‘All this is very nice,’ said the fair damsel, who had refused to
accept another pennyweight of gold, ‘but the sun is going down, and I
_must_ see the exact spot where the battle was fought, where
Mr. Newstead lay, and where the tall robber fell dead; also where old
Jack stood when he “opened business on his own account”—I should like
to have been there, I confess.’
‘Next time, Miss Jean, we will let you know,’ replied Southwater; ‘but
come with me, and I will show you all the points of the attack, and
where our camp stood.’
Scrambling up the narrow path, the young people reached the conical
flat-topped boulder near the summit, where the ‘frontal attack’ of the
gold-robbers had been made. Exclaiming that ‘she was out of breath,’
the girl seated herself upon the historic stone—to be famous
henceforth in the legends which are so apt to grow and develop with
age.
‘What a curious sensation it must be to be shot at!’ she said, gazing
dreamily over the trackless Waste, where the red sunset spread a
wondrous blazonry, weirdly gorgeous in the pageant of the fading eve.
‘How did you feel, Mr. Southwater?’
‘There’s no time to feel anything unless you’re hit. Newstead said it
was like a crack with a stone—hardly realised till you drop; then, of
course, you are all the time wanting to get at the other fellow. At
least that’s my experience. It was all so sudden: I had only just
written home to my friends, saying it was absurd to think of a
goldfield as rude and lawless—that, in fact, it was _much_ safer than
London at midnight. A minute or two afterwards, we were fighting for
our lives and hard-earned gold; more surprising still—but—perhaps——’
‘Oh! go on, pray,’ pleaded Miss Jean, whose interest was now fully
aroused, as was evidenced by her sparkling eyes and changing
colour—‘what _could_ be more surprising?’
‘I only meant that it was queer, though folks at home wouldn’t realise
it, that our best and boldest defender, poor Dick Andrews, who really
won the fight for us, turns out to have been a notorious criminal,
known in connection with the death of an Inspector of police in
another colony.’
‘Poor fellow! perhaps he had suffered injustice—one never knows. What
became of him?’
‘He was mortally wounded in the engagement, and made an edifying end
next day, happy in the thought that his wife and children were
provided for.’
The girl was silent for a little space, and then said in a changed
voice, ‘Can you tell me, Mr. Southwater, can any one explain, why what
are called bad men are so much more interesting than ordinary
well-behaved people? They should not be, but that they are there’s no
denying.’
‘Hard to say—must be a natural sympathy for what Marcus Clarke calls
“the thoroughbred upstanding criminal.” Sort of glamour—particularly
affecting women, strange to say. Men understand the breed better. And
yet any one more unlike the received notion of the hardened outlaw
than poor Dick couldn’t be.’
‘Now, what was he like?’
‘The regular Sydney-side native. Tall, spare, muscular, or, rather,
sinewy of frame, with regular features, chiefly unrelaxed, but wearing
a pleasant expression at times. Low-voiced, and unpretending in
demeanour, though wonderfully good at all manner of bush work.
Reserved, for reason good, as may be imagined, yet respected “on the
field,” and held to be liberal in all that concerned his
fellow-workers. A perfect horseman, as a matter of course.’
‘I shall begin to cry if we go on much longer,’ said the fair Jean,
‘and Mrs. Lilburne will be mildly reproachful, dear soul! if we are
late for dinner.’
So these young people lost no time in joining their friends, and the
buggy pulled up at the Palace Hotel in something like ‘record time’
between ‘the Mount’ and the city, which, indeed, had been carefully
noted, and was publicly known to all who had pretensions to sporting
accuracy.
The next morning saw the departure of Alister Lilburne and his wife
from the Gold City, which had been to her a refuge, nay, a home—a
retreat from the pressure of care, the uncertainty of position, for
all these days; departure from the people whom she had learned to
love, and who had loved her with the deep, abiding conviction
based upon gratitude and respect, which outlives ephemeral
popularity—becoming welded into a cult or, as in Eastern lands, into a
Faith. Whatever might have been the feelings with which the ordinary
population of Pilot Mount regarded their late Hospital Superintendent,
a handsome and indeed munificent endowment, to be devoted to the
building and fitting up of a new wing, testified to Elinor Lilburne’s
enduring interest in the welfare of the institution to which she had
devoted some of the best years of her life.
