A pleasant ride home in the cool of the evening, comprising some
æsthetic talk on the part of Ernest with the youngest daughter, and a
sensational bit of horsemanship by the Colonel, who rode his horse over
a stiff three-railer that Miss Branksome had denounced as dangerous,
prepared the party for a very merry dinner, after which some dressing
set in, and the whole party started for the ball in a high mail
phaeton.
The mining township of Turonia, while tolerably open to criticism by
day as to its architecture, with the kindly aid of shadow and moonbeam
looked sufficiently imposing by night, with its long line of lighted
street, its clanking engines and red-gleaming shift-fires.
The particular night chosen for the entertainment which the bachelors
temporarily dwelling in and around the golden city of Turonia had
provided, was of the clearest moonlight procurable. Undimmed, awful,
golden, pure, in the wondrous dark-blue dome, glowed the thrones of the
greater and the lesser kings of the night. The trees upon the swart
hillsides were visible in fullest delicate tracery of leaf and branch,
as at midday. Each trail in the red dusty roadpaths showed with magic
pencilling of outline. The dark-mouthed cruel shafts, which lay as if
watching for a prey on either side of the narrow roadway, were plainly
visible to the most careless wayfarer. So it chanced that from cottage
and villa, from farmhouse and home station, and even from less
pretentious habitations than any of these, wended at the usual hour a
concourse of joyous or pleasure-enduring visitants, not specially
distinguishable in air, manner, or raiment from metropolitan devotees
of similar tenets.
Pretty Mrs. Merryfield was there, whose husband, formerly in the navy,
held as many shares in the Haul and Belay Reef as would at that time
have enabled him to retire upon club life and whist for the rest of his
days. Managing Mrs. Campion, with her three daughters (Janie Campion
was not unlikely to be voted the belle of the evening), sailed in,
imposing with bouquets all the way from Sydney, the fern sprigs,
camellias, and moss rosebuds of which were marvels of freshness. Little
Campion and his partner, George Bowler, were driving a roaring trade as
auctioneers, and a cheque for fifty for the girls’ dresses and fal-lals
was, he was pleased to say, ‘neither here nor there.’ The doctors, half
a dozen, were chiefly married men, and contributed their full share to
the feminine contingent. So did the four lawyers. Mining cases are
perhaps the most interminable, complicated, and technical known in the
records of litigation. The bankers were in great force and profusion.
In mining towns they are necessarily numerous and competitive, and
there are few departments of social accomplishments to which they may
not lay claim. Thus many were the celebrities contributed by them that
night―athletic champions, musical bankers, and bankers that danced,
bankers that billiarded and whisted, bankers that ‘went in for beauty’
and preserved their complexions, and bankers that combined divers of
these claims to consideration. In a general way it may be assumed that
the _jeunesse dorée_ of that inevitable profession numbers as many
‘good all-round men’ as could be taken at hazard from either of the
services, military or naval―the metropolitan young-lady vote
notwithstanding. Our ball yet had some distinctive features. Many of
the irreproachably attired persons, there and then present, had spent
the day in avocations which do not in a general way precede ball going.
Jack Hardston had worked his own eight hours’ ‘shift’ that day, from 8
a.m. to 4 o’clock in the afternoon, in a ‘drive’ of considerable
lateral penetration, at a distance of 160 feet from ‘upper air.’ After
a light repast, a smoke, a swim in the Turonia, and a somewhat
protracted and hazardous toilet, he asserted himself to be wound up
exactly to concert pitch. Twice as fit indeed as when he carried the
money of the men for the grand military pedestrian handicap. Mild
little Mrs. Wynne had treated herself to the ball on the strength of
Lloyd Watkyn having come ‘on the gutter’ in his claim at Jumper’s Gully
in the early part of the week. So she finished up her baking and
brewing, let us say, and having handed over the three-year-old Watkyn
Williams, with many injunctions, to her neighbour Mrs. David Jones
(also of the Principality), proceeded with her husband, ‘dressed for
once like old times,’ as she said with a little sigh, to the hall of
the great enchanter―even music―who hath power over body and soul, life
and limb; who with a chord can call forth the tears of the past, the
joys of the present. And very nice they looked.
Horace Sherrington was there―suave, correct, rather worn-looking, but
incontestably ‘good form.’ He made a handsomer income by the exercise
of his talents than those somewhat varied natural gifts had ever
previously afforded him. Every evening he came to the camp mess, where
the Government officials kept something like open house for all
pleasant fellows who were ‘of ours’ in the former or the latter time.
No one sang so good a song as Sherrington, was so racy a _raconteur_,
played a better hand at whist, had a surer cue at pool. But no one knew
precisely how he spent his day, not that any one cared much. There were
too many men of mark who had tried every employment on that goldfield
for luck and honest bread, including the officials themselves, for them
to affect any snobbish discrimination of avocations. But Horace did not
volunteer the nature of his daily duties; he was not a miner, a
speculator, a reefer, nor an engine-driver, a clerk, or puddler. His
reticence piqued them. One day the police inspector’s horse shied at a
man in a loose blue shirt and very clay-stained general rig, having
also an immense sheaf of posters in his hand. ‘What the devil do you
mean, my man, by flourishing these things in my horse’s face?’ growled
the somewhat shaken autocrat. ‘Beg your pardon, sir,’ quoth the agent
of intelligence, himself passing on. But it was too late. The lynx-eye
settled upon him with unerring aim, like a backwoodsman’s rifle. Both
men burst out laughing. The elegant and accomplished Horace was a
bill-sticker! The festive concourse partook, in one respect at least,
of classical and traditionary fitness. The sincere and fervid
worshippers of Terpsichore held sacred revel in a temple―the Temple of
Justice! For the large handsomely decorated hall, which resounded with
the inspiriting clangour of a very passable brass band, was in good
earnest the court-house of Turonia. By the simple process of removing
the dock and draping the witness-box as a lamp stand, placing the
musicians upon the magisterial bench, with, I hardly need to mention, a
profuse exhibition of international bunting, a fairly ornamental and
highly effective ballroom was secured.
