And, in the joyous days of youth, the glorious, the immortal, the true, the ever-adorable deity of the soul’s childhood, unheeding, careless of the future, thinking, like charity, no evil, revelling in the purely sensuous enjoyment of the fair present, which of the so-called pleasures of the future can claim equality of richness or flavour, with those of that unsurpassable period of the mysterious human pageant! “Carpe Diem!” oh! fortunate heir of life’s richest treasure-house, is the true, the only true philosophy. Enjoy, while the pulse is high, the vigour of manhood untouched by Time, the spirit unsaddened by distrust of the future.

For you, glows that cloudless azure; for you the streams murmur, the breezes sigh, the good horse bounds freely over the elastic sward; for you shine the eyes of the beauteous maiden with a fore-taste of the divine dream of love. Thank the kind gods, that have provided so bounteous a feast of soul and sense! Oh! happy thou, that art bidden to such a banquet of the immortals; quaff the ambrosia, while the light still glows on Olympus, and Nemesis is as yet an unimagined terror.

In the days which were to come, in the destiny which the Fates were even then weaving for him, Valentine Blount told himself that never in his whole life had so many conditions of perfect enjoyment been combined as in that memorable riding party.

The sun rays prophetic of an early summer, for which the men of a thousand shearing sheds were even now mustering, were warm, yet tempered by the altitude of the region and the proximity of the snow fields. All nature seemed to recognise the voice of spring. The birds came forth from their leafy coverts, their wild but not unmusical notes sounding strangely unfamiliar to the English stranger. An occasional kangaroo dashed across their path, flying with tremendous bounds to its home on the mountain side. A lot of half-wild cattle stood gazing for a few moments, then “cleared,” as Miss Imogen expressed it, for more secluded regions.

“I wonder if I could ‘wheel’ them,” she said, as her bright glance followed the receding drove; “I see Ned and Paddy on the other wing; Mr. Blount, you can follow, but don’t pass me, whatever you do;” and in spite of Mrs. Bruce’s prudential “Oh! Imogen, don’t be rash!” away went the wilful damsel, through the thickening timber, at a pace with which the visitor, excellently mounted as he was, on a trained stock-horse, found it no easy task to keep up. Directly this enterprising movement on the part of the young lady was observed by the watchful Paddy, he called to Mr. Bruce, “Miss Immy wheel ’em, my word. Marmy! you man’em this one piccanniny yarraman, me ‘back up.’” Paddy’s old stock horse dashed off at speed, little inferior to that of the young lady’s thoroughbred, and appeared on the “off side wing” just as the fair Diana had wheeled (or turned) the leaders to the right. Paddy riding up to them on the left and menacing with his stockwhip, caused them to turn towards Imogen. This manoeuvre persevered with, was finally crowned with success; inasmuch as the two protagonists, working together and causing the drove to “ring” or keep moving in a circle, finally persuaded them to stop and be examined, when with heaving flanks they bore testimony to the severity of the pace.

Mrs. Bruce, with instinctive knowledge of the points of the situation, had kept quietly behind her guest, who so far from passing his fair pilot, found that it gave him enough to do to keep sight of her.

He did service however, if unconsciously, by keeping at a certain distance behind Imogen, which prevented the cattle from “breaking” or running back behind her. Mrs. Bruce had ridden quietly behind the rear guard, or “tail” (as provincially expressed), and as Mr. Bruce, though hampered with the cob, which he had caught and led along, kept his place between Mrs. Bruce and Paddy, the disposition was theoretically perfect, also successful, which in battles as well as in the lesser pursuits of the world is the great matter, after all.

“Upon my word, Imogen!” said Mr. Bruce, “you have given us a pretty gallop, and as these bullocks are fat, it can’t have done them much good. However,” riding round as he spoke, “it gives me a chance to look through them, and, Hulloa! By Jove! it’s as well I came here to-day, somebody has put a fresh brand on that black snail-horned bullock, J. C. just over the E. H. B.; I never sold that beast, I swear! And who the dickens has put those two letters on? Been done in a pen. You can see it’s put on from above.”

“Me see um fresh brand on one feller cow,” stated Paddy, with gravity and deliberation; “me thinkum might ‘duff’ bullock alonga Wild Horse Gully, me seeum track shod horse that one day marmy shootem brumbie.”

“All right, Paddy,” said his master, “you lookem out track nother one day.”

“My word!” replied Paddy, “me track um up jolly quick.”

Mr. Bruce seemed disconcerted by the discovery just made. It was not unimportant. He had suspected that he was losing cattle at this “end of the run,” among the ranges and broken country. He had not too good an opinion of the honesty of the small parties of miners who worked the gullies and creeks which led to the river. He supposed that they got a beast now and then, but was loath to believe that there was any organised system of plunder. Now, it was as plain as print that cattle were yarded in small numbers and branded, before they were delivered to the buyers, whoever they were. How many had been taken he could hardly venture to guess at. Cattle being worth from eight to twelve pounds a head, it would not take so many to be worth a thousand pounds. It made him look grave, as he said—

“I’m afraid, after this pleasant ride of ours, that it’s time for these ladies to get home. It will be past lunch-time when they sight Marondah, and Mrs. Bruce has family responsibilities, you know. However, I’ll send Paddy on with you till he puts you on a track which will lead to your destination.”

Mr. Blount was profuse in thanks, and exhausted himself in statements that he had never enjoyed himself so much in his life, and had a glorious gallop into the bargain; that it had given him quite a new idea of Australia, that he had been slow to believe the romantic tales he had heard about Australian bush-riders and their cross-country work. He was now in a position to confirm any such statement made, and to declare that Australian ladies, in science, coolness and courage, were equal to any horsewomen in any country in the world. He should never forget the hospitality he had received, nor the lessons in bushmanship. He trusted to revisit Marondah again before long, when he might, perhaps, be permitted to taste a more leisurely enjoyment of their fascinating country life.

Dismounting, he took leave of the ladies, assuring Mrs. Bruce that he should never forget her kindness and that of Mr. Bruce. If he was less diffuse in his explanations to Miss Imogen, it may have been that there was a warmth of his final hand-clasp, or an expression as their eyes met, before she turned her horse’s head and rejoined her friends, which was comparatively satisfactory.