* * * * *
Arnold Banneret’s financial status had now developed by such ‘leaps
and bounds,’ to use the handy parliamentary phrase, that he found
himself placed in an entirely novel position—one, indeed, of which he
had never had previous experience; nor had he, in any mood of
day-dreaming, been confronted with such. Yet, now, a decision must be
made—a momentous question settled definitely. His income, large even
for a golden claimholder, was annually increasing. Money was no
object, to speak familiarly, yet it was the question before the
House—the Legislative Council represented by himself, personally; and
indeed he had been an M.L.C. for some years, in right of which, and a
talisman worn on his watch chain, he was entitled to free railway
passage throughout the length and breadth of New South Wales. It was
a pity that it did not apply to all British dominions, some of his
fellow-legislators thought; but that privilege could not be arranged
just yet. Still, in that day, when the United States of Australasia,
with a population of a hundred millions, dominating the South Pacific,
from New Guinea to Victoria Land within the Antarctic Circle, in
alliance, too, with the United States and the Dominion of Canada, form
a Pan-Anglican Power, prompt and efficient to regulate the world’s war
and peace, who shall say them nay?
The voyage home! Of this momentous ‘trip,’ as it was called in light,
almost sportive reference, the now successful, honoured, and wealthy
Australian proprietor had often thought. But neither the means nor the
opportunity for such a decisive movement had as yet been forthcoming.
The children had been too young, the financial outlook too restricted,
in his earlier married life. Not that he or his wife had any ardent
desire to make the change. They were attached to their native land;
the climate agreed with them—they were not sure that the rigorous
seasons of the ancestral isle would suit the immature brood, in which
were centred the hopes and fears, the joys and sorrows, of their daily
life. It had been relegated by consent to the region of by and by,
where so many of the fairy legends of childhood were to come true; and
now, slowly, imperceptibly, yet not less surely, the years had flown.
Those years which divide early manhood and womanhood from middle age
had departed never to return.
The future—the ‘by and by’—which had loomed so far and mist-coloured
in their early life, had been overtaken. It had become the present, to
be felt and reckoned with. The children had grown up. Of the boys, one
was at Cambridge, the other working hard to pass exams., and panting
for the happy day when he should see his name gazetted for a
commission in an Imperial cavalry regiment. Of the girls, younger by
several years, Hermione, almost ready to ‘come out,’ as the Society
phrase is; the others, school-girls, receiving daily tuition from
governesses, music masters, teachers of drawing, singing,
languages,—all the varied education which goes to equip the modern
maiden for her place in the ranks of womanhood.
Now these young people had a natural ambition to ‘see the world.’ They
had read widely, if not deeply, and were impatient to have tangible
evidence of the historic glories of older lands. Of paintings and
statuary their knowledge had been necessarily limited, although far
from ordinary collections had been accessible in the galleries and
museums of the metropolis in which they resided, and others which they
had visited. Their artistic tastes, though not wholly unformed, were
capable of higher development. They yearned for closer acquaintance
with the capitals of the world—the ancient world. They ardently
desired to behold Rome, Venice, Greece, Paris, Cairo. Reading was
delightful. They could never be sufficiently grateful to their parents
who had indulged their legitimate enthusiasm to the fullest amount
possible to their opportunities. But, of course, it was not, could
never be the same. They longed to stand upon the Bridge of Sighs, ‘a
palace and a prison on each hand’; to watch ‘Old Tiber through a
marble wilderness rise with her yellow waves’; to visit the Coliseum
by moonlight; to stand on Mars Hill, and ‘yon tower-capped Acropolis,
which seems the very clouds to kiss,’—in short, to view all sorts of
instructive, entrancing places. After such experiences they did not
care what happened. They would have seen everything worth seeing. They
could no longer be classed as ‘mere colonials’—they would be citizens
of the world—akin to the most enviable sections of English society.
Mrs. Banneret, though with less enthusiasm, agreed in the main with
her daughters. Time and circumstance were propitious. Who could tell
whether so favourable a combination would remain unaltered?
Besides, she was anxious to see her sons once more. It was nearly
three years since they had left their native land. Her husband
secretly sympathised, though for a different class of reasons. He had
not, could not have, the instinctive, passionate yearning with which
the tender maternal heart agonises, so to speak, for the embrace of
the sons whom she has brought into the world; for the sight of their
dear faces; to feel once more the touch of cheek, of lips, of
handclasp; to hear the joyous exultation of greeting after long
absence; to mark anew the likeness to either parent, which the
advancing years may have imprinted yet more distinctly on face or
form.