It was generally believed, and indeed asserted by the _Turonia
Sentinel_, that the Commissioner, who was known to be _beau valseur_,
had bribed the contractor, when completing that magnificent edifice, to
bestow extra finish upon the flooring, with ulterior views as to its
utilisation for society purposes. Be that as it may―and much gossip was
current about that high and mighty official of which he took no
heed―there _was_ some truth in a subsequent legend that a prisoner and
the constable by whom he was being escorted to the dock on the
following morning slipped and fell as heavily and unexpectedly upon the
glassy floor as if they had been essaying the gliding graces of the
rink for the first time.
When the Branksome Hall party drove up, the entertainment had
commenced, and the two first dances having been got through, the _gêne_
of all beginnings and early arrivals was evaded. The ladies having been
first conducted for envelope-removing purposes into the jury-room, and
the men’s overcoats and wideawakes deposited in the land office, the
stewards with elaborate courtesy escorted them to the hall of dazzling
delight.
The Commissioner, in blue and gold (at that period of Australian
history these officials wore uniforms), looked most military and
distinguished, his heavy drab moustache and decided cast of countenance
suiting the costume extremely well. The second steward was a
broad-shouldered, blonde, blue-eyed personage, whose singular talent
for organisation caused his services to be in great request at all
public demonstrations―social, military, legal, or ecclesiastical. He
looked like a squatter or a naval man, but was in reality a bank
manager. The third steward was a tall handsome man, very carefully
attired, whose delicate features were partly concealed by an immense
fair beard. His manner, his mien, his every look and gesture, told as
plainly as words to any observer of his kind of foreign travel, of ‘the
service’ in early life of that occasional entire dependence upon
personal resources which has been roughly translated as ‘living by his
wits.’ On his brow was the imprint writ large, in spite of the
faultless toilet, finished courtesy, the perfect _aplomb_, the
half-unconscious _fierté_ of his manner, the somewhat doubtful
_affiche_ of adventurer.
Attended by these magnates, for whom way was made with ready respect,
the Hall party sailed into the well-lighted, well-filled room with
considerable prestige.
Ernest was considerably astonished at the general appearance of
matters, while the Colonel openly expressed his admiration and
satisfaction.
‘Gad, sir!’ he said to the Commissioner, ‘I had no idea that you were
able to get up your dances in this fashion. What a field of neat
well-bred-looking flyers―I mean deuced pretty girls, and monstrously
well dressed too. Puts me in mind of one of our Hurryghur dances. We
used to have such jolly spurts at the old station before that cursed
Mutiny spoiled everything.’
Mr. Neuchamp thought it was not so very much less imposing in
appearance than a ball in Sydney; room not so big; perhaps a trifling
flavour of the provinces.
But the Bombay galop having struck up, the Colonel possessed himself of
a partner of prepossessing appearance, through the good offices of the
Commissioner, and sailed off at a great pace. Ernest lost no time in
appropriating the eldest Miss Branksome, and reflection was merged in
sensation.
‘I suppose you hardly expected to have any ball-going in this
particular spot,’ said he to his partner, ‘a few years ago.’
‘We should just as soon have expected to go to the opera and hear
Tietjens,’ said Miss Branksome. ‘I have often ridden over this very
spot with papa, and seen the wild horses feeding on the hill where the
town now stands.’
‘And you like the change?’
‘I can’t say that we did at first. We fancied, I suppose, that the
great invading army of diggers would eat us up, and we resented their
intrusion. But they turned out very amiable wild beasts, and one
advantage we certainly did not calculate upon.’
‘What is that, may I ask?’
‘The number of nice people that would accompany the army. Our society
is ten times as large and pleasant as in old times. We are hardly a
night without quite a small party of visitors. You see there are the
commissioners, magistrates, bankers, and other officials, all gentlemen
and mostly pleasant. Besides, the gold attracts visitors, like
yourself, for instance.’
After a very satisfactory fast and unaffectedly performed galop, the
susceptible Colonel joined them at the refreshment table, accompanied
by a young lady with a wild-rose complexion and great dark eyes, who
had been evidently dancing at a pace which had caused that mysterious
portion of her _chevelure_ known (I am informed) as ‘back hair’ to fall
in glossy abundance over her fair shoulders.
‘Splendid floor, Bessy,’ he said to his niece. ‘Capital music―partner
beyond all praise!’ (Here the young lady looked up with smiling
reproach.) ‘Fact! haven’t had such a dance since the last ball at
Calcutta. There were two duels next day―about a young lady, of course’
(here the small damsel looked much concerned)―‘and poor O’Grady, who
had heart complaint, but couldn’t control his feelings at a ball, died
within the week.’
‘Oh, how dreadful!’ said the little maiden, with a sincere accent of
distress. ‘But nobody dies after a ball here, or fights duels either,
that I ever heard of. Why should they in India, Colonel Branksome?’
‘Can’t say,’ said the Colonel. ‘Let me give you a little champagne;
heat of the climate, I suppose; too many soldiers, too few ladies.’
‘India must be a beautiful place, Colonel Branksome,’ observed the
grave little damsel, looking out of her big eyes with an air of
deliberate conviction.
‘Glorious, splendid; that is, most infernal hole―hot, dull,
miserable―full of niggers. Hope I may never stay another year in it.
Get my pension, I hope, when I get back and settle up with the remount
agent. After that, if they ever catch Billy Branksome out of England
again, they may make a Punkah-wallah of him.’
