‘No one can have a higher admiration for dear Sir Walter than I have,’
said Vanda, ‘and I agree with Eric that this is one of the most
pathetic scenes in the whole series of the novels. I have wept over
Clara Mowbray myself, “full many a time and oft,” as people used to
say. Still, how many in number _are_ the Waverley Novels?’
‘I know,’ answered Hermione, ‘for I counted them last week. There are
twenty-five, besides the poetical works. What a miracle of industry he
was! A genuinely hospitable country gentleman—in earlier life a
hard-working Clerk of Session, or whatever it was; while in his
leisure hours he dashed off such trifles as _Waverley_, _Ivanhoe_,
_Marmion_, _The Lady of the Lake_, and the rest. So if we set to work
to discuss all the heroines in all the novels, with the pathetic and
tragic incidents of their lives, it will take us years to “do”
Scotland, and we shall never get back to England at all.’
Every one laughed at this summary of the situation. Mrs. Banneret
thought Hermione’s view correct in the main. ‘Suppose,’ she continued,
‘that we coax our dear Mrs. Maclean to join us in a farewell ramble,
and devote the evening to a final discussion of Sir Walter’s works,
each pilgrim to produce a favourite passage, scene, ballad, or
incident. To-morrow a start to be made south, and _no deviation_
allowed on any pretence whatever.’
‘Hear! hear!’ cried Reggie and Corisande; while the others voted ‘Ay’
unanimously, and Mr. Banneret, with an affectation of despair,
expressed himself as powerless to resist his fate.
The supper was a joyous meal, in spite of forebodings of what the
morrow might bring, and the parting of those whom ironic fate might
never permit to reassemble in the same pleasant _camaraderie_.
There was great hunting up of old editions and copyings of passages,
stimulated by the promise of prizes to be given for the rendering of
the happiest selections in prose and poetry. Mrs. Maclean left early
in the evening, but promised to spend the whole following day with the
pilgrims, and to furnish her quota to the competition. The programme
for the next day’s march was then completed with her aid and advice,
and amid sincere regrets that this should be almost the last time they
should meet in Britain, the symposium came to an end; the ladies of
the party, after Mrs. Maclean’s carriage had been driven off,
declaring that they had little enough time to pack and arrange for
departure.
‘This is a “day to be marked with a white stone,”’ said Corisande,
after the travellers had come back in the late afternoon, reasonably
tired, but in high spirits, and overflowing with gratitude to
Mrs. Maclean, whose local knowledge and unfailing desire to explain
all things difficult to the southern comprehension, rendered her
companionship inestimable.
Supper was a meal for the gods, abounding as it did with sportive
criticism of the _personnel_ and adventures of the day. Of the
Highland shepherd, who ‘had no English,’ and could not therefore
inform two of the party, half-way up a mountain, where he had seen the
main body of the pilgrims, though obviously desirous of making the
important statement, until Mrs. Maclean, arriving, put an end to the
difficulty by half-a-dozen words in Gaelic, to Hermione’s surprise and
admiration; of the collie dogs, who understood only Lowland Scotch,
and resented being told to ‘come behind,’ or ‘fetch ’em back,’ in
plain English, or even unadulterated Australian.
The next day passed dreamily, all things wearing a subdued, if not sad
expression, as of farewells in the air, sighs also and regrets, doubts
as to meeting again, the uncertainties of life, ironies of fate, and
so on.
Supper being over, Mrs. Banneret, foreseeing that the frolicsome
chatter of the young folks would not lead to anything practical,
called upon Reggie to make a commencement. That young gentleman, who
was methodical of habit, had taken the trouble to look through the
library, and being thus prepared, had chosen the description of the
‘Abbotsford Hunt,’ as, though neither poetical nor romantic,
delightfully descriptive of the hospitable, humorous, sport-loving
side of Sir Walter’s character.
‘About the middle of August’ (writes his son-in-law, Lockhart, in
1820), ‘my wife and I went to Abbotsford. We remained there for
several weeks, during which time I became familiarised with Sir
Walter Scott’s mode of existence in the country. It was necessary
to observe it, day after day, for a considerable period, before
one could believe that such was, during nearly half the year, the
routine of life with the most productive author of his age. The
humblest person who stayed merely for a short visit must have
departed with the impression that what he witnessed was an
occasional variety; that Scott’s courtesy prompted him to break in
upon his habits when he had a stranger to amuse; but that it was
physically impossible that the man who was writing the Waverley
romances at the rate of nearly _twelve volumes_ in the year, could
continue, week after week, and month after month, to devote all
but a hardly perceptible fraction of his mornings to out-of-doors
occupations, and the whole of his evenings to the entertainment of
a constantly varying circle of guests.
‘The hospitality of his afternoons must alone have been enough to
exhaust the energies of almost any man; for his visitors did not
mean, like those of country houses in general, to enjoy the
landlord’s good cheer and amuse each other; the far greater
proportion arrived from a distance, for the sole sake of the Poet
and Novelist _himself_, whose person they had never before seen,
and whose voice they might never again have any opportunity of
hearing. No other villa in Europe was ever resorted to from the
same motives, and to anything like the same extent, except Ferney;
and Voltaire never dreamt of being visible to his _hunters_, as he
called them, except for a brief space of the day. Few of them even
dined with him, and none of them seem to have slept under his
roof. Scott’s establishment, on the contrary, resembled in every
particular that of the affluent idler, who, because he has
inherited, or would fain transmit, political influence, keeps open
house, receives as many as he has room for, and sees their
apartments occupied, as soon as they vacate them, by another troop
of the same description.
* * * * *
‘But with few exceptions Scott was the sole object of the
Abbotsford pilgrims; and evening followed evening only to show him
exerting for their amusement more of animal spirits, to say
nothing of intellectual vigour, than would have been considered by
any other man in the company as sufficient for the whole
expenditure of a week’s existence. Yet this was not the chief
marvel: he talked of things that interested himself, because he
knew that by doing so he should give most pleasure to his guests.