In a measure, of course, Arnold Banneret shared these sacred
sensations. He was proud of his boys, of their good looks and athletic
development; fond of them also, although with less intensity than the
mother that bore them—holiest and most ancient tie. He had watched
over their education up to the University stage, and now, having, as
he told himself, done his duty by them, awaited with some anxiety,
though with reasonable confidence, the choice of a profession which it
behoved them to make. For himself, he looked forward, of course, with
pleasurable anticipation to revisiting the scenes, so fondly
remembered, of the halcyon time of early manhood, when, fresh from
college, he had roamed over the Continent with a comrade of congenial
culture. Together they had followed the course of the majestic, solemn
Rhine—mused over the ruined towers of Sternfels and Liebenstein—gazed
at Rolandseck, at once the pride and beauty of the noble river. Rome,
Athens, Florence, Paris—how the rapture of travel, the joy of
companionship, the careless wanderings over hill and dale, city and
plain, came freshly back! Could but one’s youth return!
Alas! how few of the comrades of that joyous time are left, even in
middle age. Hope is fled; the anticipation of a perhaps romantic
future no longer cheers the sober monotony of life. We know the best
that _can_ happen. We fear lest the worst should come suddenly into
our life, like some monster of the wood, unseen, unsuspected before.
Such are, such may be, the brooding imaginings of the later life.
The Honourable Arnold Banneret, as for years he had been styled, was
able to combat them by reflecting that, at any rate, he had played a
man’s part in life, at first with moderate, then with exceptional
success. He had sons wherewith to meet his enemies in the gate. There
was little doubt—he thanked God—of their courage and intelligence. Why
then this dark hour, these depressing doubts?
As a corrective, he proceeded at once to the office of the P. & O.
Company, and took his passage for London. After securing the requisite
number of comfortable cabins in the _Lhassa_—the latest addition to
the fleet of noble liners which, since their introduction by the great
Association of ship-owners, has enabled Australian colonists to travel
with speed and economy, with comfort, even luxury—he returned to lunch
at Redgrove, with spirits considerably improved, and in a frame of
mind more nearly akin to that in which he was accustomed to prepare
for a long overland journey in the days of ‘long ago.’ ‘How strange it
is,’ he told himself, ‘that on the eve of an important voyage, or
undertaking, a feeling of doubt and depression should so often
manifest itself. One involuntarily recalls the presentiments which
came true—of shipwreck, of hurricane, fire, or mutiny, following the
gloom and almost despairing prevision of disaster. Of the numberless
successful undertakings and fortunate voyages no record is kept.
“Fears of the brave and follies of the wise” are not far to seek in
the connection.’
Sir Walter Scott, in success most modest, in adversity truly
undaunted, even he owns to an unreasonable cloud of doubt and
irresolution, including a ghostly murmur, ‘Do not go, Walter,’ which
he solemnly affirms to, and that nearly led him to give up an
expedition which afterwards turned out to be most beneficial,
fortunate, and even marked by distinguished adventures.
* * * * *
The eventful day, fortunately fine, came at last. It was in the
opening week of March—the first month of the southern autumn, mild
with clear skies, cool bracing nights and mornings. The winds in that
halcyon time were still: the north wind no longer swept across the
plains of the inmost desert, bringing burning heat, dust-storms, and
wrathful cyclones in its track to the cities of the coast.
All nature, before the advent of winter, appeared to be entering upon
a dreamless slumber. The winter, dread season of the austere North,
was but relatively severe—cool, rather than cold, with the exception
of the mountain heights, where snow fell in early autumn and lay until
spring was fairly advanced.
Packing and preparing for the momentous family event was therefore
divested of its less agreeable features, while the inevitable process
of leave-taking, with farewells to friends and relatives, was
transacted under the most favourable circumstances—a bright sun and
fair wind, not too pronounced. At the appointed hour the bell rang,
the shoreward division was politely requested to hasten their
departure, and the huge liner moved gracefully from the wharf, and
with calm, resistless force was soon breasting the wavelets between
those frowning rock-portals, the Sydney Heads.
On that auspicious, long-remembered day, everything went well. The
young people, for the first time in their lives on ‘blue water,’
walked the decks until the time for preparing for dinner arrived.
At this important function they were placed in the seat of honour
at the captain’s table, and near that august, autocratic
ruler—Mrs. Banneret, indeed, on the commander’s right hand, and other
members of the family in close proximity. The whole service was
admirable in their eyes; the menu varied, and excellently cooked.
Military and naval officers, with Indian passengers getting off at
Colombo, gave a pleasant, half-foreign tone to the company. By the
time coffee was introduced, and the adjournment to the row of
deck-chairs and lounges made, Hermione and Vanda were convinced that a
‘voyage home’ was a fairy-tale experience, merely the overture to a
dramatic performance of dazzling variety and enjoyment.