‘Good gracious, Colonel Branksome!’ said the matter-of-fact danseuse,
who now looked as cool as if she had been walking a minuet. ‘I thought
all soldiers were fond of India. Oh! there’s that dear old Captain de
Bracy.’
‘Gad! so it is,’ said the Colonel. ‘Look at him, Bessy, strolling in,
and bowing to every woman he knows, as if he was at a ball at the
Tuileries. Gad! I _did_ see him there last. And what do you think he
was doing?―why, dancing in a set with two crowned heads and four
princesses of the blood. He and Charles Standish made up the set; by
gad!’
‘Oh, doesn’t he look like a nobleman?’ said the _debutante_
enthusiastically, opening her innocent eyes and feasting on De Bracy’s
middle-aged charms. ‘And oh, what lovely, wonderful studs!’
‘So you’re here, Master Billy, as usual?’ said the object of this
highly favourable criticism. ‘Couldn’t keep away from a ball if your
life depended upon it. Old enough to know better, ain’t he, Miss
Maybell? Happy to see you all here to-night. Not afraid of the stumps
and holes? I’m well enough, thanks, Miss Maybell; heard _you_ were
coming, and though I seldom go out now―I am here.’
‘Oh, Captain de Bracy!’ said little Miss Maybell, perfectly overwhelmed
with the compliment to her unworthy small self (as she erroneously
held, underrating her fresh and innocent beauty), and mentally
comparing De Bracy’s appearance with that of a print of the Chevalier
Bayard which was among her treasures at home.
A great tidal wave of promenading couples overwhelmed and dispersed the
_partie carrée_ for a while, so that they were compelled to make
arrangements for the next dance, which happened to be a _deux-temps_
waltz. Having relinquished Miss Branksome to De Bracy, and seen pretty
little Miss Maybell carried off by young Tom Branksome, who recommended
his uncle to try Mrs. Campion, as being a fine woman and of a suitable
age, Ernest found, rather to his surprise, that he was a little late,
as every possible partner for a fast dance had been secured. The fact
was, that the proportion of the sexes was in the inverse ratio to what
generally obtains at balls in a more settled state of society.
Therefore, more than average alacrity and foresight was necessary to
ensure a regular succession of partners.
As Mr. Neuchamp, smiling to himself at his involuntary state of injured
feelings, sauntered towards the refreshment room, he met the steward,
who had been introduced to him by the Commissioner as Mr. Lionel
Greffham.
‘You don’t seem to be dancing,’ he said; ‘well, it is rather a bore,
after the first turn or two. Bright and I are having a glass of
champagne; will you join us?―it is “number two.”’
There was such an evident desire to be civil on Mr. Greffham’s part
that Ernest, who had not at first regarded him with perfect approval,
felt moved to respond to so friendly an accost. He found Mr. Bright in
the supper room, in conversation with a well-dressed, quiet, but not
the less striking-looking personage, who was introduced as the district
inspector of police, Mr. Merlin.
‘What do you think of society on the diggings?’ said Mr. Bright to
Ernest; ‘hardly what you would have expected?’
‘It is utterly wonderful,’ said Ernest. ‘I am perfectly amazed at the
order and decorum which everywhere prevail, and even at the elegant and
enjoyable party to-night―so many nice people you seem to have.’
‘Yes,’ said Mr. Merlin, ‘nothing is more wonderful, as you say. There
_are_ so many extremely nice people here. So well worth knowing. People
who have such noble, disinterested views, eh, Greffham?’
‘I quite agree with you,’ answered that gentleman. ‘But it’s rather a
bore we can’t have a little whist, isn’t it? A quiet rubber, or a game
at billiards, would be much more sensible than all this capering with a
lot of people that, in any other part of the world, you wouldn’t dream
of speaking to.’
‘Surely not,’ said Ernest; ‘some of our friends here are of
unimpeachable _ton_, and for the rest they appear to be of very fair
average standing. I am very much pleased with the whole affair.’
‘Greffham is fastidious, and plays the Sybarite among his other
characters,’ said the inspector slowly and distinctly. ‘He suffers much
here when the rose leaves are unavoidably crumpled. So much depends
upon a man’s antecedents.’
‘I don’t know that I am more fastidious than others,’ he said, smiling,
though the eye, that infallible referee in facial expression, did not
agree with his amused expression. ‘You know that _you_, Master Merlin,
rather agree with me than otherwise. But seriously, suppose we go over
to the Occidental and have a game of billiards. Oceans of time; these
misguided Turonians will dance for hours yet.’
The proposition met with general approval, and Mr. Neuchamp assented,
not that he cared about billiards, at which he was only a middling
performer, but he felt the inexplicable influence of the strange scene
and novel surroundings, and was more inclined than ordinarily _desipere
in loco_.
The four acquaintances crossed the street, which was filled, as far as
they could see, with a surging crowd of men, chiefly attired in the
ordinary dress of miners. Shops brilliantly lighted, and of imposing
appearance as to their fronts, lined the long, narrow, and not
altogether straight street. Mr. Neuchamp thought he had never seen such
an assemblage of intelligent-looking men. Evidently the flower of the
working classes, while from all the trades and professions a large
proportion had been lured to Turonia by the golden possibilities of the
great rush. What amazed Ernest chiefly was the astonishing order and
polite behaviour of this vast concourse of people, containing
presumably the ruffianism of all lands under the sun. He had seen mobs
in the British towns and cities and in other parts of the world. In all
these gatherings he had occasionally encountered rough usage, had heard
much foul language, and had suffered risk or loss of personal
belongings.