It is needless to add that Sir Walter was familiarly known, long
before these days, to almost all the nobility and higher gentry of
Scotland; and consequently there seldom wanted a fair proportion
of them to assist him in doing the honours of his country. It is
still more superfluous to say so respecting the heads of his own
profession in Edinburgh; Abbotsford was their villa, whenever they
pleased to resort to it, and few of them were absent from it long.
‘As to the composition of the guests. Some were near relations
who, except when they visited him, rarely, if ever, found
admittance to what the dialect of the upper world is pleased to
designate as “society.” These were welcome guests, let who might
be under that roof. It was the same with many a worthy citizen of
Edinburgh, habitually moving in the obscurest of circles, who had
been in the same class as Scott at the High School. To dwell on
nothing else, it was surely the perfection of real universal
humanity and politeness that could enable this great and good man
to blend guests so multifarious in one group, and contrive to make
all equally happy with him, with themselves, and with each
another.
‘It was a clear, bright September morning, and all was in
readiness for a grand coursing match on Newark Hill. Sir Walter,
mounted on Sibyl Grey, was marshalling the order of the procession
with a huge hunting-whip, and among a dozen frolicsome youths and
maidens appeared on horseback, eager as the youngest sportsman in
the troop, Sir Humphry Davy, Dr. Wollaston, and the patriarch of
Scottish _belles lettres_, Henry Mackenzie. The Man of Feeling,
however, was persuaded to resign his steed, and to join Lady Scott
in the sociable, until the ground of the battue was reached.
Laidlaw, on a longtailed, wiry Highlander, yclept Hoddin Grey,
which carried him nimbly and stoutly, though his feet almost
touched the ground, was the adjutant.
‘But the most picturesque figure was the illustrious inventor of
the safety lamp. He had come for his favourite sport of angling,
but had not prepared for coursing fields, and his fisherman’s
costume—a brown hat with flexible brims, surrounded with line upon
line, and innumerable fly-hooks, jack-boots worthy of a Dutch
smuggler, and a fustian coat dabbled with the blood of salmon—made
a fine contrast with the smart jackets, white cord breeches, and
well-polished jockey boots of the less distinguished cavaliers
about him. Dr. Wollaston was in black, and with his noble, serene
dignity of countenance might have passed for a sporting
archbishop. Mr. Mackenzie, at this time in the seventy-sixth year
of his age, with a white hat turned up with green, green
spectacles, and long brown leather gaiters, wore a dog-whistle
round his neck, and had all over the air of as resolute a devotee
as the gay captain of Huntly Burn. Tom Purdie had preceded us by a
few hours, with all the greyhounds that could be collected at
Abbotsford, Darnick, and Melrose; but the giant Maida had remained
as his master’s orderly, and now gambolled about Sibyl Grey,
barking for mere joy like a spaniel puppy.
‘On reaching Newark Castle we found Lady Scott, her eldest
daughter, and the venerable Mackenzie, all busily engaged in
unpacking a basket, and arranging a luncheon it contained, in the
mossy rocks overhanging the bed of the Yarrow. When such of the
company as chose had partaken of the refection, the Man of Feeling
resumed his pony and all ascended, duly marshalled in proper
distances, so as to beat in a broad line over the heather, Sir
Walter directing the movement from the right across towards
Blackandro. Davy laid his whip about the fern like an experienced
hand, and surveying the long, eager battalion of “bushrangers”
[_sic_], exclaimed, “Good Heavens! is it thus that I visit the
scenery of the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_?” He kept muttering to
himself, as his glowing eye ran over the landscape, some of those
beautiful lines from the conclusion of the _Lay_:—
But still,
When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill,
And July’s eve, with balmy breath,
Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath;
When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw,
And corn was green on Carterhaugh,
And flourished, broad, Blackandro’s oak,
The aged Harper’s soul awoke!
Mackenzie, spectacled as he was, saw the first sitting hare, gave
the word to slip the greyhounds, and spurred after them like a
boy.
‘Coursing on such a mountain is not like the same sport over a bit
of fine English pasture.
* * * * *
‘Many a bold rider measured his length among the peat-bogs, and
another stranger to the ground besides Davy plunged neck-deep into
a treacherous well-head, which, till they were floundering in it,
had borne all the appearance of a piece of delicate green turf.
When Sir Humphry emerged from his involuntary bath, garnished with
mud, slime, and mangled water-cresses, Sir Walter received him
with a triumphant encore. But the philosopher had his revenge, for
Scott put Sibyl Grey at a leap beyond her powers and lay humbled
in the ditch, while Davy who was better mounted cleared it and him
at a bound. Happily there was little damage done, but no one was
sorry that the sociable had been detained at the foot of the hill.
‘I have seen Sir Humphry on other occasions, and in company of
many different descriptions, but never to such advantage as at
Abbotsford. His host and he delighted in each other, and the
modesty of their mutual admiration was a memorable spectacle. Davy
was by nature a poet, and Scott, though anything but a
philosopher, might have pursued the study of physical science with
success, had he happened to fall in with Sir Humphry in early
life. Each strove to make the other talk, and they did so in turn
most charmingly. Scott in his romantic narratives touched a deeper
chord of feeling than usual when he had such a listener as Davy;
and Davy, when induced to open his views upon any question of
scientific interest in Scott’s presence, did so with a clear,
energetic eloquence and a flow of imagery and illustration of
which neither his habitual tone of table-talk nor any of his prose
writings (except, indeed, the _Consolations in Travel_) could
suggest an adequate notion.
‘One night, when their “rapt talk” had kept the circle round the
fire long after the usual bedtime at Abbotsford, I remember
Laidlaw whispering to me, “Gude preserve us! this is a very
superior occasion! Eh, sirs!” he added, cocking his eye like a
bird, “I wonder if Shakespeare and Bacon ever met to screw ilk
other up?”