‘What a new life this is, compared to our existence in Sydney!’
exclaimed Hermione to her mother, as together they paced the deck,
leaving their father to sit between Vanda and the younger girls,
answering their endless questions.
‘Oh, I am so delighted that you persuaded father to make the plunge,
and take us home! I was afraid that he might suddenly get bad news
from Pilot Mount, or a bank, or something, and say it was impossible
to go; you never can be sure, until you are actually on board, and
off—really off. Even then the Bardsleys actually came back from
Colombo, for some trumpery reason—the climate did not agree with their
aunt, or some one. I believe the elder girls went on by themselves. I
couldn’t have done that, could I, mother? but you must own it was
heartbreaking.’
‘It is like many things that have to be endured in this life, my
darling!’ said the fond mother, tenderly parting the bright hair of
the girl, now in the first flush of youthful beauty; for they were a
handsome family, the Bannerets—vigorous in mind and body; devotedly
attached to each other and to their parents; clever in their way,
though perhaps not of the highest order of intellectual development,
but highly intelligent, and sympathetic to all the higher ideals. What
was wanting in early and thorough training was compensated by energy,
courage, and the fervent desire to approve themselves fitted for the
front ranks in all departments of human effort.
* * * * *
The voyage came to an end, much like other voyages to the home-land,
the Mecca of Australian-born colonists, the ancestral isle—the sacred
soil, hallowed by a thousand traditions with which all are chiefly
familiar from early childhood, but on which not all are privileged to
tread. To those who, from narrow circumstances, increasing age, or
other reasons, the priceless privilege has been denied (and there have
been cases of highly cultured, indeed eminent personages, who, with a
curiously accurate knowledge of London town and suburb, have yet never
_seen_ either), the omission has caused a regret which only ended with
life; while those who can talk of British country houses, and the
green lanes of ‘merrie England,’ bear themselves ever afterward with a
sense of superiority over their less fortunate friends and relatives.
Unvexed by storms, the good ship _Lhassa_ pursued her course to
Colombo the paradisial, where first the glories of a possible
Eden—with flower and fruit, primæval forest and mystic mountain
summit, the whole set like a many-coloured jewel within the girdling
wave and glowing tropic sky—were revealed to their enraptured gaze.
They left this charmed region after a survey all too brief,
registering a vow, separately and collectively, to revisit the magic
isle, the splendour of which they would recall in their dreams.
However, the next best thing would be the sights and sounds of the
city of the Caliph Haroun-al-Raschid, the dream-palaces of Zobeide and
Amina—the one-eyed Calendars, transformed princes, and Grand Viziers.
Here they were promised a fortnight’s stay, in which they could revel
in the ‘havoc and glory of the East’ to their hearts’ content.
This, too, came in due course. Not alone were the immortal memories of
the _Arabian Nights_ recalled before their wondering eyes, with
water-carriers, black slaves, veiled women, pacha and dragoman, camels
and Arab horses, with gems of Easternrie like the sands of the sea
for multitude; but more modern delights, perhaps, on the whole, not
less alluring to the immature feminine mind—the grandeur and
magnificence of the Savoy Hotel, with the dresses and jewels of the
fair visitors who made Cairo a winter resort. Whatever sins of
omission the Banneret family had to charge themselves with in after
years, the complete and thorough exploration of Grand Cairo and its
environs was not among them. They ‘did’ the historic place
conscientiously and thoroughly. The Sphinx, the Pyramids, the Museum
at Boulak; the Nile, up to the first cataract; the citadel, the
Mosque, the Palace of Sweet Waters,—all the regular, and some of the
irregular sights. Nothing was neglected. The girls, indeed the whole
party, rode well. Mrs. Banneret had been a daring horsewoman in her
youth, and though motherhood had necessarily abated her enterprise,
the courage which neither poverty, sickness, fatigue, nor mortal pain
had power to tame, was still unshaken, and enabled her to bear her
part in the expeditions in which the family revelled. Her willowy
figure, but little altered from the days of girlhood, was admirably
suited for equestrian exercise. She, like the rest of the family,
delighted in the glowing atmosphere of the desert, and, now that
circumstances had conspired to free her from the trammels of
housekeeping, she surrendered herself unreservedly to the enchantment
of the hour.