But in this strange crowd no conduct other than of mutual respect and
courtesy was observable. Rarely a word to which objection could be
taken fell on the ear. The press parted and permitted the four
gentlemen to walk through as independently as though they were the
Dowager Patroness at a charitable institution. The brilliantly-lighted
bars at the numerous hotels were certainly full, but there seemed to be
more talking than consumption of liquor, and the spectacle of drunken
men was altogether absent. A few police constables, unobtrusively
placed, denoted that the Imperial Government, so calm, so impartial,
yet so long of arm and sure of grasp, was represented. Otherwise it
looked very much as if the great heterogeneous mass of humanity, now
turning up the precious metal at Turonia at the rate of a couple of
tons of gold per quarter, was permitted to manage itself. This was by
no means the case, as Mr. Merlin could have explained. An unsparing
crusade was organised against all manner of open vice and crime. No
quarter was given or respite permitted. Passing through the bar, among
the occupants of which Ernest did not observe any one to carry a
revolver, or to make as though the good-humoured landlord was likely to
be, without notice, ‘one of the deadest men that ever lived,’ they
reached a large, well-lighted room, where two handsome new billiard
tables were in full swing. As they sat down on the cushioned benches
which lined the room, a young fellow in a blue shirt and clay-stained
trousers made a break of twenty-seven, and thereby won the game in a
style which showed that he had not devoted all his life to mining
industry. The marker promptly signalled to Mr. Greffham. He and Ernest
then took possession of the vacated table.
There is no doubt that at certain times an electrical tone pervades not
only the physical but the moral atmosphere, affecting to depression or
exaltation the mind of man, that subtle reflex of the most delicate
external influence. Such a night was this. The music of the band was
pealing from the opposite side of the street―the vast, surging,
excited, but self-contained crowd presented the strangest contrasts of
society, as akin to the rudest types of life in certain aspects, so
near to Utopian models in advanced manners and intelligent consent.
Even the scraps of conversation which found their way to Ernest’s ear
were of a novel and fairy-legendary nature.
‘Made eight hundred pounds in ten days out of that bit of “surface,”
Jem did; I sold a share in Green Gully, No. 5, for three drinks last
week, and now they’ve struck gold and want a thousand for it.
Commissioner settled that dispute to-day at Eaglehawk.’
‘Who got number seven block?’
‘Well, Red Bill, and his crowd; it’s on good gold too.
‘What did Big George say?’
‘Oh, he was pretty wild, but he couldn’t do nothing, of course.’
‘I’ll take three hundred and half out of the ground for a share in
number two,’ and so on, and so on.
Mr. Neuchamp had come on to the long-disputed territory, ‘Tom Tidler’s
ground,’ and the ‘demnition gold’ (if not silver) was sticking out of
the soil everywhere. Ten-pound notes were handed across the bar for
change as readily as half-crowns. Nuggets worth from £50 to £100 were
passed about in the crowd for inspection with the most undoubting good
faith and confidence in the collective honesty of mining mankind.
Under these conditions, it was a night for bold and reckless
conception, a night when the ordinary prudences and severities of
conscience might be calmly placed behind the perceptions, and the
‘fore-soul’ be permitted to leap forth and disport in the glorious
freedom of the instincts and original faculties.
No sooner had Ernest handled his cue and struck the first ball than he
perceived that he was in one of his rarely happy veins, when, sure of
his play, he was also likely to fall in for an unusual allowance of
‘flukes.’ Therefore, when Greffham, who had kindly allowed him ten
points, proposed to have a pound on the game, just for the fun of the
thing, he promptly acceded.
He won the first with ease, Mr. Greffham playing a steady but by no
means brilliant game. And, much to his astonishment, the second also,
with a couple of pounds which he had staked, with the good-natured
intention of giving back Mr. Greffham his money. Ernest did not win the
second game quite so easily, but his luck adhered to him, and a shower
of flukes at the latter end landed him the winner. His antagonist bore
his defeat with the finest breeding and perfect composure, deciding
that it was quite a pleasure to meet with a gentleman in this howling
desert, socially, who _could_ play, and trusting that they might have
another game or two before Ernest left the district. Then Mr. Bright
and the inspector had a short but brilliant game, chiefly remarkable
for the sparkling, if somewhat acidulated, repartee which it called
forth. Then it was voted proper to return to the ballroom. Here matters
had apparently reached the after-supper stage. The dancing was more
determined, the floor smooth to the last degree of perfection. De
Bracy, the Commissioner, the Colonel, and the Branksome Hall party were
still untired, unsatiated―the cheeks of the young ladies showed paler
in the growing dawn-light, their eyes larger and more bright, and the
hair of little Miss Maybell positively ‘would not keep up, and there
was no use trying to make it.’ Ernest was just sufficiently fortunate
to capture Miss Janie Campion for the galop, which proved to be the
concluding one as far as he was concerned. For old Mr. Branksome, not
being quite so fond of dancing and young ladies as his gallant brother,
ordered the phaeton round, and caused his daughters to perceive that he
wished to go home, without any kind of doubt or hesitation.
So all wraps being secured, and the Colonel having taken a most tender
leave of his last partner, the highly-conditioned horses went at their
collars, and, after threading the unabated crowd, rattled along the
smooth if winding track, by stumps, ditches, and yawning shafts, at a
pace which, with luck and good driving, brought them in due time safe
and sleepy to the avenue gate of Branksome Hall.
On the following morning Ernest received a letter from Charley Banks,
by which he learned that his party would not arrive in the
neighbourhood of Turonia for at least another fortnight―their advance
being unavoidably slow. He cheerfully concluded, therefore, to spend
the intervening time in the golden city, where he would have an
opportunity of noticing the preparations for mustering the herd, in
which he and Mr. Levison were jointly interested, and of acquiring new
facts in a tolerably new field of observation.
