The return drive was made in slightly better time than the morning journey, the English mail phaeton of the Messieurs Bowyer, with a pair of exceptional trotters, taking the lead. The mounted contingent followed at a more reasonable pace, as they had from time to time to put “on a spurt” to come up with the drag, harness work, as is known to all horsemen, keeping up a faster average pace than saddle. However, everybody arrived safely at the Hall in excellent spirits, as might have been gathered from the cheerful, not to say hilarious, tone which the conversation had developed. Mr. Blount, in especial, whose ordinary optimism had reasserted sway, told himself that (with one exception) never had he enjoyed such a delicious experience of genuine country life. There was no more time available than sufficed for a cup of afternoon tea and the imperative duty of dressing for dinner. At this important function the mistress of the house had exercised a wise forecast, since, when the great table in the dining-room, duly laid, flowered, and “decored with napery,” met the eyes of the visitors, it was seen that at least double as many guests had been provided for as had assembled at breakfast. “Dick!” said the host to Mr. Dereker, “Mrs. Claremont says you are to take the vice-chair; you’ll have her on your right and Miss Allan on your left—wisdom and beauty, you see—so you can’t go wrong. Philip, my boy! you’re to take the right centre, with Joe Bowyer and Miss Fotheringay on one side, Laura and Mr. Blount on the other. Jack Fotheringay fronts you, with any young people he can get. I daresay he’ll arrange that. You must forage for yourselves. Now I can’t pretend to do anything more for you. I daresay you’ll shake down.”

So they did. There was much joking and pleasant innuendo as the necessary shufflings were made, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives having to be displaced and provided with neighbours not so closely related. Nothing was lacking as far as the material part of the dinner was concerned—a famous saddle of mutton, home-grown from a flock of Southdowns kept in the park, descended from an early English importation; a grand roast turkey, upon which the all-accomplished Mr. Dereker operated with practised hand, as did the host upon the Southdown, expatiating at intervals upon the superiority of the breed for mutton purposes only. The red currant jelly was a product of the estate, superintended in manufacture by one of the daughters of the house; trout from the river, black duck from the lake, equal to his canvas-back relative of the Southern States; a haunch, too, of red deer venison, Tasmanian born and bred. For the rest, everything was well cooked, well served, and excellent of its kind. Worthy of such viands was the appetite of the guests, sharpened by the exercise and a day spent chiefly in the open air, the keen, fresh, island atmosphere.

The host’s cellar, famous for age and quality in more than one colony, aided the general cheerfulness. So that if any of the fortunate guests at that memorable dinner had aught but praise for the food, the wines, the company, or the conversation, they must have been exceptionally hard to please. So thought Mr. Blount, who by and by joined the ladies, feeling much satisfied with himself and all the surroundings. Not that he had done more than justice to the host’s claret, madeira, and super-excellent port. He was on all occasions a temperate person. But there is no doubt that a few glasses of undeniably good wine, under favourable conditions, such as the close of an admirable dinner, with a dance of more than common interest to follow, may be considered to be an aid to digestion, as well as an incentive to a cheerful outlook upon life, which tends, physicians tell us, to longevity, with health of body and mind.

It happened, fortunately, to be a moonlight night. The day had been one of those of the early spring, which warm, even hot, in the afternoon, presage, in the opinion of the weather-wise, an early summer, which prediction is chiefly falsified. But while this short glimpse of Paradise is granted to the sons of men, no phrase can more truly describe it. Cloudless days, warmth, without oppressive heat, tempered by the whispering ocean breeze, beseeching the permission of the wood nymphs to invade their secret haunts, all flower, and leaf, and herb life responsive to the thrilling charm—the witchery of the sea voices.

Such had been the day. That the drives and rides through the green woodland, the hill parks, the meadow fields, had been absolutely perfect all admitted. Now the evening air seemed to have gained an added freshness. When the French windows of the ballroom were thrown open it was predicted that many a couple would find the broad verandahs, or even the dry and shaded garden paths, irresistibly enticing after the first few dances.

Such, indeed, was the case. What with accidental and invited guests, the number had been increased to nearly twenty couples, all young, enthusiastic, fairly musical, and devoted to the dance.

The music, indeed, had been an anxiety to the hostess. The piano was a fine instrument, luckily in perfect tune. Half the girls present could play dance music effectively. But another instrument or two would be such an aid in support.

Then inquiry was made; Chester of Oaklands was a musical amateur, the violin was his favourite instrument, he was so good-natured that he could be counted upon. Then there was young Grant of Bendearg, who played the cornet. So, messengers with polite notes were despatched on horseback, and both gentlemen, being luckily found at home, were secured. The band was complete. Mr. Blount, with proper precaution, had secured the hand of Miss Laura Claremont at dinner, for two waltzes, a polka, and the after-supper galop; among her sisters and the late arrivals he had filled his card. These had been written out by volunteer damsels during the after-dinner wait.

He had, therefore, no anxiety about his entertainment for the evening. No time was lost after the conclusion of the dinner. The young ladies from Cranstoun and Deepdene had, of course, brought the necessary evening wear with them. Mr. Blount’s English war-paint had been stored in Melbourne while he was learning something about gold-fields and cattle-lifting, this last involuntarily. He was “accoutred proper,” and as such, not troubled with anxiety about his personal appearance. The Bowyers, of course, were resplendent in “the very latest” fashion; as to canonicals, the other men were fairly up to the standard of British evening toggery, and for the few who were not, allowances were made, as is always the case in Australia. People can’t be expected to carry portmanteaux about with them, especially on horseback, and as they were among friends they got on quite as well in the matter of partners as the others.

It certainly was a good dance. The music kept going nobly. The young lady at the piano was replaced from time to time, but the male musicians held on till supper time without a break. When that popular distraction was announced half-an-hour’s interval for refreshments was declared, after which a good-natured damsel stole in, and indulged the insatiable juniors with a dreamy, interminable waltz. Then the two men recommenced with the leading lady amateur, and a polka of irresistible swing and abandonment soon filled the room.