The return stage was short, as Blount did not desire to take the hawk-eyed aboriginal too near the claim, much less within tracking distance of the stockyard. The fresh tracks of the unwilling cattle, forced into a strange and small enclosure, would be like a placard in large letters to the wildwood scout. Hence, as soon as he had land-marks to guide him, he dismissed his Hiberno-Australian attendant, who handed over the cob and departed with a cheerful countenance and a couple of half-crowns.

Left to himself, Mr. Blount rode slowly and heedfully along what he conceived to be the way to the claim, much exercised in his mind as to his line of conduct.

Putting together various incidents and unconsidered trifles, the conviction flashed across his mind that he had been involuntarily an associate of cattle-stealers, and it might well be believed an accomplice.

What position would be his if the whole gang were arrested, and he himself included in the capture? Could it be, during that ride with Little-River-Jack, that he had assisted to drive certain fat cattle afterwards sworn to be the property of Mr. Bruce of Marondah, and bearing his well-known brand “E. H. B.”? Could he deny that he had heard cattle put into the stockyard near the “Lady Julia” claim late in the evening, by John Carter (alias “Little-River-Jack”), and taken away before daylight?

He had received his share of the money for which the gold won in the claim where he had worked was sold, or said to be sold. How could he prove that it was not a part of the price of the stolen cattle? And so on. He felt like many another man innocent of evil, or thought of evil, that, with absurd credulity, and want of reasonable prudence, he had, to a certain degree, enmeshed himself—might, indeed, find it difficult, if not impossible, to get free from the consequences of a false accusation.

Perhaps it might have been his duty, in the interests of justice, to have acquainted Mr. Bruce with the circumstances of his sojourn at the claim with the O’Haras and Dixon (otherwise Lanky); also of the suspicious cattle-dealing. This would have simply amounted to “giving away” the men whose bread he was eating, and who were, however unfortunate the position, his “mates” and comrades. Mr. Bruce would, naturally, lose no time in setting the police to work. Then, Little-River-Jack had certainly saved his life on the “Razor-Back” ridge; another second or two and the cob with his rider would have been lying among the rocks below. One such accident did happen there, when man and horse went over, and were found dead and mangled. As for the two O’Haras and George Dixon, he had no sort of doubt now of their being mixed up with the taking of Mr. Bruce’s cattle—possibly of those of other squatters in his neighbourhood. Of the men who brought the cattle to the yard, he, of course, had no knowledge, and could have none. In the half-darkness of the winter dawn he could only dimly discern a couple of horsemen, one of whom appeared to ride on with Jack Carter, the other returning.

He was glad now that he had not seen them near enough for identification. He was close to the claim now, having hit upon the track, which he remembered was only a few miles distant.

What was he to say to his late companions, and what would be their feelings towards him, if they heard of the police being after them so soon after his trip down the river? Would they be persuaded that he had not betrayed, or at any rate attracted suspicion towards them, which came to the same thing?

He was in their power, he could not but feel that. What chance could he have against three determined men, with perhaps as many more who might be members of the outside gang, the men who were heard, but not seen, for now he remembered to have heard the lowing of driven cattle more than once, and the guarded voices of drovers. There was, of course only one thing to do. He must face the position squarely and tell the truth, whatever might be the consequences. He would warn them that Mr. Bruce suspected the miners in the locality of being in league with cattle-stealers, who were selling his fat cattle to the butchers on the smaller diggings, of which there were not a few between the heads of the rivers and the foothills of the mountain range. They knew Mr. Bruce, a determined, fearless man, who would show them no mercy. They had better “clear,” to use one of their own expressions, before the pursuit was too hot.

Revolving these thoughts in his mind, he rode briskly on. He had remounted the cob, now very fresh, and led the borrowed horse, who, as he thought, deserved all reasonable consideration. When within half a mile of the camp he saw a man walking along the track towards him. It was Phelim O’Hara, the big miner, whom he had always admired as a fine specimen of an Australian. He was a good-natured giant, possessing also a large share of the rollicking, reckless humour which is the heritage of the Milesian Celt. Phelim was a native-born Australian, however, and on occasion could be sufficiently stern, not to say savage. Now he did not look so pleasant as usual.

“Safe home, Mr. Blount,” he said. “I see you’ve found that cob of yours, bad cess to him! I’ve lost a day through him, and maybe more than that. But I’m dealin’ with a gentleman, lucky for all consarned.”

“I hope so, Phelim,” said the Englishman; “but what’s the matter, the camp seems deserted?”

“The meaning’s this, Mr. Blount.” Here his voice became rough, if not menacing. “The police are after us. There’s some yarn got up about Little-River-Jack and us duffing cattle and selling them on the small diggings. Pat and Lanky have cleared. I stayed behind to get this horse of mine and give you the office. There’s some says you gave us away to Mr. Bruce, and we know what he is when he thinks he’s being robbed.”

“I’ve heard your story, Phelim, now for mine. I met Mr. Bruce, who’d been shooting wild horses. He asked me what I was doing on his run—he spoke rather shortly. I told him I was looking for my cob, and that I believed it was Crown land, open to all. He then asked me to describe the cob, and telling me it was in his paddock, invited me to stay at Marondah all night, where I was most hospitably treated. He proposed to ride part of the way back with me, and for Mrs. Bruce and his sister-in-law to accompany us.”

“That’s Miss Imogen,” said O’Hara. “Isn’t she the beauty of the world? And ride! There isn’t a stockrider from this to Omeo that she couldn’t lose in mountain country. Mrs. Bruce rides well too, I’m told.”