He therefore took temporary leave of his very kind friends at the Hall,
reserving to himself the right of occasional visits until he should
depart, with his newly-acquired herd, for the ‘waste lands of the
Crown,’ where the Great River flowed on, as in the long lonely æons of
the past, through the vast plains and pine-bordered sandhills of
Rainbar.
Once domiciled in Turonia, Mr. Neuchamp found its society more various
and entertaining than in any locality other than the metropolis which
he had visited since his arrival in Australia. It was the flush and
prosperous stage of a great alluvial goldfield. All things wore the
golden tint, all bore the image and superscription of the modern Cæsar
and Imperator.
Wonderfully unreal, and smacking of ‘the golden prime of the good
Haroun Alraschid,’ was the careless magnificence with which large sums
of money were acquired, spent, lost, and regained. Ernest visited the
various banks, and saw bags and drawers in which the precious metal lay
heaped in all forms, from the dull red heavy dust to the lump, ingots,
and precious fragments, in which a thousand pounds’ worth was lifted in
the hand with as much ease as a paperweight. He saw the bronzed,
stalwart miners handing insignificant-looking bags across the cedar
counters, and crushing handfuls of ten-pound notes into their pockets
as a schoolboy receives change for a shilling spent in marbles. He
retired to rest about midnight, and on awaking at dawn heard the
ceaseless click of the billiard balls in the adjacent saloon,
apparently fated to go on until the day again merged into midnight. He
found the _table d’hôte_ every day filled, not to say crowded, by
well-dressed people whose occupation he could at first merely guess at,
but whom he found to be in nearly every case connected with the great
industry―as officials, mine-owners, brokers, speculators, professional
men, and others unspecified, with perhaps a rare tourist, lured hither
by astounding rumours, or a feeling of justifiable curiosity, to behold
the unbounded treasures of mother earth, so long and jealously guarded.
There was a never-failing store of amusement and occupation spread out
before the calibre of Mr. Neuchamp, and so absorbed did he grow daily
in the ever-widening field of observation that he felt almost regretful
to find the time at his disposal rapidly diminishing.
In no more friendly and hospitable region had he ever sojourned. He was
voted an acquisition by the officials, and made free of all their small
gatherings and merry-meetings. One day the Commissioner would drive him
out to inspect a great sluicing claim, where the water, brought through
races by miles of fluming, spouted clear and strong over heaps of
auriferous earth, as when it left its far-away mountain rill. On
another occasion he was invited to witness the hearing and settlement
of a great mining dispute, ‘on the ground,’ where a thousand excited
men were gathered―the evidence heard upon oath, and the immutable
decision of the Lord High Commissioner given, by which the one moiety
was deprived of all right to a presumable fortune, and the other gifted
with a clear title to the same. Much temporary excitement and even
irritation was produced by each and every such verdict. But miners, as
a rule, are a law-abiding body; and, the mining laws of the period
being as those of the Medes and Persians, all effervescence, however
apparently allied to physical force, rapidly subsides.
In the intervals of such experiences and recreations, Mr. Neuchamp did
not abstain from joining in diurnal billiard tournaments, and the
nightly whist parties, in which trials of chance and skill he
invariably found himself associated with Mr. Lionel Greffham and other
pleasant persons, who, appearing to have no visible means of
subsistence, were invariably well dressed, well appointed, and well
provided with the needful cash. Mr. Greffham constituted himself his
constant companion and mentor; the charm of his unremitting courtesy,
joined to varied and racy experiences, with a never-failing flow of
entertaining conversation, gradually broke down Ernest’s caution and
reserve. They became, if not sworn friends, habitual acquaintances, and
under his apparently disinterested guidance the time passed pleasantly
enough. Yet Ernest began to perceive that, after the first few
successes, his losings at cards and billiards commenced to add up to
more serious totals than he had thought possible at the commencement of
his sojourn at Turonia.
More than once Ernest fancied that the keen eyes of Mr. Merlin wore a
depreciatory, not to say contemptuous, expression when fixed upon Mr.
Greffham. The Commissioner evidently disapproved of him in a general
way, and Mr. Bright, who was open and bold of speech, once took
occasion to remark, _àpropos_ of the elegant but inscrutable Lionel,
that he considered him ‘to be a d―d scoundrel, who would stick at
_nothing_ in the way of villainy, if he had anything considerable to
gain by it.’ But at this stage Ernest, at no time of a distrustful
disposition, had formed an estimate of this fascinating freelance too
favourable to be shaken by mere assertion unsupported by proof.
One morning, for some reason, an unusually large amount of gold and
notes was despatched from one of the banks, with the object of meeting
a branch escort a day’s ride from Turonia. Two troopers were detached
for this service. They carried the compact but precious burden before
them in valises strapped to their saddles.
A small group of _habitués_ of the Occidental assembled to witness
their departure, and Mr. Neuchamp bestowed much commendation upon the
condition of the horses, the efficient appearance of arms and
accoutrements, and the soldierly and neat appearance of the men.
Curious to remark, Greffham was not among the admiring crowd, and
Ernest alluded to the fact to the Inspector of Police, who was
officially present.
‘What has become of Greffham?’ he inquired. ‘One would have sworn that
we should have seen him here!’
Mr. Merlin replied that ‘Mr. Greffham was probably away upon business’;
but a bystander volunteered the information that he had seen Mr.
Greffham mounted, at daylight, upon his famous hackney Malakoff,
apparently on the road to an adjacent diggings.
‘Where can he be going, Merlin?’ said Ernest. ‘He arranged to drive me
over to the Hall to-day.’
Mr. Merlin replied, stiffly, that Greffham had apparently changed his
mind, and that he, Merlin, had not the slightest acquaintance with Mr.
Greffham’s business affairs.