Certainly a dance in the country in any part of Australia is an object lesson as to the vigour and vitality of the race. All Australian girls dance well—it would seem to be a natural gift. Chiefly slender, lissom, yet vigorous in health, and sound in constitution, they dance on, fleet-footed and tireless, as the fabled Nymphs and Oreads of ancient Hellas. Hour after hour passed, still unwearied, unsated, were the dancers, until the arrival of the soup suggested that the closure was about to be applied. But the dawnlight was stealing over the summit of the mountain range when the last galop had come to an end, and a few couples were by way of cooling themselves in the verandah or the garden paths. Here, and at this hour, Mr. Blount found himself alone with Laura Claremont, who had indeed, in spite of faltering maiden remonstrance, completed her fifth dance with him. He was not an unstable, indiscriminate admirer, least of all a professional trifler with the hearts of women, but he had been strongly attracted (perhaps interested would be the more accurate word) by her quiet dignity, conjoined with refinement and high intelligence.

She had read largely, and formed opinions on important questions with greater thoroughness than is the habit of girls generally. Without being a recognised beauty, she had a striking and distinguished appearance. Her dark hair and eyes, the latter large and expressive, the delicate complexion for which the women of Tasmania are noted, in combination with a noble figure and graceful shape, would have given her a foremost position by looks alone in any society. The expression of her features was serious rather than gay, but when the humorous element was invoked a ripple of genuine mirth spread over her countenance, the display of which added to her modest, yet alluring array of charms.

Such was the woman with whom Blount had been thrown temporarily into contact for the last few days, and this night had shown him more of her inward thoughts and feelings, unveiled as they were by the accidents of the dance and the driving party, than he had ever dreamed of. Returning to the ballroom, the final adieus were made, and as he pressed her yielding hand he felt (or was it fancy?) an answering clasp.

On the following day he had arranged to leave for Hobart, as he expected to deal with propositions lately submitted for the amalgamation of the original prospecting claim with those adjoining, thus to include a larger area upon which to float a company to be placed upon the London market, with an increased number of shares.

This had been done at the suggestion of Mr. Tregonwell, whose energetic temperament was constantly urging him to cast about for improved conditions of management, and a more profitable handling of the great property which kind fortune had thrown into their hands.

“What is the sense,” he had asked in his last letter from the mine, “of going on in the slow, old-fashioned way, just turning out a few thousand ounces of silver monthly, and earning nothing more than a decent income, this fabulously rich ore body lying idle, so to speak, for want of organisation and enterprise? The specimens already sent home have prepared the British investors for the flotation of a company, of which a large proportion of the shares will be offered to the public. I propose to call a meeting of the shareholders in Number One and Two, North, and South, and submit a plan for their consideration at once.

“With our property thrown in we can increase the shares to five hundred thousand one pound shares, resuming a hundred thousand paid up original shares from the prospectors. You and I, Herbert and Clarke, pool the lot and put them before the public, allotting so many to all applicants before a certain day—after which the share allotment list will be closed. With the increased capital, we can then carry out and complete such improvements as are absolutely necessary for the working of the mine on the most productive scale, ensuring a return of almost incredible profits within a comparatively short period. In a series of years, the price of silver may fall—the money market, in the event of European wars, become restricted, and in fact the future, that unknown friend or enemy to all mundane affairs, may blight the hopes and expectations which now appear so promising.

“Everything is favourable now, the mine, the output, the market—money easy, machinery available on fair terms. But we don’t know how soon a cloud may gather, a storm—financial or political—may burst upon us. The directors in the great Comstock Mine in America looked at things in that light—doubled their capital, quadrupled their plant, built a railway, and within five years banked dollars enough to enable the four original prospectors (I knew Flood and Mackay well—worked with them in fact—when we were all poor men) to become and remain millionaires to the end of their lives. Meanwhile giving entertainments, and building palaces, which astonished all Europe, and America as well—a more difficult matter by far.

“Now, what do we want, you will ask, for all this development, this Arabian Night’s treasure house? I say—and I am talking strict business—that we must have, presuming that the ‘Great Tasmanian Proprietary Comstock and Associated Silver Mines Company, Limited,’ comes off, and the shares will be over-applied for twice over—what do we want, I repeat? A battery with the newest inventions and improvements—a hundred stamps to begin with. It may be, of course, increased; we shall provide for such a contingency.

“Secondly, we must have a railway—from the mine to the port—to carry our men—materials, supplies generally. We can’t go back to this Peruvian mode of transit-carrying—on men’s backs, at a frightful waste of time and money. We can’t afford the time—it’s not a question so much of money as of time, which is wasting money at compound interest. We want a wharf at Strahan and a steamer of our own to take the ore to Callao. She’ll pay for herself within the year. Is that all? I hear you asking with your cynical drawl, which you affect, I know you, when you’re most interested.

“No, sir! as we all learnt to say in the States—the best comes last. We want a first-class American mining manager—a real boss—chock full of scientific training from Freiberg, practical knowledge gathered from joining the first crowd at Sutter’s Mill—and more important than all, the knack of keeping a couple of thousand miners, of different creeds, countries and colours, all pulling one way, and him keeping a cool head in strikes and other devilries that’s bound to happen in every big mine in the world, specially when she’s doin’ a heap better than common—see! His price is £5,000 a year, not a cent less—if you want the finished article!” Here, Mr. Tregonwell’s fiery eloquence, albeit confined to cold pen and ink, led him into the mining American dialect, so easy to acquire, so difficult to dislodge—which he had picked up in his early experiences. In the class with which he had chiefly associated in earlier years, and to which he belonged in right of birth, he could be as punctiliously accurate in manner and speech, as if he had never quitted it. With a certain reluctance, as of one committing himself to a voyage upon an unknown sea, his more prudent, but less practical partner gave a guarded consent to these daring propositions, premising, however, that the company must be complete in legal formation and the shares duly allotted, before a cheque was signed by Frampton Tregonwell and Company, in aid of operations of such colossal magnificence.