‘The other “superior occasion” came later in the season: the 28th
of October, the birthday of Sir Walter’s eldest son, was that
usually selected for the Abbotsford Hunt. This was a coursing
match on a large scale, including as many of the younger gentry as
pleased to attend, as well as all Scott’s personal favourites
among the yeomen and farmers of the surrounding country. The
Sheriff nearly always took the field, but latterly devolved the
command upon his good friend Mr. John Usher, the ex-laird of
Toftfield. The hunt took place on the moors above Cauld-Shiels
Loch, or over some of the hills on the estate of Gala, and we had
commonly, ere we returned, hares enough to supply the wife of
every farmer that attended, with soup for a week following. The
whole party then dined at Abbotsford: the Sheriff in the chair;
Adam Fergusson, croupier; and Dominie Thomson, of course,
chaplain. The company whose onset had been thus deferred, were
seldom under thirty and sometimes exceeded forty. The feast suited
the occasion. A baron of beef, roasted, at the foot of the table,
a salted round at the head, while tureens of hare soup,
hotch-potch, and cock-a-leekie extended down the centre, with such
light articles as geese, turkeys, sucking pigs, singed sheep’s
head, and the unfailing haggis, set forth by way of side dishes.
Black cock and moorfowl, bushels of snipe, black puddings, white
puddings, and pyramids of pancakes, formed the second course. Ale
was the favourite beverage during dinner, but there was plenty of
port and sherry for those who preferred wine. The quaighs of
Glenlivet were filled to the brim, and tossed off as if they held
water. The wine decanters made a few rounds of the table, but the
hints for hot punch and toddy soon became clamorous. Two or three
bowls were introduced; then the business of the evening commenced
in good earnest. The faces shone and glowed like those at
Camacho’s wedding; the chairman told the richest stones of old
rural life; the stalwart Dandie Dinmonts lugged out their last
winter’s snowstorm, the parish scandal, perhaps, or the dexterous
bargain of the Northumberland Tryst; Sheriff-substitute Shortreed
gave us “Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid.” His son, Sir Walter’s
most assiduous disciple and assistant in Border Heraldry and
genealogy, shone without a rival in “Twa Corbies.” Captain
Ormistoun gave the primitive pastoral of “Cowdenknowes” in sweet
perfection; other ballads succeeded, until the gallant croupier
crowned the last bowl with “Ale, good ale; thou art my darling!”
Imagine some smart Parisian _savant_, some dreamy pedant of Halle
or Heidelberg, a brace of stray young lords from Oxford or
Cambridge, with perhaps their college tutors, planted here and
there among these rustic wassailers, this being their first vision
of the author of _Marmion_ and _Ivanhoe_, and he appearing as much
at home in the scene as if he had been a veritable “Dandie”
himself, his face radiant, his laugh gay as childhood, his chorus
always ready. And so it proceeded until some worthy, who had
fifteen or twenty miles to ride home, began to insinuate that his
wife would be getting anxious about the fords, and the Dumples and
Hoddins were at last heard neighing at the gate. It was voted that
the hour had come for “Doch an dorrach,” the stirrup-cup—to wit, a
bumper all round of the unmitigated mountain dew. How they all
contrived to get home in safety Heaven only knows, but I never
heard of any serious accident. One comely gude-wife amused Sir
Walter, far off among the hills, the next time he passed her
homestead, by repeating her husband’s first words when he alighted
at his own door: “Ailie, my woman, I’m ready for my bed—and, oh!
lass, I wish I could sleep for a towmont, for there’s only ae
thing in this warld worth living for, and that’s the Abbotsford
Hunt.”’
There was a considerable amount of laudatory remark when the reading
of the ‘Abbotsford Hunt’ was concluded.
‘What a charming, delightful creature Sir Walter must have been!’ said
Hermione. ‘What a pity he should ever have been hampered by debt and
business worries. Such a model country gentleman, and, oh! as a
companion, what an honour to have known him; to have watched his eye
brighten and glow as some deed of valour or generous action came
before him! Then his tenderness to children. Think of “Pet Marjorie”!
Vanda and I cried our eyes out at her death. And to know of her dying
of measles, like any other child—with her wonderful intellect! It
seems as if Providence should have intervened.’
‘We must get on with our work, my dear children,’ said Mrs. Banneret
warningly. ‘Our time is short. We are all with you, I am sure! Vanda,
haven’t you any pathetic fragment? I saw you reading _A Legend of
Montrose_ yesterday.’
‘I think that novel contains some of Sir Walter’s best examples of
comic humour as well as of his deepest pathos. Captain Dalgetty on the
one hand, with his memories of the immortal Gustavus and Marischal
College, and, oh! while they are escaping from Inveraray Castle, the
old Highlander, Ranald MacEagh, seeing his sons hanging on the gibbet,
makes “a gesture of unutterable anguish.” Nothing is finer, stronger,
more deeply tragical in the whole series of the writer’s prose and
poetry.’
‘My husband will always regret,’ said Mrs. Maclean, ‘that he was away
when you visited our sacred shrine. He is a devoted worshipper;
nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to have gone round
all the haunts and homes of the Bard. He would have been so pleased to
know that in my country—_my_ country,’ she repeated with a charming
air of defiance, ‘the seer of Abbotsford is as fully appreciated, and
perhaps even more widely venerated than in the land of his birth.’
‘I can confirm that statement,’ said Mr. Banneret, ‘for wherever you
go in Australia and New Zealand, the Scots, “lowland or highland, far
or near,” appear to predominate. And in energy, industry, and
material success they invariably excel the Saxon and the Irish Celt.’
‘To be sure, whateffer—I wass telling you so,’ said Mrs. Maclean, with
a pretty reproduction of the Highland accent of “Sheila,” ‘but you
must not be too appreciative of the Australian Highlander, or you will
make me conceited. Who is to follow on? It is your turn, I am sure,
Mr. Eric.’
‘I thought I was to be let off,’ pleaded that young gentleman; ‘but
how about a trifle of poetry as a change?’