“Yes, indeed; we rounded up a mob of cattle. Miss Imogen ‘wheeled’ them at the start. Black Paddy, who had been brought to lead the cob, was on the other wing. After that they began to ‘ring,’ and stopped. Then Mr. Bruce, looking through them, unfortunately saw one of the ‘E. H. B.’ bullocks with a strange brand newly put on. ‘That bullock’s been yarded,’ he said, ‘and the brand “J. C.” has been put on in a crush.’ I said nothing. Paddy came with me as far as the cattle track, by the creek that leads to the claim. I remembered that. Then he gave me the cob, and I came on. Now you have the whole story. I did not say where I had come from, nor did Mr. Bruce question me. Of course I put two and two together about the fat cattle. But I said nothing. I have eaten your salt, and Little-River-Jack certainly saved my life.”

“Then you didn’t give us away,” said O’Hara, “or say where we was camped, or tell our names? O’Hara’s not a good one, more’s the pity,” and here the big mountaineer looked regretful, even repentant over the past.

“No! not by a word. As luck would have it, Mr. Bruce did not ask me where or with whom I had been living.”

“And what brought you back here? Wouldn’t it have been easy enough to clear away down the river, and get shut of us, for good and all?”

“Easy enough, and to have gone down river by steamer. But I wanted to warn you in time. I knew Mr. Bruce suspected that there were diggers hereabouts that knew about the fat cattle he missed. So I came to give you fair warning. Where are the others?”

“They’ve cleared out. I don’t think they’ll be seen in a hurry, this side anyhow. They’ve packed all they wanted, and sent word to some of their pals to come and collar the rest. They can’t be pulled for that. There’s a few ounces of gold coming to you, and the ‘clean up’ was the best we’ve had. Here it is.” And suiting the action to the word, he pulled out from a leather pouch a wash-leather bag which, for its size, felt heavy.

“Keep it, Phelim, I won’t take a penny of it. I learned a good deal while I was with you, and shall always be pleased to think that I worked with men, and could hold my own among them.”

“You’re a gentleman, sir, and we’ll always uphold you as one, no matter what happens to us. We’re not bad chaps in our way, though things has gone against us. What’ll you do now? Camp here to-night? No? Then I’ll ride with you past ‘Razor Back’; you’ll have light then and the road’s under your feet. You’d better take my horse till we pass ‘Razor Back.’ He won’t boggle at it if it was twice as narrow.”

It did not take long to pack all that was strictly necessary, which alone Mr. Blount decided to take with him. After which O’Hara boiled the billy, and produced a decent meal, which Mr. Blount, having tasted nothing since breakfast, did justice to. No time was lost then, and O’Hara leading off with the cob started at a canter, with which Blount on his horse found no difficulty in keeping up. The contract was performed, they safely negotiated the perilous pass, the mountain horse treading as securely and safely as on a macadamised high road, and the cob going very differently with a different rider. He was then bestridden by his lawful owner, who prepared to make good time into Bunjil. The moon was rising, when the men—so strangely met, and associated—parted. Blount held out his hand, which the other grasped with unconsciously crushing force. Then the mountaineer quitted the road, and plunging down the steep into the darksome forest, disappeared from sight.

Bunjil township was reached before midnight. There had been the local excitement of an improvised race meeting, the head prize being a bridle and saddle; the Consolation Stakes boasted a silver-mounted whip, generously presented by the respected host of the Bunjil Hotel. So that Mr. Blount, whose train of thought for the last hour or two wavered between encouragement and depression, as he dreaded the inn being shut, the ostler asleep, the fire out and the girl gone to bed, felt reassured as he heard voices and saw lights, indicative of cheery wakefulness. By good luck, too, the best bedroom and the parlour were unoccupied. Sheila promised a fire in the latter apartment and tea ready in less than no time. The ostler took the cob to a loose box, just vacated, while Mr. Blount having deposited his “swag” in the bedroom and made all ready for a solid meal, and a royal toasting of his person before the fire of logs, felt quite a glow of happiness.

On re-entering the parlour he was warmly welcomed by Sheila, who indeed was so unaffectedly cordial in hailing his safe return, that the guest concluded that there must have been reason for conjecturing that the reverse might have occurred.

As she greeted him with natural unstudied welcome, he could not resist taking both her hands in his, and shaking them with a warmth corresponding with her feeling of gratitude at his safe return from apparently unknown and mysterious dangers. The girl blushed and disengaged her hands, but showed no discomposure as she said, “We didn’t know but something might have happened to you, out in that wild place, and Little-River-Jack said you had a narrow escape on ‘Razor Back,’ as your cob got frightened and might have gone over the downfall like Paddy Farrell. Then Dick came along, he sold out his share to you, didn’t he? And he got on the spree for a day or two and let out a few things that he’d better have kept to himself. So taking it altogether, we’re all glad, Mr. Middleton, the missis, and me too, that you’re back safe and sound.”

While the latter part of this dialogue was proceeding, Mr. Blount had seated himself at the table with his back to the fire, and made a frontal attack upon a broiled steak flanked by a dish of floury potatoes, which told of the sharpening effect on the appetite of a long day in the saddle, and the stimulation of a night journey with two degrees of frost.

“You had better take away these dishes, Sheila, or I shall never stop eating. I think, however, that I can hold out till breakfast, now we have got so far.”

About this time the landlord appeared, blandly apologetic for delay, but pleading the necessity for being in the bar while there were so many “gents” round anxious to go home on good terms with themselves.

“More likely to run against a fence, or the bough of a tree,” said Sheila, who had now rejoined the party, “that’s the sort of ‘good terms with themselves,’ that’s the fashion, Bunjil way. I wonder there’s not more legs and arms broken than there are.”

“Why, it’s a good month since you left us, Mr. Blount,” said the landlord, cheerily unheeding the maid’s moral reflections. “The Sergeant was here a day or two back, and asked after you—Little-River-Jack came last week, and talked of going away unless things mended. He billed Stubbins for a quarter of beef he owed him, and they had a row, and got to fighting over it.”

“How did that come off?” queried the guest, dallying with his second cup of tea, and a plate of buttered toast. “Jack’s rather a light weight.”

“So he is—but he can use his hands, and he’s that active he takes a lot of beating. Well, the butcher at Green Point is a couple of stone heavier, and fancies himself a bit. He says, ‘You’d better summon me, Jack!’ We all knew what that meant.”