Mr. Blount excused himself from accepting a pressing invitation to remain another week at this very pleasant reproduction of English country house life, on the plea of urgent private affairs, but he acceded to Mr. Dereker’s suggestion that he should stay a night with him at Holmby, on the way to Hobart, where he would undertake to land him an hour or two before the coach could arrive. This was a happy conjunction of business and pleasure, against which there was no valid argument. So, with many regrets by guest and entertainers, and promises on the part of the former to return at the earliest possible opportunity, he after breakfast started in Mr. Dereker’s dog-cart from the hospitable precincts of Hollywood Hall.

Holmby, the well-known headquarters of the sporting magnates of the island, was reached just “within the light,” though, as the road was exceptionally good—metalled, bridged, and accurately graded all through—the hour of arrival was not of great consequence.

Mr. Dereker was a bachelor, and had mentioned something about bachelor’s fare and pot luck generally, to which Mr. Blount, feeling equal to either fortune, had made suitable reply. Rather to his surprise, however, as his host had driven round to the stables they saw grooms and helpers busy in taking out the team of a four-in-hand drag.

The equipage and appointments arrested his attention, and caused him to utter an exclamation. They constituted indeed an uncommon turn-out. An English-built coach—such as the Four-in-hand and the coaching clubs produce on the first day of the season, for the annual procession, so anxiously awaited, so enthusiastically watched,—complete with every London adjunct, from hamper to horn, etc. The horses had just been detached, and were, at Mr. Dereker’s order, detained for inspection. Four flea-bitten greys, wonderfully matched, and sufficiently large and powerful to warrant their easy action in front of so heavy a drag, as the one in which they had been driven over. Their blood-like heads, and striking forehands, not less than their rounded back ribs, and powerful quarters, denoted the fortunate admixture of the two noblest equine families—the Arab and the English thoroughbred: of size and strength they had sufficient for all or any harness work, while their beauty and faultless matching would have graced any show-ground in England.

“This team was bred by a relative of mine, who is a great amateur in the coaching line, and is thought to be the best team in Australasia! His place, Queenhoo Hall, is only fifteen miles off. He is a connection by marriage: therefore we don’t stand on ceremony. I suspect he is giving his team an airing before driving them to the Elwick Races next month, where he always turns out in great style. You will not have a dull evening, for his wife and a niece or two are sure to have accompanied him.”

In passing through the outer hall, such an amount of mirthful conversation reached the ear, as led to the belief in Mr. Blount’s mind, that either the number of the Squire’s nieces had been under-stated, or that, according to the custom of the country, the coach had been reinforced on the way. So it proved to be—the hall was apparently half full of men and maidens, unto whom had been added a few married people, as well as a couple of subalterns from a regiment then quartered in Hobart. The chaperons were not noticeably older than their unmarried charges, so that the expectation of a dance was fully justified.

Mr. Blount was introduced to the “Squire,” as he was universally called, as also to his nieces, two attractive-looking girls; and of course, to all the other people, civil and military. He felt as he once did in the west of Ireland, where he accepted so many invitations to spend a month, that the number of months would have had to be increased if he had not more than a year in which to keep holiday. He complimented the Squire, with obvious sincerity, on his wonderful team, and promised, strictly reserving compliance until after the flotation of the great mining company, to visit him at Queenhoo Hall in the summer time now approaching. The dinner and the dance were replicas of those he had enjoyed at Hollywood. Here he had another opportunity of admiring the lovely complexions, graceful figures, and perfect grace and fleetness of the daughters of the land in the waltz or galop, and when he started for Hobart soon after sunrise, the drive through the fresh morning air dispelled all feelings of weariness, which, under the circumstances, he might have felt, after hearing the cock crow two mornings running before going to bed.

“Heaven knows how long this sort of thing might have lasted, if that letter of Tregonwell’s had not turned up last night,” he told himself. “There is a time for all things—and if I do not mistake, it is high time now, as our pastors and masters used to say, to make a stern division between work and play—‘poculatum est, condemnatum est,’ so ‘nunc est agendum’ in good earnest.”

Hobart, reached two hours before the coach could have drawn up before the post-office, reassured him as to Mr. Dereker’s guarantee holding good. A cab from the nearest stand bore him and his luggage to the Tasmanian Club, where, freed from the distractions of country houses, he was able to collect his thoughts before attacking the great array of letters and papers, which met his eye when he entered his room.

A copy of the morning paper reposing on the dressing-table disclosed the fact in an aggressive headline that the Proprietary Tasmanian Comstock and Associated Silver Mines Company (Limited) was already launched upon the Australian mining world, and indeed upon that of Europe, and the Universe generally.

“The Directors of this magnificent silver property, which includes the original Comstock Claim—amalgamated with the Associated Silver Mines Company we understand”—wrote the fluent pen of the Editor of the Tasmanian Times—“have at length succumbed to outside pressure, and in the interest of the British and Colonial Public, consented to form these mines of unparalleled richness into a company. The Directors are Messrs. Valentine Blount, Frampton Tregonwell, and Charles Herbert and John Westerfield Clarke, names which will assure the shareholders of honourable and straightforward dealing at the hands of those to whom their pecuniary interests are committed. These names are well and favourably known in England, in Mexico, in the United States of America, and the Dominion of Canada. Comment is superfluous—they speak for themselves.