‘I vote for “Bonnie Dundee,”’ said Corisande. ‘There is such a “lilt”
about it, and it is above all such a record of dear Sir Walter’s
undying pluck and energy, as he wrote it with the expectation of ruin,
soon to be converted into certainty, hanging over his head. You see he
writes on the 22nd December—December of all months in the year! in
Scotland, too!—“The air of ‘Bonnie Dundee’ running in my head to-day,
I wrote a few verses to it before dinner. I wonder if they are good.
Ah, poor Will Erskine, thou couldst and would have told me.” Fancy
writing a noble ballad like that when he was in a sense “expecting the
bailiffs.” How few men in his circumstances could have done it—fewer
still could have produced work with the lifelike spirit of the great
ballad, the clash of the kettle—drums, and the pathetic ending—
‘Till on Ravelston’s cliffs and on Clermiston’s lea
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee.
‘“On December 25 arrived here, Abbotsford, last night, at seven. Our
halls are silent now, compared to last year, but let us be thankful.
But come; let us see. I shall write out ‘The Bonnets of Bonnie
Dundee,’ sketch a preface to La Roche—Jacquelin, for _Constable’s
Miscellany_—and try sketch notes for the Waverley Novels. Together
with letters and by-business it will be a good day’s work.” One would
think so indeed.’
Eric Banneret had a fresh voice with a fairly good ear, and his
unaffected, hearty way of trolling out his favourite ditties,
sea-songs, camp ‘chanties,’ and such, was effective. When he came to—
‘Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;
Come open the West Port, and let me gang free,
And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’
the chorus included the full strength of the orchestra, and was
enthusiastically supported. It was an undoubted success, and
established Eric as an amateur of promise, who might have gone far,
with the aid of scientific culture in early youth.
‘That is what his father took special care he should never obtain,’
said Mrs. Banneret, with an arch look. ‘My husband has a fixed idea
that a young man with an exceptional voice and a taste for music
always comes to grief in Australia. Society, temptation, and flattery
mostly accomplish his downfall. There are exceptions probably, but I
have known, in my experience, strangely few.’
Here there were strong protests against the illogical position. ‘Why
should proficiency in the gentle and joyous science,’ it was asked,
‘incapacitate a man for the practical duties of life?’
‘It ought not to do so,’ conceded paterfamilias, ‘but that it does I
have observed in scores of instances, while the exceptions may be
counted on the fingers of one hand. The possession of a fine voice,
with skill in instrumental music, has a tendency to develop the
romantic, emotional side of character, as also to weaken the practical
qualities necessary for success in life. I don’t speak as to other
nations, but for British-born people and Australians it is a gift that
spells ruin.’
‘It is of no use arguing with my husband on that point,’ said
Mrs. Banneret, ‘and I must confess that I have seen his theory
strongly supported by facts; but, to vary the entertainment, suppose
we persuade Mrs. Maclean to give us “Rothesay Bay.” It is a sweet,
plaintive ballad, and she will make the third Australian-born lady of
Scottish extraction that I have heard sing it. They all had the very
slightest tinge of the Highland accent, which, of course, made it all
the more fascinating.’
* * * * *
All forebodings were justified by the next morning’s post. It brought
a letter from Australia, which contained such important news that all
arrangements for the present were altered. The expedition, indeed, was
brought to an abrupt and untimely end. The letter was from Pilot
Mount, Kalgoorlie, West Australia, and had followed, as directed by
Mr. Banneret, the movements of the party. The news was important. It
came from the Metallurgist of the mine, who by virtue of his office
was the Acting Manager, and announced the death of Mr. John Waters,
popularly known as old Jack. There had been some difference of opinion
lately (the writer said) between him and other officials concerning
the working of the mine. Matters were not perfectly satisfactory, in
his opinion. There had been an argument about wages, and a demand by
the men for a rise. A ‘strike’ had been mentioned, but that was
arranged for the present. Old Mr. John Waters had retired on the
preceding night, apparently in his usual health, which was excellent,
but had been found dead in his bed on the following morning. An
inquest had been held before the Coroner of the district, and the
medical evidence pronounced the case to be one of heart disease. In
accordance with which a verdict of ‘death from natural causes’ was
returned. He forwarded copies of the local papers, which contained
full accounts of the proceedings.
It was his opinion, and also that of the principal officials and
shareholders of the mine, that either Mr. Banneret in person, or some
one fully empowered to act on his behalf, should visit the mine
without delay. In the meantime, the working of the property and all
other matters would go on as usual. He remained, faithfully yours,
Malcolm MacDonald.
* * * * *
Thus recalled abruptly from the realm of romance, of fiction and song,
Arnold Banneret felt, as had happened to himself many times in his
adventurous life, the need of prompt decision and vigorous action.
‘Poor old Jack!’ He was sorry for the veteran whose closing years
apparently of comfort, even luxury, had been cut short by the stroke
of fate. Perhaps it was a merciful dispensation. He himself, without
doubt, would have so considered it. Fearless, even reckless, as miners
are in the pursuit of their dangerous and at all times laborious
calling, he had often spoken with dread of a lingering illness, of the
pain and tedium of a wasting disorder, not seldom declaring that a
sudden, a swift seizure would be his choice if granted one. Now he had
his desire. His life, as all men knew, had been free from notorious
evil-doing, and if occasional lapses from sobriety—the almost
inevitable reaction of the uneducated labourer against monotonous toil
and severe privation—had occurred, what wonder? These deviations from
the strict line of duty had, however, been more rare in latter years,
and, since the departure of the Banneret family for England, had
almost ceased. Now the veteran who had toiled in so many lands, in so
varied a range of climate, from the snows of Hokitiki to the torrid
wastes of the Golden Belt, where camels and turbaned Afghan drivers
now stood around his grave, had found his rest. Uneducated, untaught,
unversed in the lore of civilisation, ancient or modern, his simple
creed had been to ‘go straight,’ as he would have expressed it, to
stand by a ‘mate’ to the death, to owe no man a shilling when his
mining ventures paid, and to work for more when they failed. Hardy,
strong, enduring, resourceful, he was a true type of those Britons who
have carried Old England’s flag victoriously over so many seas and
lands, and whether in peace or war earned the respect of friend and
foe.
