CHAPTER IV

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

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

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

For rain _does_ come to these ‘habitations in sicco,’ though chiefly with reluctance and economy. The animals for team and burden were half-starved, sometimes emaciated to a degree. The strings of camels, with their turbaned Afghan drivers, were strangely foreign to his unaccustomed eyes. They stood patient, and uncomplaining, before the larger stores, or arrived laden with wool from the more distant stations, which, owing to the dry season, were unable to forward their fleeces, or obtain supplies without the aid of the ‘ship of the desert.’ There he stood, huge, ungainly, unpopular with the teamsters, terrifying to their horses—and all others.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘How long do we stay here?’

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

‘And you told him all about it?’

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Oh dear! I suppose it will be years and years of Latin and Greek, and history and geometry, before I can make a start in life for myself. If I’m to be a squatter—and I’m not going to be anything else—what is the use of losing all this time?’

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

There had been sadness and heartburnings on all these occasions of uprooting ties and friendships which more than once had struck deep into a kindly soil; but the inherited pioneer instinct had triumphed over all regrets. Sometimes the exodus had been from a country life to that of cities; then the regret was softened by the anticipation of metropolitan privileges—the meeting with friends and relatives, the enchantments of novelty and romance. Still, again, the departure from these new delights to a distant, untried region, a strange environment, an unknown society, was proportionately distasteful.

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

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

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

As in many other possessions and privileges, the benefits of which are not sufficiently valued until in danger of being lost, great was the outcry, many the professions of regret, when the news of resignation was confirmed. Where were they to get another man versed in their mining laws?

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

The eventful step was fully carried out; a comfortable house in one of the picturesque suburbs of Sydney was rented and furnished; the father’s farewells were made—those adieus sometimes temporary, but which the heart is prone to suggest may be eternal; and as the mail-boat majestically moved on her course through the great sandstone gates of the landlocked haven, the tears fell fast from the eyes of more than one of the little party as her smoke faded from view behind the lofty headland.

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

How differently indeed the point of view adds to or subtracts from the treatment of any given situation. To the famished explorer with beaten horses or starving camels, how drear and terrible the outlook over the ‘sun-scorched desert, wild and bare’—the stunted shrubs, the stony surface, the arid waste! Weak and low, faint with hunger, or frantic with thirst, he can barely summon sufficient energy to make one last effort for the hidden spring and—life.

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

The breakfast hour permitted a free and full discussion of ways and means—men and machinery—past and present—with sketch notes of the general rise and progress of the partnership during his absence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was just as well that Mr. Banneret made himself acquainted with the hospital and the _personnel_ of its guardian angels—a term used by himself in the aftertime—as, within a month after the official opening, he was himself an inmate of the institution referred to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I can assure you,’ said the kindly matron, ‘that you may trust Dr. Horton implicitly. He objects to messages that disguise the truth. He would not have permitted this to be sent if not strictly reliable.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With hearty thanks, and a cordial handclasp, she said adieu to the friend in need. Just before the train started, a well-dressed, ladylike woman was introduced as Mrs. Wharton, and took her seat beside her. ‘Nearly lost my passage,’ she said, ‘but you know how one is rushed at the last moment. However, here I am, and as I live near Kalgoorlie, I shall be glad to give you any information that may be useful. This is your first visit, I hear.’

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

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

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

‘What was the doctor’s name?’

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

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

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

‘Oh yes! for several years; but I have only just returned from England, where my young people are at school. They are all well, I am thankful to say, and I am returning to live with my husband for another two or three years, after which, as our mine, the “Golden Helmet,” is paying well, I trust we may go to England for good.’

‘And do you like living here?’

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

* * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

Pilot Hill was descried at last—the township reached; and then a journey had to be taken by coach, for of course the mail service had been contracted for by an American firm. Fast coaches, with well-fed horses, had succeeded to the slow and toilsome waggonette-travelling. Short stages were alone thought of, and with only a minimum of discomfort Mrs. Banneret found herself at the Royal Palace Hotel, where a note written with a very shaky hand awaited her:—

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

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

How changed from the strong man whom she last saw at their old home!—a man whom travel, toil, privation of any ordinary kind, in whatever weather it might be—winter storm or summer heat—seemed but to refresh and invigorate. And now, how shrunken, nerveless, emaciated!—every trace of colour fled from his bronzed cheek, and supplanted by the saffron hue which confinement of any kind conjoined with disease brings even to the most robust.

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

From that day it may easily be understood that the patient’s convalescence steadily advanced, that his progress in health was comparatively rapid. His strength, indeed, took longer to build up than he imagined would be the case. After leaving his bed for the first time he could not walk without support, and even dressing had to be effected by easy stages. However, if the progress of gaining strength was slow, it was sure, and before the month was out he was, to use the common phrase, ‘a new man.’

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

Nor was the goldfield, now so populous, and with a reputation which had been bruited over the Anglo-Saxon world, deficient in what was known as ‘society people.’ Not to mention the Honourable Mr. This and Lord John That, who had taken up their abode there—there were dozens of scions of well-known families from the eastern colonies, who had not only come to take a hand in the game of Golden Hazard, here played for such alarming stakes—but who had brought their wives.

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

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

‘You must endeavour _not_ to think of it, dear,’ he said softly. ‘You will be able to take _me_ back, that is one comfort. And as the mine is doing so well—better than well—phenomenally, I think—mind you—only think—we may be able to go east, as they say here, by the mail steamer after the next. And if the “Last Chance” keeps up its present, or probable output—we shall not return, but leave the working of it, and all business that hangs thereby, to our partners and the other shareholders.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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