Mr. Neuchamp felt quietly repelled by this answer, and the cold
indifference with which it was given. He came to the conclusion that
Merlin was unnecessarily formal, and by no means so pleasant an
acquaintance as the absent one. He was not fated to recover from the
effects of his matutinal disappointment.
The Commissioner was up to his eyes in court business that day. Bright
was unusually confined to his bank. Merlin disappeared on the trail of
a cattle-stealer long and urgently ‘wanted,’ while every other member
of the waif and stray corps, from the police magistrate to Horace
Sherrington, seemed to have been snatched away by the Demon of
Industry, or otherwise absorbed by abnormal influences. Long, dismal,
and cheerless passed the hours of one of those broken, objectless days
that are so peculiarly, unaccountably depressing. It was long―very
long―since Ernest had spent so miserable a day. He regretted that he
had not carried out his intention of visiting the Hall. He wondered
when Charley Banks would arrive, and sincerely longed once more for the
absorbing work of the muster and the march, telling himself that it
would be long before he spent so idle a season again. The evening at
length arrived, and with the gathering of the accustomed party at the
dinner-table brighter thoughts possessed his mind. By the time that the
evening game of billiards had fairly commenced, Mr. Neuchamp’s equable
habitude of mind had reasserted itself.
They had not been long occupied with this fascinating exercise,
wonderfully suited to so many shades of character, when Greffham
lounged in, calm and _insouciant_, as usual. At the first opening in
the game he took his favourite cue and played his usually cool and
occasionally brilliant game. If he had been in the saddle the long day
through, no trace of more than ordinary exercise or excitement was
visible in the _soigné_ attire, which seemed a part of the man’s being,
or on his calm, impassive features. His play differed not in the
slightest degree from his ordinary form, which always showed
improvement towards the close, with perfect unconsciousness as to
whether he was apparently winning or losing the game. He made his
customary break, and, betting upon a five stroke at the finish, gave a
shade of odds upon the success of his concluding ‘coup.’ He spoke of a
longish ride as far as an outlying quartz reef, in which he had an
interest, and mentioned having encountered the two gold-laden troopers
at an inn which they would pass towards the end of their day’s journey.
Half an hour later on Mr. Merlin dropped in, by no means so calm in his
demeanour as Greffham, and full of complaints as to the abominable
nature of the weather, the fleas, the dust, the danger of riding late
among unprotected shafts, and many other disagreeables specially
selected by fate for his deterioration and disgust on this appointed
day.
While in this unchristian state of mind, for which he was mildly taken
to task by Greffham, he was called out by a waiter, who informed him
that ‘a gentleman wished to see him.’
‘Oh, certainly,’ quoth the unappeased official with sardonic
politeness; ‘most happy, I’m sure. _I very seldom see one._’
With this Parthian shaft at the entire community, which was accepted as
a perfectly permissible and characteristic pleasantry, Mr. Merlin
quitted the room to greet the aforesaid rare and precious personage. He
did not return; and after a little unlimited loo, in which Mr. Greffham
transferred the larger portion of Ernest’s ready money to his own
pocket, the company separated for the night.
It was moderately early on the morrow when Mr. Neuchamp presented
himself in the main street of Turonia. He was at once instinctively
aware that something strange had happened.
The ordinary life and labour of the busy human hive seemed arrested.
Men stood in groups at the sides, the corners, the centres of the
streets, conversing in low tones with bated breath, as it seemed to
Ernest. The very air was heavy and laden with horror―unexplained,
mysterious―until above the hum and confused murmurs came, ominous and
unmistakable, the one darkest irrevocable word ‘murder!’
It was even so. Mr. Bright, walking briskly down the street, accosted
him, and in the next breath asked if he had heard the news.
‘Very dreadful thing―very,’ said the sympathising banker, trying vainly
to subdue his cheerful visage. ‘Never had anything so terrible happened
at Turonia since it was a goldfield. Merlin, Greffham, and I are going
to ride out to the spot to-morrow. Would you like to come?’
‘With pleasure,’ said Ernest; ‘that is, I shall go as a matter of duty.
But what is up?’
‘Just this――’ said Bright. ‘But surely you must have heard it?’
‘Not a word,’ replied Ernest. ‘Pray go on. I have suspected something
wrong, but have not the faintest idea what it is.’
‘Henderson and Carroll,’ said Bright solemnly, ‘two of the men in the
force, the troopers that you saw start with the gold, were yesterday
found _dead_―murdered, evidently―near the Running Creek. All the gold
and bank notes have been taken, and the police have no more idea who
the murderer is than you or I have. Have you, Merlin?’ he asked of that
gentleman, who now joined them.
‘Are there any bushrangers or bad characters known to be in the
neighbourhood?’ asked Mr. Neuchamp. ‘I have always thought it a perfect
marvel that so little overt crime existed among this immense assemblage
of men, with so many exciting causes. There must be _very few_
criminals, or else they keep very quiet.’
‘_We_ know of scores of men of the very worst class and most desperate
character,’ replied Mr. Merlin; ‘but, as you say, they have been kept
very quiet. Still it never does to relax caution, as, if a sufficiently
“good thing,” in their phraseology, turns up, they are always ready to
run all risks for the spoil. You have pushed against men who have
committed more than _one_ or even two murders. I saw you talking to one
the other day by the Chinaman’s store in Stanley Street.’
‘Good heaven!’ said Ernest, much moved, ‘you don’t say so? And was that
quiet, sober-looking man that I was chatting with―I remember him quite
well now―a known criminal?’
‘One of the worst we have,’ rejoined the Inspector in a matter-of-fact
tone. ‘A cold-blooded, treacherous ruffian. He _dares_ not drink on
account of what he might let out; but we know where he has been and all
about him this time. He was not near the spot.’
At this moment a telegram was put into the Inspector’s hand, which he
read carefully and showed to Ernest.