Regrets of varying depth of sadness were expressed by all the members
of the pilgrim band. Due acknowledgments were made to Mrs. Maclean,
with assurances that her cordial hospitality and invaluable guidance
would never be forgotten. But the route was given, the camp broken up,
and by an early train on the following morning the whole party set out
for Hexham Hall, where by ordinary course of transit they arrived with
but little delay.
Although a sense of disappointment at the unexpected and, so to speak,
untoward conclusion of their pleasant rambles had communicated a
serious expression to the countenances of the younger members of the
party, it was explained by their leader that there was no cause for
depression, or more than natural regret at the occurrence. Poor old
Jack Waters had fallen in the ranks of that great Battle of Life which
was each day, though unheard, unseen, in ceaseless conflict around
them all. He had died in the performance of his duty, full of years,
and honoured of all men. No doubt he would be borne to his grave with
all befitting ceremony, and followed by a great concourse of miners
and fellow-citizens. For the rest, as from the commencement of the
partnership which had terminated so fortunately for the Banneret
family, he had freely acknowledged his indebtedness to ‘the
Commissioner’—as he could not get out of the habit of designating
Mr. Banneret, and also to Mrs. Banneret, whom he loyally reverenced.
By his will, made at the time, and which had never been altered, the
moiety of the great mine reverted to Mr. Banneret, as also the large
savings from income which he had enjoyed for many years. This was only
decreased by donations to churches, charities, and benevolent
associations on the Field, to which he had been in the habit of
subscribing liberally, indeed lavishly, for years past. And the great
concourse of his fellow-miners who followed their old comrade to the
cemetery was considerably augmented by the recipients of private
benefactions, known only to themselves and a few old friends.
* * * * *
Hexham again! The old house, the aged oaks and elms, the shadowy
woodlands; the peerless turf, in its velvet brilliancy and smoothness,
so different from much of the Border country sward in which, with all
its irregularity, they had so lately revelled. However, ‘Home is home,
be it ever so “splendid,”’ if a variation be permitted from the
original version, and the Bannerets, though taking kindly to their
improved circumstances and more or less aristocratic surroundings,
were not likely to sacrifice family comfort to any presumed mandate of
fashion. Thus the young people were left free, even enjoined to amuse
themselves in their own way, with rides and drives, and short
excursions among the more intimate of their neighbours, until the
decision of the family council was declared. This High Court and
Council of the Elders consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Banneret, with the
sole addition of Reginald of that Ilk, as the eldest son and
heir-apparent. It was duly constituted therefore on the day after
arrival, and a first sitting was held after breakfast, while the young
ladies and their attendant cavaliers strolled round the gardens,
visited the stables, and afterwards attended to their correspondence
until lunch time.
Mr. Banneret having visited his office, produced a collection of
business papers, including one from poor old Jack Waters, of
strange-appearing caligraphy, but intelligible and clear in meaning as
the writer’s own speech. ‘You see, he says here (in a letter to me,
dated shortly before the end) that he doesn’t feel so well as usual;
has, indeed, a sort of giddy feeling that he doesn’t fancy. The doctor
tells him that his heart is affected, and that he must be
careful—might drop any time—
‘Not a bad thing either! (he goes on to say—poor old chap!). Hope
the Lord will take me that way when my time’s up. I don’t want no
hospital business; a short call and a-done with it. That’s my
notion. I don’t call myself an extra religious cove, but I’ve
wronged no man—not wilful, that is—and, barrin’ an extra glass or
two, I’ve no call to think that God Almighty’ll be hard on a poor
old chap that’s had no book larnin’ and tried to do the fair thing
between man and man as far as he know’d how. My respects to the
family, and to Mrs. Banneret above all. She helped me more than
once, or twice either, when I was low down. It’s my wish, though
I’m not going to alter my will, that she shall have a trifle,
separate and privit for herself, say ten thousand pound—and the
young gentlemen and young ladies, five thousand a-piece to
remember pore old Jack by.
‘You’ll find the accounts right. I’ve had ’em ordited reg’lar by a
gentleman as we both know and trust. It’s the best way. I will now
say good-bye, sir! Life’s uncertain. God bless you and yours, as
has allwaies been good to me, rich or poor; and I’m glad the
mine’s turned out a blessin’ to all concerned, as I sed it
would.—I remaine, Yours true & faithful,
John Waters.’
‘One thing I forgot to menshun. There’s Docter Barnarder’s Home
for pore little boys and gals. It’s been in my mind a goodish
while. It’s about the best thing in that line as I ever herd tell
of. I hadn’t much more chance than them children. I was turned out
to get my livin’ preshus early—only it was in the country, not the
town, lucky for me, where I growed up strong and hardy, thank the
Lord! I want that docter to have a thousand down and a hundred a
year afterwards. Lord Brassey’s the President I am told. I seen
him in Melbourne when he was guv’nor there. He’ll take care things
goes right, I’ll be bound. So no more from old Jack.’
There were tears in Mrs. Banneret’s eyes when the letter, longer than
his ordinary literary efforts, was concluded. ‘Poor old fellow!’ she
said. ‘How well I remember the morning you drove me into Barrawong to
hear his story and give my casting vote. How weak and ill he looked!
But I felt sure he was speaking the truth. And so we accepted the
“Last Chance,” luckily for us all!’
‘Yes, indeed. I believe your vote turned the scale. A little thing
would have prevented me taking the risk. So many golden hopes had
proved failures. There was Annandale-Wilson, such a fine
fellow—clever, experienced, high up in the Civil Service—lost all his
savings in just such another tempting investment. Indirectly it caused
his death, I believe, from work and worry.’
‘How sorry we both were, I remember. Well we must be grateful that
our lot in life is different. But I don’t like this new departure.
Shall you have to go out again? Remember we are not so young as we
were. Can’t you send any one?’