“You’re takin’ a mean advantage,” says Jack, “it’s a cowardly thing to do. But I’ll tell you what, if you’re man enough, I’ll fight you for it—it’s a matter of four notes—five and twenty shillings a hundred—are you on?”

“All right!” says the Green Point chap; “so they stripped to it, and had a regular ding-dong go in. The butcher seemed to have the best of it at first, but Jack wore him out, hittin’ and gettin’ away, and dancin’ round him—all them tricks. At last he bunged up his eyes and nearly blinded him, they say. Then Jack went in and finished him; what with loss of wind, and the punishment he got, the butcher was clean knocked out afore the tenth round. So he didn’t come to time, and the referee gave it against him. Jack got the four notes and cleared—the butcher paid up honourable—but he couldn’t show outside the shop for a fortnight afterwards.”

“A capital stand-up fight, I’m sure. I should like to have been there to see it. And now, I think I’ll turn in. I’m a bit tired, and dead sleepy. Good-night, Mr. Middleton, good-night, Sheila! I’ll have breakfast at nine o’clock, please, bacon and eggs is my present fancy. I’ll stay in Bunjil a few days and loaf for a change.”

If there is anything in life more conducive to happiness than waking at dawn in the country, assured of comfort, free from anxiety and relieved from duty, few people have experienced it.

And nowhere can the rare luxury of the conditions be more fully savoured than in Australia. Mr. Blount was firmly of this opinion, as in virtue of his late habitudes, the birds’ wild melody awoke him, as the first dawnlight tinged the grey, reluctant East.

However, on reflection he decided to take another hour’s repose, while all things were favourable to such indulgence.

Then, between sleeping and waking, he dozed deliciously until half-past seven, when he sallied forth, towel in hand, to the creek bank. In the garden was a rude, but competent bath-house, from which he was enabled to plunge into the ice-cold stream.

Truth to tell, he did not make a lengthened stay therein, the mercury being little, if anything, above freezing point, but devoted himself to a complete and conscientious scrubbing with the rough towel, at the conclusion of which, he found that a delicious glow had rewarded his efforts, and the praiseworthy self-denial of the cold-colder-coldest bath he had taken as a daily custom, ever since he could remember. It is the after taste, which, as in other matters, is so truly luxurious.

Running back to the house, he saw that his expectation of a full-sized, first-class fire in the breakfast room had been realised. After warming himself at this, he attacked the serious business of dressing for the day, which he pursued with such diligence that he was ready for the bacon and eggs, before referred to, as nearly as possible at the appropriate hour.

“Got you a good fire, you see,” remarked Sheila, who, smiling and rosy as the morn, stood in attendance. “Hope you slept well. My word! we got an awful start, didn’t know what was going to happen, when Senior Constable Moore came here the day before yesterday to get warrants for Little-River-Jack (alias John Carter), Phelim O’Hara, his brother Patrick, and also a man working in the claim, known as Jack Blunt, and one ‘Tumberumba Dick.’ Asked me and Mr. Middleton a lot of questions.”

“And what did you say?”

“We didn’t know much, or say much either, if it comes to that. Yes! knew that Little-River-Jack passed through here now and again. Where he went to—couldn’t say—hadn’t seen him lately. Heard the O’Haras were working miners from Queensland or Gippsland—only seen them once. Tumberumba Dick stayed a day or two here last week, and got on the spree rather. Said he’d sold his share to Jack Blunt, and was clearing out for West Australia. Little-River-Jack was a butcher, and supplied the small diggings.”

“What did they ask about Jack Blunt, eh?”

“Oh! a lot. What was he like?—how was he dressed?”

“Tall and dark” (I said), “not bad-looking.” Here Mr. Blount bowed. “Dressed like any other gentleman travelling for pleasure. Rough tweed suit and leggings. Left a few things here. Went away a month ago, with Little-River-Jack.”

“What for—did he say?” the Senior Constable asked.

“Yes! he talked quite free and open. Said he wanted to see the country—what gold-diggings were like, and all that. Jack promised to show him a regular mountain claim—the ‘Lady Julia.’ Tumberumba Dick when he came by, said ‘he’d sold his share to him for £20. He was full up of mountain claims, was clearing out for West Australia, where there were big rises to be made.’”

“Why didn’t they serve warrants, then?”

“The Senior Constable had a long talk with our old Sergeant—he’s retired now, but everybody puts great faith in him.”

“Did you hear what he said?”

“No—but it came out that the Sergeant told him to be careful about arresting men on suspicion—there was no direct evidence (those were the words) against any of the men named. Nobody could swear to their having been seen taking or branding cattle. Those who knew the O’Haras spoke of them as hardworking diggers—who sold their gold to Little-River-Jack or got him to sell it for them. As for Jack Blunt they said—” here the speaker hesitated.

“Well, what did they say about him?”

“I hardly like to tell you, sir.”

“Oh! come, out with it. What does it matter?”

“Well, sir”—the girl smiled mischievously—“they said—(that is Tumberumba Dick told some one, who told some one else), that you were a harmless ‘New Chum,’ that hardly knew a cow from a calf, and couldn’t have ‘duffed’ a bullock off a range, if you’d tried for a year.”

“Very complimentary indeed, I must say. So everybody’s honest in this country who can’t ride—eh?”

“Well, yes, sir—about cattle; with sheep it’s different.”

“I see—never struck me before. I’m glad my honesty is undoubted in a cattle district, because I can’t gallop down a range. They don’t fine or imprison for bad riding, I suppose—yet. And so you stood up for me, Sheila, didn’t you?”

“How did you know that, sir?”

“Why, of course you did. I knew you would because we’ve always been friends. Besides, I saw you looking after me warningly the day I went away with Jack Carter.”

“I know I did,” said the girl, impetuously. “I had a great mind to say all I knew, and tell you to have nothing to do with him or his mates.”

“And why didn’t you?”

“Well, you were so set upon going, and it wasn’t for a girl like me to advise a gentleman of your sort.”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t. Every one is as good as any one else in Australia. So the papers say, at any rate.”

“Nothing of the sort. A gentleman is a gentleman, and a servant girl a servant in Australia; all over the world, if it comes to that. I don’t hold with this democratic rot. All the same, there’s nothing to prevent you and me having a talk now and then, as long as we keep our places.”