“Wherever gold or silver mining is carried on the names of Clarke and Tregonwell are familiar as ‘household words’ and always associated with skilled treatment and successful operations. That this enterprise will have a beneficial effect not only upon the mining, but on the commercial, and all other industries of Tasmania, lifting her, with her fertile soil, her equable climate, her adaptability for all agricultural and pastoral products to her proper place in the front rank of Australian colonies no sane man can henceforth doubt. A line of steamers from Strahan to Hobart, a short though expensive railway, and a metalled coach road, are among the indispensable enterprises which Mr. Tregonwell assured our representative would be commenced without delay. Advance, Tasmania!”

Looking hastily through the pile of unopened letters, but keeping private-and-confidential-appearing correspondence strictly apart, and relegating those in Mr. Tregonwell’s bold, rapid handwriting, to a more convenient season, he started, and trembled, as his eye fell upon a letter in Mrs. Bruce’s handwriting which bore the Marondah postmark. His heart almost stopped beating, when an enclosed note fell out, still more likely to affect his inmost soul. Yes! it was in the handwriting, so closely scanned, so dearly treasured in the past, of Imogen Carrisforth. For the moment, a spasm of regret, even remorse affected him painfully. He stood self-convicted by his conscience of having lingered in frivolous, social enjoyment, while uncertain of the welfare and feelings of one who had aroused the deepest emotions of his being, nor had he (with shame he reflected) taken all possible means to discover to what circumstance it was that his letters had been apparently treated with indifference or contempt.

Mrs. Bruce’s letter gave an explanation which, though not fully comprehensive, cleared up a part of the mystery, as far as Imogen was concerned. It ran as follows:—

“Dear Mr. Blount,—I am afraid you must have thought us a very ill-mannered set of people, as it seems by your letter of — that you have not received any answer to your letters written the night before you left Bunjil for Melbourne. Yet, it was scarcely our fault. That poor lad who was drowned in the flood, which rose on the very day you left, carried answers from me and Imogen; these, I think, you would have considered friendly, and even in a sense apologetic for my husband’s attitude in condemning you unheard. We both scolded him soundly for deciding your case so hastily, in disregard of the laws of evidence. He particularly, who is looked upon as the best magistrate on the Marondah bench. We got him to hear reason at last, and to write expressing regret that he had made no allowance for your ignorance of our bush population, and their ways with stock. This letter was in the bags of the mail coach to Waroonga, and it also was lost when two horses were drowned at Garlung: the bridge being six feet under water. None of the passengers were injured, but the coach was swept down the stream with the mail bags, which have not been recovered. It certainly was a most unlucky occurrence, for all concerned.

“When your letter from Melbourne arrived, poor Imogen was laid up with a bad attack of influenza, from the effects of which she was confined to bed for several weeks, her lungs having been attacked and pneumonia supervening; so that what with nursing her, and Mr. Bruce having left on a three months’ trip to Queensland, all correspondence was suspended for a while. She was very nearly dying, and in fact was given up by two out of three of the doctors who attended her!

“Her good constitution pulled her through, and she has regained her former health, though not her spirits, poor girl!

“Then, after she was up, all these accounts of your wonderful success in Tasmania, and large fortune derived from the Tasmanian Silver Mine (I can’t recollect its name) were circulated in the district. On account of this she did not write, as I wanted her to do, fearing (very foolishly, as I told her) lest you might think her influenced by your altered fortunes. She is not that sort of girl, I can safely assert. The man who touched her heart would remain there installed, for richer, for poorer, till death’s parting hour.

“Whether you have said more to her than she has told me—she is very reserved about herself—I cannot say. I have written fully, perhaps too much so, as to which I trust to your honour, but my sole intention has been to clear up all doubts on your part, as to the feeling which actuates us as a family, about the past misunderstanding. I enclose a scrap which she gave me reluctantly.

Mr. Blount picked up the half sheet of notepaper, which having kissed reverently, and indeed twice repeated the action, he read as follows. Very faint and irregular were the characters:—

“What a chapter of accidents since you left! Poor Johnny Doyle drowned! my letter and Hilda’s lost. Your reply also never came.

“My illness, in which I was ‘like to die’ following closely.

“We thought you had left without troubling to answer our letters—at least, they did. My sister has written you sheets, so I need not enlarge upon matters. Edward is still in Queensland. The weather is lovely now, after the cold winter. If you can tear yourself away from Hobart, you might see what Marondah looks like in early summer.

Mr. Blount’s reply, by telegram, was sent with no unnecessary loss of time:—

“Leaving for Melbourne and Marondah by to-morrow’s steamer.”

Other letters, papers, circulars, requests, invitations in shoals lay ready for inspection. All the tentative appeals, complimentary and otherwise, which track the successful individual in war or peace, law, letters, or commerce. A large proportion of these were transmitted to the waste-paper basket—a piece of furniture now rendered necessary by the volume of Mr. Blount’s correspondence.

He felt inclined to burn the whole lot, excepting those relative to the development of the Tasmanian Comstock and Associated Silver Mines Company (Limited), now stamped on a score of large and portentous envelopes.

Making a final search, a letter was detached from a superincumbent mass, the superscription of which had the Tumut and Bunjil postmarks. This was sufficient to arrest his attention. The handwriting, too, was that of Sheila Maguire, whose interest in his welfare did not seem to have declined.

“Dear Mr. Blount,—I little thought, when I used to get up at all hours to make you comfortable in our back block shanty, that this humble individual was ministering (that’s a good word, isn’t it? I’ve been reading up at odd times) to the wants of a Director of the Great Comstock Silver Mines Company. What a lark it seems, doesn’t it? And you, that didn’t know the difference between quartz and alluvial then!

“Shows what a fine country Australia is, when a gentleman may be nearly run in for ‘duffing’ one month, and the next have all the world bowing and scraping to him as a millionaire! That’s not my line, though, is it? The money, if you had ten times as much, wouldn’t make Sheila Maguire more your friend—your real friend—than she is now. The other way on, if anything. And there’s a young lady down the river—not that I even myself with her, only she’s a ‘cornstalk’—one of the same brand, as the saying is. She don’t mind the dirty money—any fool can come by that, or any man that’s contented to live like a black-fellow, and save farthings till they mount up. He can’t help it. But who’d take him, with his muck-rake?