‘It is so difficult to find any one with full knowledge of mining who,
at the same time, can be absolutely trusted. Reggie, of course, is too
young, and has not been in the way of mining matters lately.’
‘If you will allow me to give an opinion, I fail to see your point,
sir. Who was it as to age that began life at seventeen on his own
account, and made rather a success of it, as I’ve heard tell? As to
mining, you must have forgotten that Eric and I made a “cradle,” and
went into the alluvial till we nearly washed out gold to the value of
one pound sterling. Besides, at Barrawong, near a mining township with
twenty thousand miners, we heard nothing _but_ of mines and technical
terms, block and frontage—quartz and alluvial—half-ounce dirt and
payable stone. Why, we have all the lore and science of gold
extraction at our fingers’ ends!’
‘I see,’ said his father with a quiet smile, ‘that I have been making
the ordinary parental mistake of not seeing that my children have
really grown up. What do you propose then? Are you prepared with a
suggestion?’
‘Of course I am,’ said the youngster confidently. ‘The solution is
easy. Old Jack Waters being dead—dear old fellow that he was—there
appears a chance of the Pilot Mount community becoming disorganised,
unless a person with recognised authority takes command. The
appointment of a stranger would be risky, or perhaps ineffectual. You
must go out and take me with you as lieutenant and adjutant. I shall
soon pick up the necessary “colonial experience.” Eric is to stay at
Hexham to look after mother and the girls, as well as to see that no
one gets the weather-gauge of me with Corisande in my absence. And, I
think, that’s about all, sir.’
‘All, indeed!’ said his mother, looking at her first-born with a
mixture of surprise and admiration. ‘You seem to have summed up the
situation with what looks like completeness, and certainly the idea
seems feasible. We shall be “Marianas in our moated grange,” of
course, in your absence, but under more favourable social conditions.
What does your father say?’
‘Really, my dear, he seems to be cast for the part of “Brer Rabbit,”
and to have nothing left but to “go on sayin’ nothin’.” With the aid
and counsel of the eldest son, and your not less original aid, you
have quite disposed of all difficulties. When do we start, my dear?
To-morrow morning?’
‘Nonsense, Arnold! You know there is something else to be done first;
and, privately, you are thanking your stars for the chance of a little
change and travel. I have no objection—or rather, I _have_, as I
always have had; but I don’t urge it when it is plainly a duty. So I
shall “buckle your spurs upon your heel” metaphorically, as I used to
do sometimes practically in old days. Reggie, my boy, I trust you to
look after your father and discourage unnecessary risks. Now I must
go and tell the girls.’
And the brave matron, certainly the virtual head of the household,
departed to make important communications in a mood much less calm and
self-contained than her words and outward appearance indicated.
‘There appears nothing else for it,’ said the father to the son, after
a few moments’ reflection. ‘It’s rather a bore, and hard on your
mother, though she won’t admit it, my having to start off for the
other end of the world at a moment’s notice. But apart from the
importance of the issue at stake, it will do you good to see something
more of the land where your countrymen are at work, extending this
Empire of ours, or rather strengthening the foundations, now it has
been raised to such a height. Our forefathers “builded better than
they knew.”’
‘I am with you, sir, to the death—which is not a figure of speech.
With regard to the mining, pure and simple, Eric and I haven’t so much
to learn, though, of course, this Pilot Mount property is a far more
extensive and scientific affair. But at Barrawong I remember hearing
you say that in five years of your reign there, the miners won sixteen
tons of alluvial gold. Not such a trifle, was it?’
‘Quite correct. Embodied in one of my Annual Reports, with the ounces,
pennyweights, and grains added from the returns of the Mining
Registrar. It is there now for reference. However, I daresay we can
straighten up things, and see the different colonies within six
months. Four weeks to Albany, nowadays, makes short work of the
voyage to Australia.’
The bombshell, as exploded by Mrs. Banneret on her return from the
conference, produced much surprise and a certain amount of
consternation among the young people. But after the smoke cleared
away, so to speak, confidence returned, as it became gradually
apparent that no harm was likely to result. At first, Corisande was
disposed to insist upon going home, and writing to apprise her mother.
But on its being represented that her leave extended to the end of the
autumn, and that whether she availed herself of it in travel, or by
remaining at Hexham with her friends, could make no difference to her
family, she consented to remain. The military and the naval brother
succumbed to the same argument, perhaps the more readily as certain
county entertainments were to take place shortly. The question was
fully debated, and as, obviously, it seemed unkind to desert Hexham on
the occasion of their host and the eldest son leaving for foreign
parts, a compromise was agreed to.
* * * * *
On the appointed day, therefore, the Peninsular and Oriental Company’s
royal mail steamer _Mesopotamia_, 10,500 tons, had in her passenger
list the names of Arnold and Reginald Banneret, booked for Fremantle,
West Australia. Nothing out of the ordinary range of P. & O.
passengers’ mild adventures occurred until the Red Sea was reached,
the historic waters of which were destined in their case to furnish a
truly sensational incident. At Suez they had dined in the great
quadrangle of the P. & O. Hotel, in the open air, where immense
tables had been set out. It was a bizarre and dramatic scene. Above
them the cloudless blue sky; around and afar the limitless sands of
the Desert. Every variety of costume and head-dress diversified the
three hundred and fifty passengers—Arab turbans of scarlet and yellow,
or white and pink with gold edges.
A few days afterwards the _Mesopotamia_ was slipping smoothly and
pleasantly through the calm waters of the historic sea, on which
hardly a ripple was visible. On the north-west shore were the
irregular peaks and jagged outlines of the mountains of Palestine. It
was the charming after-breakfast interval, when there was absolutely
nothing to do but to read or frivol aimlessly. Mr. Banneret was
walking up and down, his son was applying himself to an abstruse
treatise on auriferous formations, when the Captain appeared on deck,
and after a short colloquy with a quartermaster, joined the officer on
the bridge.
‘What do you make of that?’ he asked, gazing at a faint line, which
gradually made itself distinct athwart the fair blue sky.