‘Of course this is strictly confidential,’ he said.
The telegram ran as follows:―
Notes traced, known to have been in the packet forwarded by escort.
Arrest Jones.
‘This gives a clue, of course, but,’ said the official with diplomatic
reserve, ‘we may or may not follow it up. Possibly we may be thrown
out; but eventually I venture to think Mr. Jones will be run into in
the open.’
‘Arrest Jones,’ repeated Mr. Neuchamp. ‘And have you been able to
secure him?’
‘I don’t know whether the police have got hold of him yet,’ said Mr.
Merlin cautiously; ‘but I daresay we shall be able to give an account
of him by and by. If not, he will be the first man who has got clear
off since this goldfield was discovered.’
‘In the meantime you are going out to view the scene of the murder and
the bodies of these poor fellows just as a matter of form and for your
own satisfaction?’
‘Precisely so,’ assented Mr. Merlin; ‘principally as a matter of form.’
‘And Greffham is going with us just for company, like Bright, to make
up the party, I suppose?’ continued Ernest. ‘It is very good-natured of
him, for he told me yesterday that he had some important business
to-day, and that he would not be about the town. But I have always
found him most obliging.’
‘So have I, most obliging, as you say. The fact is, he knows the spot
exactly where these poor fellows must have been met.’
‘But that Jones,’ said Ernest eagerly, ‘what a ruffian! what a
cold-blooded villain he must have been! How I should like to fall
across him. I could cheerfully go to see him hanged.’
‘Perhaps you may have that gratification yet,’ replied Mr. Merlin with
a grim smile. ‘More unlikely things have happened. Hallo! here comes
Greffham.’
The gentleman referred to now sauntered up, accurately turned out in
quite the best boots and breeches which Ernest had seen since he left
England. His hunting scarf was adorned with the regulation Reynard
brooch, and from throat to long-necked, heavy polished spur he was
altogether _point-device_.
He looked a shade paler, probably from the effect of his yesterday’s
long ride, but his smile was as ready, his repartee as incisive, as
ever, while his light-blue eye fell with its usual glance of cold
scrutiny upon the advanced guard of the party.
‘What a fellow you are, Merlin,’ said he, ‘starting at this unearthly
hour. Why didn’t you give a man a chance of a little sleep, who had,
what you never get, a day’s work yesterday?’
‘My dear Greffham,’ replied the Inspector with irresistible urbanity,
‘I was certain that you and Bright would enjoy the fresh morning air
above all things. I know he’s a terribly early riser, and you can wake
when it suits you; so I determined, under the circumstances, upon an
early start.’
‘All right,’ quoth Bright; ‘I don’t care how early you get away. It
can’t be too early for me.’
‘And besides, Greffham,’ said Merlin, ‘you know the short cut to
Running Creek, which not every one can find. I propose to stay the
night at the Ten-Mile Inn, and to make for the scene of the murder next
day.’
‘Come on, then,’ said Greffham harshly; ‘what the devil are we standing
prating for? If you are in such a cursed hurry why don’t you get away
instead of standing here burning daylight?’
‘We were waiting for Markham,’ said Merlin good-humouredly, ‘but I
daresay the old fellow will pull up. Come along, then. I’m awfully
obliged to you for coming, Greffham; I am indeed!’
Mr. Neuchamp had before remarked the extreme readiness of most people
upon the goldfield to accede to any wish expressed by Mr. Merlin, and
he recurred to it for the edification of Mr. Greffham, citing it as an
instance of the very remarkable courtesy of manner which, as he was
never tired of noting, distinguished the inhabitants of the settlement
of Turonia.
Greffham listened in silence to Ernest’s philosophical utterances, and,
lighting a cigar, rode steadily forward. Here Ernest was impressed with
the fact that, as a party, they were unusually well armed, as also well
mounted. The four troopers, one couple of whom rode in front as scouts,
while another pair followed at easy distance, had each a Snider
carbine. A ‘navy’ revolver hung at each man’s belt. Their horses were
uncommonly well bred and in really good condition. Merlin, of course,
never by any chance stirred without his revolver; and he was on his
favourite Arab hackney, Omar Pacha, an indomitable gray, of proverbial
pace and endurance. Mr. Bright had two revolvers, beside a pocket
Derringer, which latter had a trick of going off unexpectedly, and had
once ‘made it hot’ for a friend and brother banker. Greffham was
apparently unarmed, but he never permitted any one to know more than he
wished even in the most trifling matters. He was an ‘ace-of-clubs’ man
with the pistol, and, had duelling been fashionable at Turonia, he
would no doubt have distinguished himself after much the same fashion
as the hard-drinking ‘blazers’ of the Wild West a hundred years agone.
Before they had gone half a dozen miles they were overtaken by a
squarely built man on a bay cob, who interchanged a hasty but hardly
visible signal with Mr. Merlin, and fell into the rear. The newcomer
was a clean-shaved, Saxon-looking person, not very unlike a snug
tradesman. He made an ordinary remark or two to Greffham and then
subsided into obscurity. _He_ also was well armed, and bore himself in
a quietly resolute manner that impressed Mr. Neuchamp much.
The day was hot, the road sandy, and, as it appeared to Ernest, more
tiresome than bush roads of similar nature were apt to be. The
conversation, which had been general and well sustained at first, fell
off gradually, until each man rode silently on, fanning the flies from
his face, and apparently becoming more irritable, hot, and
uncomfortable as the day wore on.
The only exception to this result of the tedious wayfaring was Mr.
Merlin. He apparently did not suffer in temper, spirits, or natural
comfort from the exigencies of the journey. He kept up an even flow of
conversation with Greffham and Bright, albeit the former chiefly
answered in monosyllables, and the latter freely cursed the road, the
day, the flies, and the unwarrantable and misplaced sympathy which had
caused him to accompany the expedition.