“Great book, Pilgrim’s Progress, isn’t it? Just fell across it.

“‘What the devil’s the girl driving at?’ I hear you say. That’s not much of a swear for Bunjil, is it? Well, you’ll see about it in the postscript, by and by.

“First and foremost, I want a hundred shares in the Great Comstock Associated. On the ground floor. Original, like the Broken Hill Proprietary.

“An uncle of mine, old Barney Maguire, of Black Dog Creek, died a month ago, and left us boys and girls five thousand apiece. He couldn’t read and write, but he had ten thousand acres of good freehold land, river flats, too, and a tidy herd of cattle—every one knows the ‘B. M.’ brand. Some good horses, too. Comes of saving and screwing. He lived by the creek bank in an old bark hut with two rooms, never married, and never gave one of us boys and girls the value of a neck-ribbon or a saddle-strap while he was alive. I’m sending a cheque for the scrip, so make your secretary post them at once. As you’re a director, you’ll have to sign your real name, so I’ll know what it is. I never was sure of the other. You’re born lucky, and I’m going to back you right out. Perhaps I am, too, and might rise in life; who knows? I’m going to work up my education on the chance. What I learned at She-oak Flat’ll stick to me. So we’ll see. And now for the postscript. I looked it out—derived from post scriptum (written after). Never thought what ‘P.S.’ meant before. Easy enough when you know, isn’t it?

“Well, ‘let me see!’ says the blind man—oh! I forgot; that’s vulgar—no more of that for Miss Sheila Maguire—one of the Maguires of Tumut. ‘Fine gal, aw. Hear she’s got money, don’t yer know?’ Ha! ha! they won’t catch me that way. ‘I’ve travelled,’ though it’s only on a bush track. False start; come back to the post, all of you! The straight tip is this—‘a dead cert.’ I had it from my cousin, Joe Macintyre, her that was maid to Mrs. Bruce. Miss Imogen hadn’t influenza—only a bit of a cold; but she was real bad and low, all the same, after a certain gentleman went away. No word, and no letters came back. She’d sit and cry for hours. No interest in anything; not a smile out of her for days. Then she got ill, and no mistake; lower and lower—close up died. Doctors gave her up. Had to go to Sydney for change. I saw her in the train at Wagga. My word! I hardly knew her. She was that dog-poor and miserable, pale as a ghost, I nearly cried. Now she’s home again, and looks better, Joe says.

“But if some one doesn’t turn up before the summer’s well on, I shall know what to think him who was a man and a gentleman, but that no one about here will call either the one or the other again, least of all,

“P.S. No. 2.—Strikes me this isn’t very different to the Church Service, which begins with ‘Dearly beloved,’ and ends with ‘amazement.’ What do you think?”

Mr. Blount couldn’t help smiling at certain sentences in this frank and characteristic epistle. But he looked grave enough at the concluding one. This was the light then in which his conduct would appear to the rural inhabitants of the township and district of Bunjil.

Simple and chiefly unlettered they might be, but shrewd and accurate to a wonderful degree in their discernment of character.

It was evident that the false cavalier who “loved, and who rode away,” would have small consideration shown him on the day when he might fall in with half a dozen Upper Sturt men at annual show or race meeting. There was a veiled threat in Sheila’s closing sentence, and though, in his or any other defaulter’s case, retributive justice might be stayed or wholly miscarry, yet it was not a pleasant thought that any act of his should bear the interpretation of bad faith; or that sentence of excommunication would, so to speak, be pronounced against him from one end of the river and the great Upper Sturt district to the other. By gentle and simple alike there would be unanimous agreement on that score. From the “mountain men” of the Bogongs and Talbingo, to the sun-burned plain-riders of the Darling, the vigorous English of the Waste would be searched for epithets of scorn and execration.

In the old Saxon days of the first Christian King, the epithet of “niddering” (worthless), which men committed suicide rather than endure, would have been decreed. Even the rude miners of the West would feel injured. From club to hotel, from the cool green, sunless forests of the Alpine chain, where the snow-fed rills tinkled and gurgled the long, bright summer through, to the burning, gold-strewn deserts of West Australia, he would be a marked man, pointed at as the coward who won a girl’s heart and “cleared out,” because he happened to “strike it rich” in another colony.

Luckily for his state of mind and the condition of his business prospects, Mr. Tregonwell happened to turn up a day earlier than he was expected, so that by sitting far into the night in council with that experienced though fervid operator, things were put into train; so that he and the resident directors would, with the help of a power of attorney, arrange all the advertising and scrip printing without further aid from Valentine Blount.

There was not much need for pushing ahead the concerns of the Great Tasmanian Comstock, by which name it was chiefly known and designated. The whole island seemed to be in a ferment. The public and the share market only needed restraining. It was, of course, only in the hurry and crush of applications for scrip, in resemblance to the South Sea—well, we’ll say, Excitement of old historic days. The blocks of silver ore, “native silver,” malachite, and other specimens exhibited behind a huge plate glass window in Davey Street, had driven the city wild. Crowds collected around it, and a couple of stalwart policemen were specially stationed there by the inspector to prevent unseemly crushing and riot. In addition well-armed night watchmen were provided at the expense of the Comstock Company for the nocturnal safety of the precious deposits. The Pateena was to leave for her customary conflict with the rough waves of Bass’s Straits at 12 a.m. So, after a hard night’s work, the “popular director” took a parting smoke and retired for what sleep was likely to visit him by 8 a.m., when the two partners were to breakfast together. Mr. Blount had not a tranquil experience of “tired nature’s sweet restorer.” “Little-River-Jack,” the Sergeant, and Sheila Maguire pursued one another through the Bunjil forest, accompanied by the doomed mail-boy and Mr. Bruce. Sergeant Dayrell had apparently come to life again, and was standing pistol in hand with the same devilish sneer on his lips, face to face with Kate Lawless and Ned. Then the melancholy cortÈge moved across the scene, with the police riding slowly, as they led the spare horses upon which was tied the dead inspector and the wounded trooper. All things seemed sad, funereal, and out of keeping with the enforced gaiety and cordial hospitality which he had lately enjoyed. It was a relief on awakening to find, all unrefreshed as he was, that he had ample time in which to recruit, by means of the shower bath and matutinal coffee, his hardly-taxed mental and physical energies. However, all was ready to respond to the breakfast bell, specially ordered and arranged for, and when Mr. Tregonwell, looking as if he had gone to bed early and was only anxious about the Hobart Courier, entered the breakfast room, all tokens of despondency vanished from Mr. Blount’s countenance.