“I should think not,” he rejoined, “and though I might have got into a serious difficulty through Carter’s introductions, I’m not sorry, on the whole, that I went with him, the experience was most interesting.”

“That means you saw somebody. Who was she, I wonder? Men are all alike, gentle and simple. I believe I could give a guess, as we heard you went down the river.”

To this day Blount declares that he never enjoyed a better meal; he certainly never had a better appetite. And as the sun rising higher in the heavens irradiated the meadows, the hurrying water of the creek, the brilliant green of the opening buds of the great elms and poplars that fringed that streamlet, he admitted that the landscape was almost worthy of the memorable meal.

After a leisurely assimilation of the journals of the day, and a smoke in the verandah, he ordered the cob to be brought round, being of opinion that gentle exercise would be advantageous to his legs, which the last day’s work might have tried unfairly. They certainly had puffed, but there was no sign of lameness, and his owner decided that daily exercise would meet the complaint. Hearing that the Sergeant was at home he resolved to look up that gallant officer, and gather from him what rumour had asserted as to Little-River-Jack, the O’Haras, Mr. Bruce, and lastly himself, if rumours there were.

He found the ex-guardian of the peace, and, so to speak, warden of the marches, weeding his garden, a trim, well-ordered plot, which, like the remainder of his little property, was a standing object lesson to the surrounding homesteads. Putting down his hoe, the veteran advanced with an air of great cordiality, and welcomed him.

“Sae you have won back frae the Debatable Land, as they ca’ed Nicol Forest in my youth. There have been wars, and rumours o’ wars, but the week past; warrants to be issued for Phelim and Patrick O’Hara, and one Little-River-Jack (went by the name of John Carter), forbye ‘Tumberumba Dick,’ and a man known as Jack Blunt (alias Valentine Blount) seen in company with the above on the 20th of August last. Ay! it was openly said, and I was lookin’ to see you arrive, maybe with the bracelets on. What think ye of that?”

“That I should have had good cause of action for false imprisonment,” answered the tourist. “But why didn’t they issue the warrants?”

“Maybe they were no that sure aboot the evidence. There’s neecessity, ye ken, that there should be full and aample proof in thae ‘duffing’ cases, as the country people ca’ them. A bush jury winna convict as lang’s there a link short o’ the Crown Prosecutor’s chain o’ evidence.”

“And was there? I feel personally much obliged to the Department of Justice for their scruples, which do them honour.”

“Weel, ye ken, though Mr. Bruce o’ Marondah deposed on aith that he saw an E.H.B. bullock, his property, with a J.C. brand put freshly on, there was nae witness who saw John Carter or any ither carle do it or the like. He missed cattle, sure enough, and Black Paddy led him and two troopers to a deserted claim known as the ‘Lady Julia,’ near which was a stockyaird wi’ fresh cattle tracks baith in and oot. They didna gang in their lane. A’body kens that. But wha saw them gang in or gang oot? Strong presumption, clear circumstantial evidence, but next to nae proof. Sae the airm of the law was stayed—a great peety, wasna it?”

“Really, it seems like it. Fine paragraphs, lost to the local press. Capture of cattle-stealers, a leading butcher implicated. A gentleman lately from England arrested. Damages laid by him for false imprisonment at £10,000. Really, I might have bought a station with the money, and been rich and respected. Many a big squatter, Dick told me, had begun that way, but he had stolen the cattle or sheep, and served sentence for it, before he turned his talents to better purpose.”

“Dick’s no to lippen to,” replied the Sergeant, “nor nane o’ thae kind o’ folk. They’ll tell lees by the bushel, gin ye stay to believe them. When a’s said and done, laddie, ye’re well oot o’ it. Ye’ll maybe tak’ heed o’ chance companions anither time.”

“Very possibly, Sergeant. It does appear as if I had been a trifle imprudent. I must curb my spirit of adventure, which has led me astray before now. I nearly got shot in Spain through joining a band of smugglers, they were such joyous dogs; and Manuela—ah! what eyes! what a figure! It was rash, no doubt, I must ask for references, another time. Ha! Ha!”

Mr. Blount treated the escape which he perceived he had narrowly missed of being hauled before the bar of justice, with apparent levity, but in his own mind, he was conscious that affairs might have taken a permanently disagreeable turn, and seriously compromised him socially, however it ended. What would the Bruce family think of him? What could Imogen believe? Either that he shared the ill-gotten gains of the O’Haras and their associates, or that he was so inconceivably dense, and unsuspicious that any amount of dishonesty might go on before his face, without his being aware of it. On either assumption, he was between the horns of a dilemma. Adjudged guilty of folly, or dishonesty. His vexation was extreme. However, he exhibited no outward signs of remorse, and concluded his visit by thanking the Sergeant for his information, and begging him to join him at dinner if he had no lingering suspicion of his moral character.

“Na! na! I’d pit ma haill trust in thee, if matters luikit as black again. The glint in thae grey ’een werena given thee for naught; we’ll hae mair cracks before a’s said and done; the spring’s to be airly, I’m thinking.”

The season was more advanced than when Blount first entered Bunjil, the warmer weather had made it apparent that “the year had turned.” The meadow grasses had grown and burgeoned, the English trees always planted near the older settlements in Australia, many of them the growth of half a century, were nearly full leaved, putting to shame with their brilliant colouring, and opulent shade, the duller hues of the primeval forest. The water-fowl in flocks flew and dived and swam in the great lagoons, which marked the ancient course of the river. The cattle and horses browsing in the lanes and vacant spaces, were sleek of skin, and fair to behold. All nature spoke of abundance of pasture. In this fertile valley there was no hint of the scarcity, which once, at any rate, within the recollection of men then living had been known to overspread the land: when this very spot, now running over with plenteousness, the vine, the olive, the fig, peaches, and plums, apples, and pears, in full leaf and promise of fruit, was bare and adust, the creek even dry, between the great water-holes, for half a mile at a stretch.

