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.