Then only he realised that a creditably early start was feasible—was actually in process of operation.

“Look here!” exclaimed that notoriously early bird, producing two copies of the Courier, of which he handed his friend one, “Read this as a preliminary, and keep the paper in your pocket for board-ship literature.”

It was, indeed, something to look at, as the supplement displayed under gigantic headlines this portentous announcement—

“Acting under legal advice, the Directors have decided to close the share list of this unparalleled mine, of which the ore bodies at greater depths are daily disclosing a state of phenomenal richness. All applications for shares not sent in by the fifteenth day of the present month will be returned. If over-applied for—of which information will be furnished by the incoming English mail—applicants will have shares allotted to them in the order of their priority.”

This was to Mr. Blount sufficient information for the present. The future of the mine was assured, and he was merely nervously anxious that no malignant interference with the normal course of events should prevent his arriving in Melbourne on the following day, in time to take his berth in the Sydney Express that afternoon—which indeed he had telegraphed for the day before. The partners had arrived on board the Pateena, now puffing angrily, with full steam up, a full half hour before the advertised time, owing to Mr. Blount’s anxiety not to be late, and were walking up and down the deck, Tregonwell in vain attempting to get his fellow director to listen to details, and Blount inwardly fuming at the delay and cursing the Tasmanian lack of punctuality and general slackness, when two shabbily-dressed men stepped on board, one of whom walked up to the friends, tapped Mr. Blount on the shoulder, and producing a much crumpled piece of paper, said shortly, “I arrest you in the Queen’s name, by virtue of this Warrant!”

To describe Mr. Blount’s state of mind at this moment is beyond the resources of the English language—perhaps beyond those of any language. Rage, mortification, surprise, despair almost, struggled together in his mind, until his heart seemed bursting.

For a moment it seemed, as he threw off his captor with violence, and faced the pair of myrmidons with murder in his eye, as if he intended resistance in spite of law, order, and all the forces of civilisation. But his companion, cooler in situations of absolute peril as he was more impetuous in those of lighter responsibility, restrained him forcibly.

“Nonsense! keep calm, for God’s sake, and don’t make a scene. Just allow me to look at the warrant,” he said to the apprehending constable. “I wish to see if it is in order. I am a magistrate of the territory. I can answer for my friend, who, though naturally disgusted, is not likely to resist the law.”

The men were placated by this reasonable treatment of the position.

“The warrant seems in order,” said Tregonwell. “The strange part of it is that it should not have been cancelled all this time, as we know that no proceedings were taken by the police at Bunjil in consequence of the non-appearance of the prosecution for the Crown. How this warrant got here and has been forwarded for execution is the astonishing part of the affair. Do you know,” he said, addressing the peace officer, “how this warrant came into the hands of the Department here?”

“Forwarded for execution here, sir,” said the man civilly, “with a batch of New South Wales warrants, chiefly for absconders, false pretences men, and others who have a way of crossing the Straits. It oughtn’t to have been allowed to run, as the case wasn’t gone on with. The acting clerk of the bench there is a senior constable, not quite up in his work; he has made a mistake, and got it mixed up with others. Most likely it’s a mistake, but all the same, the gentleman must come with us for the present.”

“All right, constable, we’ll go with you, and make no attempt to escape. Bail will be forthcoming—in thousands, if necessary.”

The steamer’s bell began to sound, and after a few minutes, and a hurried colloquy with the captain, who promised to see his unlucky passenger’s luggage delivered at the Imperial Club, the friends descended into the boat, and Tregonwell read out the warrant in his hands. It was apparently in order:—

“To Senior Constable Evans and to all Police Officers and Constables in the Colony of Victoria.—You are hereby commanded to arrest Valentine Blount—known as ‘Jack Blunt,’ at present supposed to be working in the ‘Lady Julia’ claim, forty miles from Bunjil, on the Wild Horse Creek, in company with Phelim and Patrick O’Hara, also George Dixon (known as Lanky), and to bring him before me or any other Police Magistrate of Victoria. This warrant is issued on the sworn information of Edward Hamilton Bruce, J.P. of Marondah, on the Upper Sturt, and for such action this shall be your warrant.

The sorely-tried lover felt much more inclined to fling himself into the waters of the Derwent, and there remain, than to occupy for one moment longer this ignominious position at the hands of the myrmidons of the law. However, the next step, of course, was to interview the police magistrate of Hobart at his Court House, and after having explained the circumstances, to apply for bail, so that the period of detention might be shortened as much as possible. This process of alleviation was effected without unnecessary delay, the magistrate being a reasonable, experienced person, and as such inclined to sympathise with the victim of malign fate, obviously not of the class with which he had been for years judicially occupied.