‘What a glorious experience this is for the children—for all of us,
indeed!’ she exclaimed more than once. ‘I think you and I, Arnold,
enjoy the whole thing nearly as much as they do—the foreign
surroundings, the verification of old history and legend, the
aloofness of all things from the rawness, if I may use the word, of
their native land.’
‘Yes,’ he replied; ‘one seems to absorb everything in a deep,
unuttered spirit of thankfulness; and while contented with our lot in
life, we have one feeling in common with some of our fellow-visitors
at the hotel: a conviction—I speak of Lord Westerham and that South
African millionaire who came to the Savoy last week—that our financial
position is assured, impossible for anything to alter. We are,
however, in a higher position than the millionaire. With him brain
work and anxiety have told a tale. His health is impaired. They say he
suffers terribly from insomnia, than which I can imagine nothing more
agonising. A man whom I knew, otherwise enviably placed, finding that
change of air combined with a sea voyage had no effect, hired a cab
one day, went out for a short drive, and shot himself.’
‘What a dreadful thing to do! He must have been insane.’
‘Not necessarily. The mental torment, unrelieved by “sleep that knits
up the ravelled sleave of care,” had reached the stage when it became
unendurable. People are not necessarily mad when they elect to face
the problem of the Great Hereafter.’
‘I cannot but think that they _are_,’ said she, ‘or they would remain
to confront the ills of life, rather than be false to every duty and
callous to the suffering of those whom they leave behind. But the idea
is hateful to me. I cannot bear to discuss it.’
The days of dreamy delight in the land of the Pharaohs came all too
swiftly to an end. The season had advanced. If they wished to see the
glorious greenery of England in the spring, they could not afford to
linger among the ruins of the past, however stupendous or
awe-striking. It was determined to make one halt, and one only. As
there were three women of the party, what doubt could there be of the
decision? They were to visit Paris! A short sojourn in Malta produced
a cry of delight from the girls as they walked from Nix Mangiare
stairs to the Strada Reale. A drive to St. Paul’s Bay, a fleeting
vision of the drawbridges and fortifications, of narrow streets and
lofty houses; mule-carts, mantillas, and water-carriers; priests with
sombre robes and broad-leafed hats. There was so much to see, and but
little time in which to do it. The Governor’s Palace was visited,
reminiscent of Grand Masters; L’Isle Adam, and doubtless de
Beaumanoir, so hard and unrelenting, in the case of the noble and
unhappy Rebecca; the ramparts where, guarded by iron railings, were
fosses of awful depth, besides old-world towers and batteries, which
the Moors in past centuries had good cause to dread. Another day was
granted in favour of a visit to the Church of St. John.
‘Oh, we should be disgraced,’ said Hermione—‘have to hide our heads in
shame—if we dared to say that we had spent a day in Malta and had not
been inside that most lovely church! Think of the Knights of Malta!
Why, we are standing on their marble tombstones! De Rohan—think of the
motto: “Ni prince, ni roi, Rohan je suis.” Isn’t that it? Perhaps
Bois-Guilbert lies not far off—no, he can’t be; he was a Templar, Far
from respectable, I daresay; but one can’t help loving him—can you
now? Rebecca preferred Wilfred, probably because he was fair and she
was dark. I’ve noticed that contrasts in complexion tend that way.’
‘If such nonsense is the outcome of your visit to Malta, we need not
have lost a day,’ said Mrs. Banneret. ‘Pray bring your thoughts more
into harmony with the surroundings. Listen to that wonderful music—the
organ is heavenly, and that soaring soprano might be the voice of an
angel. I wonder at you, my dear!’
‘Oh, mother dear, forgive me!’ pleaded the penitent; ‘I did not intend
to be irreverent; but whether it is the lovely air, or the
intoxication of travel, I can’t say, for one’s tongue seems to run
along of itself. I won’t offend again.’ And here tears dimmed the
bright eyes of the sensitive maiden, as mother and child embraced over
one of the few differences which ever ruffled the calm of their deep
mutual love.
Mr. Banneret making his appearance with the two younger girls,
explanations were deferred, and the party made their way homeward.
Only a short stay, limited to the time necessary for the purchase of
_articles de Paris_ and the indispensable shoes and gloves, was made
in Paris, the all-important dress question being left to a more
convenient season, when it and the leisurely Continental tour could be
thoroughly enjoyed. At present the parents, although indulgent to the
border-line of prudence, were actuated by motives unconnected with the
enjoyment of picture galleries, gardens of Armida, or military
reviews, where the striking uniforms of Zouaves and Spahis delighted
the girls. Mrs. Banneret yearned with all the intensity of the
maternal heart to see her boys again.