Mr. Blount on returning from his ride found a large assortment of letters and newspapers awaiting him. Among them was a telegram marked Urgent. This bore the postmark of a neighbouring colony and had been forwarded by private messenger, at some expense. Thus ran the magic message:—“Hobart, 20th. Come over at once. No delay. Great news. Credit unlimited, Imperial Bank, Melbourne.”

Walking straight into his bedroom, he threw the letters on to the counterpane of his bed, and drawing forward a chair, proceeded to open his correspondence seriatim. After noting date and signature, he returned the greater portion of them to their envelopes, postponing fuller examination to a more convenient season. The last two, which bore the postmark of the nearest post-office to Marondah, he retained. Of its name he was aware, having heard the ladies asking that the post-bag should be delayed for a few minutes on account of their unfinished letters.

He did not linger over the first, addressed in a strong, clear, masculine hand. There was no difficulty in mastering its tone and tenor.

“Sir,—I feel justly indignant that I should have extended hospitality to a person who, while assuming the outward appearance of a gentleman, has proved by his conduct to be unworthy of recognition as such.

“As an associate of the O’Hara brothers and two others, who, under pretence of mining, have in concert with a well-known gang of cattle stealers, preyed on my herd and those of neighbouring stations, for the last two years, you have laid yourself open to grave suspicion. I cannot be expected to believe that you were, although a new arrival, so unsuspicious as to have no knowledge of their dishonest ways. In a stockyard near the claim, branding as well as concealment of stolen cattle had been carried on.

“You were present when I pointed out my E. H. B. bullock, on which a new brand had been recently placed. You knew that I suspected dishonesty in that neighbourhood. Was it not your plain duty to have informed me of any suspicious proceedings? Not only did you fail to do so, but, while accepting my hospitality, you suppressed the fact of your living as a mining mate with the O’Hara brothers, and other suspicious characters, as well as that the notorious ‘Little-River-Jack’ was a member of the same precious company. I believe that warrants have been applied for at the instance of one of my neighbours. Should you find that you are included in the arrest, you will only have yourself to thank for incredible folly, or criminal carelessness, as to the distinction between meum and tuum.

“Very faithfully, indeed,” quoth the recipient of this plain-spoken epistle. “Under the circumstances I don’t wonder at the wrath of this Squire of the South. It is but too natural. Fancy a game-preserving English country gentleman, discovering that a recent guest, free of croquet and morning walks with his charming wife and daughters, had been sojourning with poachers—partaking, peradventure, of his host’s own stolen pheasants! ‘Six months’ hard’ would have been the least, and lightest penalty, that he would have dropped in for, and but for having a friend or two at court, or out of it, Valentine Blount, late of Her Majesty’s F.O., by courtesy the Honourable, and so forth, might have ‘done time’ for the heinous offence of having concealed on his person certain beefsteaks and portions of the ‘undercut’ for the possession of which he could give no reasonable account—moreover defied the peace officer to take them from him. This of course is bordering upon a joke, and a very keen jest it was like to have been. Maybe yet, for all I know. What d—d fools men are sometimes! This I take to be a feminine superscription—the contents less logical, and perhaps—perhaps only—more emotional, and less lenient of sentence. I wonder what Mrs. Bruce and the fair Imogen think of the agreeable stranger (I have been thus described, ere now), who tarried within their gates. I feel distinctly nervous, however.”

Here Mr. Blount carefully opened the envelope, and was slightly reassured by the “Dear Mr. Blount” which introduced the subject-matter.

“We are afraid, Imogen and I, that Edward has written you an extremely disagreeable, not to say threatening letter. He was furiously angry, would hear neither reason nor explanation, when the O’Hara stockyard mystery was unveiled. You must confess that explanation was difficult, not to say embarrassing for your friends. We are certain that there has been some great mistake which needs clearing up without delay. It will never do for you to lie under this accusation—false as we believe it to be—of living with dishonest people, and with the knowledge of their malpractices; of course, you may not know that no men are more artful in hiding their true characters than our bush cattle and horse thieves (or ‘duffers’) to use a vulgar expression. They are not coarse ruffians—on the contrary very well-mannered, hospitable, even polite, when compared with the labourers of other lands; good-natured, and most obliging, outside of their ‘profession.’ Indeed I heard a story from a nice old priest, that visited our station, when I was a girl, which explains much. A bushman was dilating on the noble qualities of a comrade. ‘Jack’s the best-hearted chap going; good-natured? why, he’d lend you his best horse, if you was stuck for one on the road. If he hadn’t a horse handy, why, he’d shake one for you, rather than let you leave the place afoot!’ Of course the situation looks bad, on the face of it, but Imogen and I will never believe anything against your honour. You have a friend at court, perhaps two.” Besides this—there was a tiny scrap inside the envelope, apparently pushed in after the letter had been closed.

“Don’t believe you knew anything.—Imogen.”

Mr. Blount read this soothing epistle twice over and put away the scrap in his pocket-book very carefully. Having done this, he sat down and wrote hard until summoned to lunch, after which he packed up carefully all his belongings, leaving out only such as might be wanted for an early morning start. He was more grave than usual at that comfortable meal, and it was with an effort that he replied to Sheila’s query whether he’d received bad news.

“Not bad, no! only important, which comes almost to the same thing. You have to think over plans and make up your mind, perhaps, to start off at a moment’s warning, which is always distressing.”

“Oh! nonsense,” said Sheila, who seemed in better spirits than usual. “I often wish I were a man; how I would wire in when there was anything to do, even if it was only half good. Men do too much thinking, I believe. If they’d only ride hard at the fence, whatever it is, they’d get over, or through it, and have a clear run for their money.”

“But suppose they came a cropper and broke a leg, an arm, or their neck, as I see one of your steeplechase riders did at Flemington the other day, what then?”

“Oh! a man must die some time,” replied the cheerful damsel, who looked indeed the personification of high health, abounding spirits, and as much courage as can be shown by a woman without indiscretion, “and you get through nine times out of ten: the great thing is to go at it straight. ‘Kindness in another’s woes, courage in your own,’ that’s what Gordon says.”

“Who is Gordon, may I ask?”