The officer briefly stated the case, produced the warrant, and delivered up his prisoner, who was permitted to take a chair. Mr. Parker, P.M., scanned the warrant with keen and careful eye before committing himself to an opinion. After which he bestowed a searching glance upon Mr. Blount, and thus delivered himself:

“It appears,” he said, “that this warrant was issued, with several others, upon the sworn information of Edward Hamilton Bruce, J.P., of Marondah, Upper Sturt, who had reason to believe that the person named—viz., Valentine Blount—generally known as ‘Jack Blunt,’ was concerned with Phelim O’Hara, Patrick O’Hara, George Dixon (otherwise Lanky), and John Carter, known as ‘Little-River-Jack,’ in stealing and disposing of certain fat cattle branded E.H.B., the property of the said Edward Hamilton Bruce. It is now the 20th of November,” said the worthy P.M., “and I note that this warrant was signed on the 10th of September last. By a curious coincidence I have this morning received a communication from the Department of Justice in Victoria informing me that separate warrants were issued for the persons named in the information, but that, owing to deficiency of proof and difficulty of identification of the stock suspected to have been killed or otherwise disposed of, the Crown Solicitor has ordered a Nolle Prosequi to be entered. ‘In accordance with which decision, notices of such action were signed by the bench of magistrates at Bunjil, Victoria, and the warrants, in the names of Phelim O’Hara, Patrick O’Hara, George Dixon (alias Lanky), and John Carter (alias Little-River-Jack), were cancelled. But through inadvertence, the warrant in the name of Valentine Blount (otherwise Jack Blunt) had been mislaid, and, with other documents, forwarded to James Parker, Esq., P.M., Hobart. He is requested to return the said warrant to the Department of Justice, and if the said warrant has been by misadventure executed, to release at once the said Valentine Blount, known as “Jack Blunt.”

“That being the case, I have the pleasure to congratulate you, sir, on your escape from a very unpleasant position, and to apologise on behalf of the Department with which I am connected, for the unfortunate mistake, as well as for all consequences to which it may have led in your case. Sergeant, let the accused be discharged.”

Thus, after undergoing tortures, as to which the same time spent on a rack of the period—say in the time of His Most Christian Majesty, Philip of Spain—would have been a trifling inconvenience, was our unlucky dÉtenu restored to liberty.

After bowing to the genial P.M., who had seen so many discomfitures, disasters, and disorders, that nothing was likely to cause him surprise or disturb his serenity, the friends returned to their club to lunch, as well as to make such arrangements for the morrow as might suffice for clearing out to Melbourne with the least possible delay and public disturbance. Fortunately, another steamer on a different line, just arrived from Callao and the Islands, was due for an early start in the morning. Mr. Blount resolved, after dining at the club, to spend the night on board of her so as to have no bother about getting ready before daylight, at which time the skipper promised departure. Frampton Tregonwell, the friend in need, would bear him company and help to keep up his spirits so rudely dashed until the time arrived for the partial oblivion of bed, which, indeed, it was long before he found.

Next morning, however, the excitement of a gale took him out of his self-consciousness for a few hours, and the unfamiliar companionship of the passengers aided the cure. He was only partially recovered from a state of shock and annoyance, but could not help being attracted by the men and women; they were of rare and striking types, such as were around him, in all directions.

They were certainly cosmopolitan—grizzled island traders, sea-captains, and mates out of employment at present. Adventurers of every kind, sort, and degree, with their wives and families of all shades of colour and complexion. Speaking all languages indifferently ill, Spanish and Portuguese, French, German and Italian, and, of course, English more or less undefiled. The men were fine specimens physically, bold, frank, hardy-looking, such as might be expected to reply with knife and revolver to adverse argument. Handsome dark women and girls, with flashing eyes and unrivalled teeth, who seemed perfectly at home, and regarded the wildest weather with curiosity rather than with apprehension. Sydney seemed familiar to many as their port of arrival and departure, which, having reached, they were more free to find passage to the ends of the earth.

Such a happy-go-lucky unconventional crowd of passengers, it had rarely been Mr. Blount’s lot to encounter, far-travelled though he was. The captain, mates and ship’s crew were, in their way, equally removed from ordinary personages. One could imagine the captain—a spare, saturnine American—a pirate, suddenly converted by a missionary bishop—bearing his captives of the lower hold, previously doomed to torture and spoliation, to a free port, there to be released, unharmed, with all their goods and chattels scrupulously returned. Here was an opportunity altogether unparalleled, presented to “an observer of human nature.”

But it was like many other gifts of the gods, presented to the dealer in the souls and bodies of his fellow creatures (intellectually regarded), at the precise time and place, when, from circumstances, he could make no use of the situation. A banquet of the gods, and not the ghost of an appetite wherewith to savour it!

In his present mood, had Helen of Troy, accompanied by Paris and Achilles, with Briseis as “lady help,” been one of the strangely assorted crowd (there were half a dozen modern Greeks on board, miners returning from an inspection of an alleged “mountain of tin”)—even then he would not have listened with interest to their respectful cross-examination of the “goddess moulded” as to her adventures since the fall of Troy, or her well-grounded apprehension of her probable fate under adverse feminine rule.

All romance, sympathy, curiosity even were dead within him for the present. Fate had counter-checked him too often. He expected nothing, hoped nothing, but feared everything—until his arrival at the homestead on the Upper Sturt, when he could see Imogen, pale, perhaps, and more fragile than when last she turned her impatient horse’s head homeward—but infinitely lovely and dearer than all, as having proved her loyalty to him, from their first meeting by the waters of the Great River, in despite of doubt, calumny, and unjust accusation.

All these were gone and disposed of; now was the season of faith and fruition—the reward of her love, and truth—of his constancy. Here his complacent feeling of perhaps scarcely justified self-laudation faltered somewhat. Yes! he had been true—he had been faithful—any other feeling was merely involuntary deflection from his ideal, and he was now going to claim his prize!

