateveras to that of the mare, among the horse-lovingbystanders around the grave, which was several timesvisited during the following days. “That’s oldWallaby, safe enough,” deposed one grizzled stockrider.397“Reg’lar mountain mare, skip over them rockslike a billy-goat; couldn’t throw her down no ways.Ain’t she dog-poor, too? Kate and she’s had hardtimes lately. What say, boys, s’pose we bury her?the ground’s middlin’ soft, and if she don’t ought tobe buried decent, no one does.”

The idea caught on, and a pick and spade contingentdriving out next day, a grave was dug and astone put up, on which was roughly chiselled—

MACMILLAN & CO.’S SIX-SHILLING NOVELS AUTUMN, 1902