The head of the family had not said much on the subject, and, save the
sharer of his joys and sorrows, none had heard him open his heart upon
a matter which nevertheless lay very near it—had indeed caused him
more anxiety than he cared to express. ‘How are these boys of mine
likely to turn out?’ was a query which arose in his mind at early
dawn, when he always awoke; sometimes, although not often, in the
watches of the night; occasionally during the day with insistent
pertinacity. He had seen so many cases where early moral training, a
good example, a liberal education, good society, and good advice had
been all too powerless to stem the downward current of indolence,
extravagance, and dissipation. The fatal knowledge that for them, at
least, there was no necessity for industry, self-denial, or economy,
overbore all old-fashioned arguments, as they considered them to be.
‘The governor,’ thus referred to in latter-day speech, ‘had made “pots
of money”—it had been all right for _him_ to work and slave in the
queer early times that old buffers yarned about. He was bound to do
it, of course, or go under. But they were _not_—that made all the
difference. They were sorry to disagree with him—he wasn’t half bad,
the old governor—in fact, a dashed good sort. But he wasn’t up to
date! He had no idea of how a chap had to chuck the coin about, to
keep in the front rank, nowadays. He _must_ have the necessaries of
life. Think of what polo costs! You couldn’t get a decent pony under
fifty or sixty quid; then you must have a boy—a smart one too; two
ponies were little enough—safer to have four, in case of accidents.
Fellah must be decently dressed if he goes out at all—and tailors, if
they were any good, charged such infernal prices! He’d a fairish
allowance, but last Cup Day made a hole in it’—and so on—and so on.
This was the way the sons of his old friends talked; this was the way
they acted—sad to relate. He heard them at the clubs—where they came
down late for breakfast, looking as if they required a ‘strongish nip’
to steady their nerves. They confessed with cheerful confidence that
‘supper after the theatre had not been conducive to appetite. They
really intended to take a pull some day—perhaps get married. But,
really, Sydney and Melbourne had become such infernally dull holes
that there was nothing to keep a fellow from goin’ to sleep except
bridge and billiards—which didn’t always pay.’
Would it not be worth while to try politics for a little
excitement? was suggested. There was the landed interest to develop
legitimately—or indeed to defend. A wave of socialism had arisen, was
indeed likely to become a tidal wave if no effort was made to arrest
the doctrine of which among the earliest expositors was the late
lamented John Cade.
‘What!’ cries ‘the heir of all the ages’—‘mug up Goldwin Smith,
Herbert Spencer, and those other Johnnies—to rub shoulders with a lot
of fellows that drop their _h_’s all over the shop? Shouldn’t get in,
for one thing—and, if I did, why there’s hardly a gentleman in the
whole caboodle!’
‘Whose fault is that?’ queried the senior. ‘Have you ever tried?—or
have any young men of your class, except Wharton and Conyers, and what
are they among so many?’
‘Don’t know that I have—not built that way. Some fellahs like that
sort of thing—I don’t.’
‘Of course it doesn’t matter. It might interfere with your amusements.
Then you don’t mind that the laws are being made by the people you
despise and won’t associate with—laws to bind your children—and their
children after you—if you ever have any: you’ve lost the chance of
modifying them—or blocking the suicidal and destructive ones. Laws
made by men without capital in land or business—chiefly without
culture, often without character; laws made to bind that part of the
population who are handicapped by the possession of qualifications
anciently held to be titles to respect—now held to place them below
the swagman, the loafer, the drunkard, and the pauper, as guarantee
for place and power! How does that strike you?’
‘Well, it does look mean—rather a crowd of “rotters” to belong to—I
must think it over—I’m popular round about old Banda-widgeree—I think
I’ll have a shy for the district next election if it’s not too late.
I’m almost afraid it is. They’re talking of nationalising the
goldfields—the land—the railways. Hang it!—they’ll want to nationalise
a fellah’s bank-balance next.’
‘They’ll do that by a side wind, and if they have the voting power on
their side—as they have pretty well now, what with adult and female
suffrage: ten thousand female voters in a metropolitan constituency
against _nine_ thousand male voters—whose fault is that?’
‘I’m afraid our crowd had most to do with it by letting things
drift—and I’m as bad as anybody. Good-bye—thanks—I do see things a
trifle more clearly. Perhaps I’ll stand after all.’
Arnold Banneret had listened to, indeed joined in, a conversation much
resembling it one day. It deepened the lines on his brow, which were
beginning to be more pronounced than the advance of time warranted.