‘Smoke of a steamer, sir—Russian battleship. It’s one of those
volunteer cruisers let through the Canal, under a promise not to carry
more than so many guns.’
‘She is overhauling us at a great rate,’ said the Captain. ‘I’d better
prepare the passengers.’
This was hardly necessary, as every field-glass—and there were some
good ones on board—had been directed at the strange vessel for the
last few minutes. All now knew that she was a Russian volunteer
cruiser, which had been watching the Red Sea for vessels carrying
contraband of war, and that they would be stopped and searched,
unless, indeed, the Russian captain decided to sink the _Mesopotamia_
first and explain afterwards. This had been done before, they
reflected, in the case of the _Knight Commander_. It was not a
pleasant idea. Some of the lady passengers turned pale; they all
behaved with commendable self-possession.
There was no doubt as to the intention of the Russian volunteer
cruiser. Rapidly approaching, she fired a shot across the bows of the
_Mesopotamia_ and signalled to her to stop until a boat, which
promptly left the cruiser’s side, could come on board. The boat was so
crowded with armed men that there was hardly room for the oarsmen. At
the same time the look-out man reported ‘big steamer on the weather
bow.’ All turned with deep interest towards the strange vessel, that
in the excitement concentrated on the Russian cruiser had approached
nearer than the officers of the _Mesopotamia_ had remarked. Then
occurred a change of front. For some unexplained reason the order now
given to the _Mesopotamia’s_ head engineer was ‘Full speed ahead,’ the
effect of which moved the huge liner anew on her course, leaving the
Russian row-boat far behind. At the same time her launch, just
lowered, was hauled on board again.
The excitement of the passengers became intense. The stranger steamer,
which was coming up at a high rate of speed, altered her course a
couple of points and steered straight for the P. & O. liner, when she
suddenly hoisted the Japanese flag. Then it was seen that this vessel,
much larger, carrying more guns and apparently a greater number of men
than the Russian cruiser, was the new Japanese battleship the
_Hatsuce_.
The Russian cruiser apparently recognised this fact, for she changed
her course, and after taking her boat on board went the way she came.
The Japanese man-of-war came up and signalled the _Mesopotamia_ to
heave-to. Presently a boat with eight oars came alongside. It was not
an ordinary ship’s boat, but, to every one’s wild astonishment, a
‘whaleboat,’ and the tall man with the heavy white moustache, who had
the steer oar in his hand, was no other than our old friend Captain
Bucklaw (otherwise Hayston), who had volunteered for service with
Japan at the beginning of the war, and characteristically risen to his
present position.
What a joyful recognition and interchange of greetings was there, and
how grateful were all the lady passengers who crowded round him, as he
stepped on the deck with his old air of conquest and authority, as of
a Viking on a conquered galley.
‘How in the world did you come here?’ asked Mr. Banneret; ‘you are
always turning up in the nick of time. In the service of the Mikado,
too?’
‘There are few services in which I have not sailed or fought,’ said
the Captain. ‘And many a year ago I fought side by side with a crew
of Japanese sailors. In old South Sea Island days Captain Peese and I
were trading in a small brigantine which we owned at the time, when we
had to fight for our lives.’
‘Oh, do tell us!’ pleaded the wife of a colonial governor as the
passengers crowded round.
‘It was my first visit,’ said he, ‘to the Pelew Islands, whence a
young chief, known as Prince Lee Boo, had been taken to England and
had there died, to the great grief of all who knew him. An
enthusiastic writer had described his countrymen as “delicate in their
sentiments, friendly in their dispositions,” and, in short, a people
who do honour to the human race.’ The Captain’s description of the
undaunted manner in which fifty of these noble islanders, who tried to
cut them off, climbed up the side of the brigantine and slashed away
at the boarding nettings with their heavy swords, was truly graphic.
Stripped to the waist, they fought gallantly and unflinchingly, though
twelve of their number had been killed by the fire of musketry from
the brigantine. One of them had seized Captain Peese, and, dragging
him to the side, stabbed him in the neck, and threw him into the prahu
alongside, where his head would soon have left his body, when Hayston
and a Japanese sailor dashed over after him and killed the two natives
that were holding him down, while another was about to decapitate him.
At this stage, three of the brigantine’s crew lay dead and nearly all
were wounded. There were twenty-two islanders killed and as many more
badly wounded before they gave up the attempt to cut off the vessel.
‘Since then,’ remarked the Captain, as he concluded his narrative, ‘I
have had my own opinion about Japanese on sea and on land.’
‘But how did you happen to get a naval command?’
‘Well, I knew, of course, that they had Britishers in their employ,
both officers and men. So I applied for the first vacant berth. It
wasn’t long before I was put into commission with the _Hatsuce_ here.
Isn’t she a beauty? One of the two boats bought from the republic of
Chile. She has a torpedo delivery, too, and ten 4-inch quick-firers,
besides three Maxims, carries heavier metal than any ship of her size,
and can work up to twenty-five knots. But I’m disappointed that
Russian fellow wouldn’t stop. Our little engagement would have
interested the ladies.’
Years had, of course, told upon the bold buccaneer. Silvered were the
hair and moustache, but the grand form, the stately bearing, were
unaltered. The bold blue eyes had lost nothing of their fire or
fascination. He was, as ever, a general favourite and _succès de
salon_, in spite of rumours of wild deeds in other days. On leaving,
he carried with him the good wishes of the lady passengers and nearly
all those of the opposite sex, especially when he professed his
intention of escorting them to within neutral waters.
Colombo, with its brilliant leafage and gorgeous colour-scheme, seemed
to be quite a short sea-trip after their sensational adventure. It was
familiar to Arnold Banneret, but to his son Reginald the erstwhile
Dutch fortresses had all the effect and excitement of novelty. The
half-European, half-Oriental flavour of all things, the luxurious
habits of the residents, the population—various of colour, race, and
religion, the paradisial forest surroundings, the wondrous temples,
lakes, ruins, relics of a perished civilisation, came with unexpected
freshness to the younger man, who on his first journey to England had
been too young to appreciate the wonders and glories of this, one of
the latest and richest of England’s Crown Colonies.