But the day drags on, whether the stormy north refuses the traveller
the sight of the sun, or the languid south bestows too much of that
indispensable potentate. The welcome coolness and dim shades of eve had
commenced when the wayside inn was reached, the last roof shelter which
the dead had known, where they had quaffed their last draught and
possibly told their last jest. On the bank of a creek at some few
miles’ distance they had determined to make their camp, preferring it
for some reasons to the inn. And there they had found their last
resting-place.
Ernest remembered noticing the care and completeness which marked the
men’s equipment, their muscular, well set-up figures, their easy seats
as they rode their high-constitutioned, well-bred horses up the street
on the morning of their departure. And now they lay prone and
motionless among the thick withering grass; above them waved the
melancholy, sighing casuarina, from the branches of which croaked the
raven―far-scenting herald of doom, sable watcher by the dead. As he
thought of the manly, pleasant faces he could recall so easily, but of
yesterday, as it seemed, the strongest feelings of wrath and hatred
were stirred within him, and he muttered an imprecation of swift
vengeance upon the head of the cold-blooded assassin Jones, if that
indeed were the name of a wretch unfit to cumber earth. The sad
surroundings, the gloomy tone of Mr. Neuchamp’s thoughts, did not lead
him to decline the respectable meal to which he found himself bidden
along with the gentlemen of the party.
Markham and the troopers occupied another apartment, in which they made
themselves fairly comfortable. The horses were stabled, and, save for
the inevitable death-scene of the morrow, the evening would have passed
not uncheerfully. As it was, however, Mr. Merlin organised whist, and
even encouraged a little quasi-gambling by proposing higher stakes than
usual. The chief result of which was that Mr. Neuchamp, having the
experienced Lionel Greffham for a partner, won more money than he had
lost in many an unsuccessful night in Turonia. In vain did Bright and
Merlin ‘plunge’ by way of recouping their losses. The luck of Mr.
Greffham was altogether too good; and Merlin, about midnight, gave in,
saying, ‘You have the devil’s luck, as usual, Greffham. I wonder how
long it will stick to you.’
‘Who knows?’ answered he indifferently, ringing the bell and ordering
refreshment on a liberal scale. ‘It has held on pretty well so far. It
may turn, though, and then I think I could find a bullet for myself and
a quiet couch.’
‘Really now, my dear Greffham,’ said Merlin, ‘if I did not know you
well, I should think you were threatening what no man of sense ever
puts into practice. But I have seen luck stick to a man until the
actual and inexorable finale. Then he and all the world had to
acknowledge that they had been mistaken―more mistaken―most mistaken―in
their previous calculations and investments. Don’t you think we could
manage another whisky before we turn in? I must have my smoke, anyhow.’
Ernest thought this, for him, unnecessary, and fell back upon
soda-water; but Greffham, apparently, was disinclined for immediate
retirement. He and Merlin sat up long, telling apparently never-ending,
half-forgotten tales, and smoking furiously.
As Mr. Neuchamp, restless and feverish, chose to get up at dawn and
pace the verandah, he saw Markham and Merlin holding colloquy in low
tones, amid which he involuntarily caught the sound, on Markham’s side,
of the words ‘all right.’
Shortly after the sharply disciplined troopers were astir at stable
duty, and at sunrise the whole party were on their way to the fatal
creek.
Bright and himself, Mr. Neuchamp thought, looked the freshest of the
party, having had a few hours of sound sleep. Merlin’s spirits were
high, as on the previous day. Greffham looked if anything more
indifferent, more calm and careless about all earthly concerns, his
fellow-creatures in particular, than usual.
‘It was by this track, round this very clump of pines, that you saw the
men ride off, Greffham?’ said Merlin. ‘It is quite fortunate that you
should be in a position to state your impression at a time which could
not have been many hours before their deaths. How did they look? Do you
think they had been drinking?’
‘Can’t say,’ answered Greffham after a pause, as if trying to recall
the exact circumstances. ‘Carroll was a reserved, sulky-looking beggar,
I always thought; one of those men that you could not tell liquor upon
as long as he could keep his legs. Now I think of it, they did look
rather stupid.’
‘You are quite correct about Carroll, old fellow,’ said Merlin airily;
‘he _was_ reserved and taciturn, a ridiculously unsuitable habit of
mind for a subordinate. Odd thing that nothing has been heard of the
gold or notes.’
‘I suppose whoever took them,’ said Greffham―‘(try one of these cigars,
little Seguadil sent me a box)―whoever took them had sense enough to
conceal them for a while. The gold will turn up eventually.’
‘But not the notes, you think?’ persisted Merlin.
‘Not unless there is something uncommon about them―(this cigar won’t
draw)―numbers taken and so on. If they are the ordinary well-thumbed
paper-promises current at diggings, they will be hardly identifiable.’
‘Very likely you are right. Deuced good cigar that. I wish the little
beggar would send me some of that Amontillado of his; that and his
Manzanares might really have come out of the King of Spain’s cellar, as
he used to aver. But the road improves now, we may as well canter.
Famous horse of yours, Greffham, nothing like him in Turonia.’
‘Why, Merlin,’ said Bright, ‘what a heavenly temper we are in this
morning! Biliary secretions unusually right, I should say!’
‘Of course, Bright, of course; there’s no credit to a jolly, sanguine
fellow like you for being in a good temper. Nature in your case has
done so much that it would be the basest ingratitude if you did not
second her efforts. Now spare fellows, like the elegant Lionel here and
myself, with whom indigestion is more the rule than the exception, only
require to feel free from torment to be in the seventh heaven. But here
we are at the Running Creek. Look at the eagles already gathered.’