“Why, Adam Lindsay, of course, our Australian poet. Haven’t you heard of him? I thought everybody had.”

“And do you read him?”

“Yes. Every Australian man, woman, and child, if they’re old enough, knows him by heart.”

“I think I’ve caught the name. Was he born here?”

“Is he dead? Perhaps you’ve heard of Mark Twain?” said Sheila scornfully, who seemed to be in rather a reckless humour. “Well! he is. No! he was not born here, more’s the pity, for he knows us cornstalks better than we know ourselves. He was the son of a British officer, the family’s Scotch. I’m half Scotch, that’s partly why I am so proud of him. But it would have been all the same whatever country owned him. I find my tongue’s running away with me, as usual—the unruly member, as the Bible says. But you take my tip, Mr. Blount, ‘never change your mind when you pick your panel’ (that’s Gordon again), it’s the real straight griffin, with horse or man.”

“This is a wonderful country, and you’re a wonderful young woman. I haven’t time to analyse you, just now, for my affairs, which I had intended to treat to a short holiday, are conspiring to hurry me up. At what hour can I leave in the morning?”

“To-morrow?” said the girl, and her face changed. “You don’t mean to say you’re going away to-morrow?”

“Sorry to say I must; you saw that I got a telegram, and if I don’t clear, as your people say, I may lose thousands, perhaps a fortune.”

“The coach goes at six, sharp; and gets to the railway-station at the same hour the next morning. You’d like breakfast first, I suppose?”

“It’s too early to ask you to have it ready—anything will do.”

“Oh! I daresay. You’ve had some decent meals here, haven’t you?”

“Never better in my life.”

“Well, you’ll go away to-morrow, fit and ready for as long a day’s work as ever you did. It’s almost a pity you’re having the Sergeant to dine. However, he’ll not stay late. I’ll send over and take your coach tickets. You’d better have everything packed and ready this afternoon. Cobb and Co. wait for nothing and nobody.”

“There’s no doubt (Mr. Blount told himself) that the conditions of life in Her Majesty’s colonies tend to the development of the individual with a completeness undreamed of in our narrow and perhaps slightly prejudiced insular life. What a difference there is between this young woman and a girl of her rank of life in any part of Britain. What energy, intelligence, organising power she has; I feel certain that she could rally a wavering regiment on a pinch, drive a coach, ride a race, or swim a river, in fact do all sorts of things, as well as, ay, better than, the ordinary man. This is going to be a great country, and the Australians a great people—arts of war and peace, and so on. How good-looking she is, too,” concluding his reflections with this profound observation, which showed that in spite of his subjective turn of mind, the primary emotions still held sway.

Mr. Blount betook himself to his packing with such concentration, that by the time he had finished his letters, nothing remained of his impedimenta, but such as could be easily carried out and packed in the coach, while he was finishing a distinctly early breakfast.

These said letters required much thought and preparation, it would appear. First there was a vitally necessary answer to Mr. Bruce’s warlike communication. To this he concluded to reply as follows:

“Dear Sir,—While fully admitting that appearances are against me, I think that you might with propriety have suspended judgment, if not until the offences charged against me were proved, or, at least, until you had heard my explanation, which I give seriatim.

“No. 1. As a matter of fact, I did live with the O’Haras and two other men on the ‘Lady Julia’ claim. They were hardworking, and well-conducted miners. For all that I saw, they might have been the most honest men in Australia. I knew that cattle were brought to the stockyard late, and taken away early. I judged it to be the custom of the country, and accepted their statement that they were bought and sold in the ordinary way. I was cautioned not to go near the yard for fear of frightening them. I did not see a brand, or look for one—nor should I have known its significance if I had. As to the O’Haras, and their ‘mates,’ whatever might have been their previous history, no men could have worked harder, or more regularly; they could not have actively assisted in the cattle trade without my noticing it.

“No. 2. That I did not inform you of my position in the claim.

“It would certainly appear to have been my duty so to do under ordinary circumstances, after I knew of your suspicions. But the circumstances were not ordinary.

“And the question arises, Should I have been justified in betraying—for that would have been the nature of the act—the suspicious, merely suspicious circumstances, which I observed during my involuntary comradeship with these men? I had eaten their salt, been treated with respect, and in all good faith shared their confidences. Moreover—and this is the strongest point in my defence—the man known as Little-River-Jack—of his real name, of course, I am ignorant—certainly saved my life, on the dizzy and narrow pass, known locally as ‘Razor Back’—of that I feel as certain as that I am writing at this table. In another moment, my frightened horse, unused to mountain travelling, would have assuredly fallen, or thrown himself over the precipice, which yawned on either side of him, while I was equally unable either to control him or to dismount. By this bushman’s extraordinary quickness and resource, I was enabled to do both. Was I to give information which would have driven him into the hands of the police?

“As a citizen, I may have been bound to assist the cause of justice. But as a man, I felt that I could not bring myself to do so.

“3. For the rest, I dissociated myself without more delay than was absolutely necessary to collect my effects, and return the borrowed horse, from such compromising company. I was offered my ‘share’—not a very small amount—of the last gold won, but declined it, and riding late, reached this hotel at midnight of the day we parted. I heard that the senior constable of the nearest police station had instructions to take out warrants for the persons referred to, including myself, but, from some alleged defect in the evidence, that course was not persevered with.

“Circumstances (wholly unconnected with this unfortunate affair) compel me to leave to-morrow morning for Tasmania. I have entered fully into the ‘case for the defendant.’ If the jury consisting of yourself, with your amiable wife and her sister—whose kindness I can never forget, and on whose mercy I rely—do not acquit me of all evil intent, I can only hope that time may provide the means of my complete rehabilitation. Meanwhile I can subscribe myself with a clear conscience,

Having with much thought, and apparent labour, concocted this conciliatory epistle, of which he much doubted the effect, he commenced another which apparently did not need the same strain upon the mental faculties. This was addressed to Mrs. E. Hamilton Bruce, Marondah, Upper Sturt, and thus commenced:

“Dear Mrs. Bruce,—To say that for your kind and considerate letter I feel most deeply grateful, would be to understate my mental condition lamentably. After reading Mr. Bruce’s letter, it seemed as if the whole world was against me; and, conscious as I was of entire innocence, except of an act of egregious folly (not the first one, I may confess, which a sanguine temperament and a constitutional disregard of caution have placed to my account), my spirits were lowered to the level of despair. There seemed no escape from the dilemma in which I found myself.