‘What a wonderful outlook!’ said Reginald, as they sat at breakfast in
a lofty cool room at the G.F.H. (as the Galle Face Hotel is
irreverently and familiarly known). ‘It is good to travel. How it
broadens one’s views! What a change from that pestilential Port Said
and the Red Sea! By the way, I hope the _Times_ is making a row about
our threatened capture. These blundering Russians _did_ take the
_Malacca_ a month since, and put an armed crew on board. What a bore
if we had met with the adventure! Captain Bucklaw and his Japanese
cruiser saved us from that fate. What a magnificent fellow the Captain
is! I never saw a finer man in my life, although he is growing old.
What adventures he has had! You knew him years ago, didn’t you, sir?’
‘Yes, many years ago. He _is_ a most remarkable man, as you say; but
that he is the right man in the right place occasionally, and was so
when we met him, no one can doubt for a moment. I will tell you more
about him another time.’
Albany—Fremantle—Perth—all outposts of the ‘Briton’s far-flung line’
of conquest and colonisation, the latter the more important operation
of the two, were successively reached, and now, in Reggie Banneret’s
eyes, far their most exciting and interesting objective came within
the range of vision. That Aladdin’s cave, Pilot Mount, was at length
reached, and the great desert-seeming panorama, strange and unfamiliar
as it was to the graduate of Cambridge, did not fail to impress him on
that account.
‘This is something like!’ he exclaimed. ‘It is so delightfully
un-English, except in results. Such a true, unadulterated bit of
Africa, Australia, America, all in one. Don’t let any one say it’s
unconventional, uncomfortable, disagreeable. Why, that’s the beauty of
it all. It’s what I came out to see; what makes one proud of being an
Englishman, that is, an Australian, which is all the same, of course.
I must say I like to belong to people that have _done_ things.’
‘And suffered too,’ said his father. ‘You must not forget that side of
the adventure; it is, or rather was, very essential.’
‘I suppose there was a good deal of that ingredient mixed up with the
gold and glory of the earlier days of the Field.’
‘Field is a very apposite expression as applied to gold
areas—battlefield almost more appropriate, when typhoid fever
decimated the men in every camp; hunger, thirst, and privation of
every kind took toll; when water was dearer than wine or spirits on
many goldfields. And now, what a transformation!’
‘Transformation indeed!’ said the younger man; ‘it appears to me like
the work of an enchanter who has waved his wand, and lo, behold! what
has arisen? Spouting fountains where the famished horses and camels
scraped the barren sand; the green growth of gardens, irrigated and
fertilised; fruit and vegetables, and this’—looking round the lofty,
spacious room in which they had been dining. ‘Waiter, bring more ice.
This Chasselas will be none the worse for cooling.’
The formal reception of the mining magnate of Pilot Mount was much
like any other function of the sort, and was transacted with the
usual, or, perhaps, slightly unusual formalities. Once the principal
shareholder and part owner of a very valuable mining property, Arnold
Banneret was now almost the sole owner. Old Jack Waters’s will had
been proved, probate had been granted, and all necessary forms
complied with. The erst ex-Commissioner of Goldfields at Barrawong, in
New South Wales, found himself one of the richest men in Australia.
The mine was a ‘going concern’ in every sense of the word, but after a
month’s sojourn, a steadily increasing desire to see once more the
higher aspects of civilisation commenced to assert itself, though
there was a club well-conducted and most comfortable, and also polo—a
game of which Reggie was passionately fond, with ponies which were
excellent, the members practised and well-mannered. The working of the
great mine, with all the latest appliances for the extraction of the
precious metal, and 2000 men on the payroll, was in itself an
interesting, even exciting, spectacle—a triumph of mechanism to watch;
all but human in so much of its automatic action. But even this
source of interest and occupation came to an end, and one day Reggie
confessed to his father that after, of course, a look-in at Sydney and
Melbourne, he should not be sorry to be on board a P. & O. liner once
more.
‘If I did not feel,’ said his father, ‘that I was quitting Australia
for the last time, which is for me a mournful reflection, I should
welcome the idea; but I cannot regard the desertion of one’s native
land, in my case and yours, as merely a matter of practical
convenience.
‘The land which knew my life’s best hours,
Ere Fate had gloomed youth’s vernal bowers,
And Hope’s bright blossoms marred,
as some boyish rhymer has it.’
‘Australia has done well for us, sir,’ said the young fellow, ‘and you
have done something for her, permit me to say, in rearing a family
true to the best traditions of the dear old land, our Mother England,
God bless her! It remains with them to carry out your policy, and as
your heir and eldest son I dedicate myself to the task.’
‘God bless you, my boy!’ said Arnold Banneret, grasping his hand. ‘You
have spoken like the son of your father, and _his_ father, who was
strong on the point of the loyalty of Australia to the Crown. How
often have I heard him condemn the self-indulgent, luxurious lives
spent by the sons of wealthy colonists. Only, what about this P. & O.
arrangement?’
‘I have thought of that, sir. Pilot Mount will run alone, and keep
straight by itself for a year. Within that time I propose to return,
if I can get the permission of a certain young lady—I may as well say
_the_ young lady—to help in the colonisation scheme.’
‘I understand, my dear boy. I trust the affair may come off. You have
my best wishes. But consider the climate, the—I don’t say rougher, but
the untried social conditions of colonial life. Take thought ere it be
too late, I beg of you.’
‘I _have_ considered that side of the matter well, my dear Dad; and if
Corisande be the girl I take her to be, she will like the life all the
better for the opportunity of watching the development of a great
British community from its initial stages.’
‘Possibly, possibly, my dear boy; knowing what I do of life and
feminine characteristics I dare not say probably. That will be for you
to discover by experience. Everything, that is, everything connected
with the success, the happiness, even the comfort of your after life,
depends upon the result of that experiment.’