“I stood convicted of egregious folly, or dishonour, with the sin of ingratitude thrown in. I could not wonder at the harsh tone of your husband’s letter. What must he—what must you all—think of me? was the inexorable query. Suicide seemed the only refuge. Moral felo-de-se had already been committed.

“At this juncture I re-read your letter, for which I shall never cease to bless the writer, and, may I add, the probable sympathiser? Hope again held up her torch, angel bright, if but with a wavering gleam. I regained courage for a rational outlook. I think I gave a sketch of my imminent peril and the rescuer to Miss Imogen, as we rode away from Marondah on that lovely morning. Her commentary was that it was not unlike an incident in Anne of Geierstein, except that the heroine was the deliverer in that case. We agreed, I think, in rating the book as one of the best in the immortal series.

“I have fully explained the position in which I stand, to Mr. Bruce in my letter, which you will doubtless see, so I need not recapitulate. I have been recalled on important business (unconnected with this regrettable affair) to Hobart, for which city I leave early to-morrow. Meanwhile, I trust that all doubts connected with my inconsistent conduct will be cleared up with the least possible delay.

“In which fullest expectation,

The writer of these important letters, after having carefully sealed them, made assurance doubly sure by walking to the post-office, and placing them with his own hands in the receptacle for such letters provided. He further introduced himself to the acting postmaster, and ascertained that all correspondence—his own included—which were addressed to the vicinity of Bunjil, would be forwarded next morning soon after daylight, reaching their destination early on the following morning. “It’s only a horse mail,” said that official, “the bags are carried on a pack-horse. But Jack Doyle’s a steady lad, and always keeps good time—better, for that matter, than some of the coach-contractors.”

The rest of Mr. Blount’s correspondence was apparently easily disposed of, some being granted short replies, some being placed in a convenient bag, and others unfeelingly committed to the flames. About the time when the Sergeant and dinner arrived, Mr. Blount held himself to be in a position of comparative freedom from care, having all his arrangements made, and, except Fate stepped in with special malignity, everything in train for a successful conclusion to a complicated, unsatisfactory beginning. His city address was left with the acting postmaster aforesaid; all letters, papers, &c., were to be forwarded to Valentine Blount, Esq., Imperial Club, Melbourne.

He would probably return in three weeks or a month; if not, full directions would be forwarded by his agent.

The dinner was quite up to the other efforts of the Bunjil Hotel chef, an expatriated artist whom advanced political opinions had caused to abandon “la belle France.” So he said, amid the confessions, indirect or otherwise, made during his annual “break-out.” But his cookery was held to confirm that part of his statement, as well as a boast that he had been chef at the HÔtel du Louvre in Paris. Whatever doubt might be cast on his statements and previous history, as related by himself, no one had ever dreamed of disparaging his cookery. This being the case, and the time wanting nearly three months to Christmas, which was the extreme limit of his enforced sobriety, neither Mr. Blount nor any one else could have complained of the banquet.

Nor was “the flow of soul” wanting. The Sergeant was less didactic than usual; he drew on his reminiscences more and more freely as the evening grew late, and the landlord contributed his quota, by no means without pith or point, to the hilarity of the entertainment. The Sergeant, however, completely eclipsed the other convives by a choice experience drawn from his memory wallet, as he turned out that receptacle of “tales of mystery and fear,” which decided the landlord and his guest to “see him home” at the conclusion of the repast.

This duty having been completed, Mr. Blount was moved to remark upon the fineness of the night. It was certainly curiously mild and still. “Quite like spring weather.”

Mr. Middleton looked up and expressed himself doubtfully as to its continuance. “It’s too warm to be natural, sir,” he said, “and if I was asked my opinion, I’d say we’re not far from a burst up, either wind or rain, I don’t say which, a good way out of the common. If you’re in a hurry to get to Melbourne, you were right to take your passage by Cobb and Co., or you might not get away for a week.”

“I wouldn’t lose a week just now for a hundred pounds.”

“Well, of course, it’s hard to say, but if the creeks and rivers come down, as I’ve seen ’em in a spring flood, and we’re close on the time now, there’ll be no getting to Warongah in a week, or perhaps a fortnight on top of that. But I think, if you get off to-morrow morning, you’ll just do it, and that’s all.”

When they returned all traces of the symposium had been removed, and the cloth laid ready for the early breakfast, which Blount trusted nothing would occur to prevent him from consuming.

On the plate at the head of the table, near the fire-place, was a half-sheet of notepaper, on which was written in bold characters:

“Dear Sir,—The groom will call you at five sharp, breakfast at 5.30. Coach leaves at six. I’ve got you the box seat.

“That’s a fine girl,” said the landlord, “she’s got ‘savey’ enough for a dozen women; and as for work, it’s meat and drink to her. The missus is afraid she’ll knock herself out, and then we’ll be teetotally ruined and done for. I hope she won’t throw herself away on some scallowag or other.”

“Yes! it would be a pity. I take quite an interest in her. But she has too much sense for that, surely?”

“I don’t know,” answered the landlord, gloomily, “the more sense a woman has, the likelier she is to fancy a fool, if he’s good-looking, that’s my tip. Good-night, sir. I’ll be up and see you off. Old George will call you.”

“Oh! I shall be up and ready, thank you.”

The landlord, however, having exceptional opportunities of studying human nature, warned old George to have the gentleman up at 5 a.m. sharp, which in result was just as well. For Blount being too excited from various causes to sleep, had tossed and tumbled about till 3 a.m., when he dropped into a refreshing slumber, so sound that George’s rat-tat-tat, vigorous and continued on his bedroom door, caused him to dream that all the police of the district, headed by Mr. Bruce and Black Paddy, had come to arrest him, and were battering down the hotel in order to effect a capture.