The wind stilled. The sea went down. The stars came out. The soft air of the Great South Land, hidden away from the restless sea-rover for centuries untold, until the keel of the great English captain floated into the peerless haven, enveloped the wave-worn bark, as with a mantle of peace and forgiveness; their voyage was practically, virtually, at an end. Mr. Blount remained on deck smoking with the more hardened of the foreign passengers, who apparently needed not sleep at all, until the midnight hour; then wearily sought his cabin. Cabin indeed, he had none, for, determined to get away at all hazards, he had expressed his total indifference to such a luxury, and his willingness to sleep under the cabin table, if necessary, only provided that he got a passage. The captain said if that were so he could come, taking his chance of a bed or sofa. However, he had been to sea before. A judicious douceur to the head steward procured him, after a certain hour, one of the saloon lounges, and the privilege of dressing in that important functionary’s cabin. Awake with the dawn, he found himself just in time to witness the safe passage of the Donna Inez through the tumultuous harbour entrance of the “Rip,” and after a decent interval, to arrive, undisturbed by anxiety about luggage, at the ever open door of the Imperial Club.

Here, with his property around him—apparently safe and uninjured—he began to find himself an independent traveller of means and position again. He had been relieved of the horrible uncertainty of delay—the doubt and fear connected with a trial for a criminal offence, and all the other disagreeables, if not dangers, of a discreditable position. His railway ticket had already been taken for Waronga, whence the coach on the ensuing morning, after a daylight breakfast, would take him on to Marondah.

All went well. He saw again the rippling river, the friendly face of Mrs. Bruce—he had always delighted in that dear woman—so refined, so ladylike, and yet practical and steadfast. The ideal wife and mother—remote from the metropolis, and the frivolous slaves of fashion—yet how infinitely superior to them all. He saw the fair Imogen coming to meet him, shyly repressing her joy and gratitude for the turn which their fortunes had taken, but only refraining on account of the spectators from throwing herself into his arms. This she confessed afterwards, after a decent interval of explanation, and full confessions on both sides. Neither of them would own to have been the most overjoyed at the meeting, delayed as it had been by an apparent conspiracy of all the powers of darkness.

Mr. Bruce had not as yet returned from the “Ultima Thule” of Western Queensland, where he had a share in an immense cattle station. His stay had been protracted and unsatisfactory. A dry season had set in—had followed several rainless years, in fact—nothing could exceed the frightful position of the squatters in that district.

The destruction of stock was awful, unparalleled. Never since the first white man’s foot had touched Australia’s shore, had there been such loss, and probable ruin (he wrote to his wife).

He should be glad to get back to Marondah, to see some decent grass again, and hear the river rippling through the calm still night, and the river-oaks murmuring to the stars. That was something like a country. He would take the first chance to sell out of Mount Trelawney, and never go out of Victoria for an investment again.

So Edward Bruce had written in a peaceable mood. He supposed a general amnesty must be declared, and all be forgiven and forgotten. By the way, he met Jack Carter (Little-River-Jack) at a place not a hundred miles from Roma (he wrote). “He was in a position to do me a service at a critical juncture, and did it heartily and effectively. So all scores are cleared between him and me. You mustn’t suppose, however, that I am in danger of my life, or that bushranging, cattle-stealing, and an occasional interchange of revolver shots, is part of the order of the day. What I mention is exceptional, and I don’t wish it to go further for several reasons.

“The Manager, Mackenzie, and I were riding along rather late one evening, and a good twelve or fifteen miles from home. The weather (of course) was fine, but the hour was late, and the sun, which had been glaring at us all day, only just about to set.

“‘By George! that’s a big mob of horses,’ said Mac., ‘going fast too. Coming from the back of Goornong and heading for Burnt Creek. Six men and a black boy. Depend upon it, there’s something “cronk.” They might see us yet. Yes, they do! They’ve halted. Left two men and the boy with the mob, and the rest, four men, are coming across the plains to us.’

“‘Do you know who they are?’

“‘I can pretty well guess,’ he said. ‘They’re a part of that crowd that we broke up last year, a very dangerous lot! The big man with the beard is Joe Bradfield, the best bushman in all Queensland, and perhaps Australia, to boot. The chap alongside him is “Jerry the Nut.” He’s a double-dyed scoundrel, if you like, twice tried for murder, and ought to have been hanged years ago, if he’d got his rights. Supposed to have shot “Jack the Cook,” who quarrelled with him, and started in for Springsure to give the lot away, but never got there. Found dead in the Oakey Creek with two bullets in him. Jerry was proved to have overtaken him on the road; was the last man seen with him alive. Put on his trial—a strong case against him, but not sufficient evidence. Here they come. We’ve seen them in possession of stolen horses. I expect they’ve duffed them from that Bank station, that was taken over last week. They may think it safer to “rub us out.” They’re villains enough for anything. You’re armed, and my “navy, No. 1” is pretty sure at close quarters. Cut off by —! we may have to ride for it too—’ As he spoke, three men emerged from a clump of brigalow at an angle from the line at which the ‘horse thieves’ were riding. They also made towards us, and riding at speed, seemed as if they desired to reach us at about the same time as the others. Such, it appeared, would be the case.

“The four men that had left the mob of horses, rode at the station overseer and me as if they would ride over us. Then pulled up with the stock-horses’ sudden halt, not brought up on their haunches, like those of the gaucho of Chile or the cowboy of the Western States, by the merciless wrenching curb, but with the half pull of the plain snaffle, the only bit the bushman knows, when with loose rein, and lowered head, the Australian camp horse drives his fore-feet into the ground, and stops dead as if nailed to the earth.

“‘What the h—l are you two doing here?’ shouted the tall man, a Hercules in height and breadth of shoulder, yet sitting his horse with the ease and closeness of early boyhood, though his beard and coal-black hair were already streaked with grey. Tracking us down? My God! it’s the worst lay you was ever on. Isn’t a man to ride across a plain in the blasted squatters’ country without he has a pass from a magistrate? That’s what it’s coming to. Well, you’re on the wrong lay this trip. Come along back with us, or we’ll make yer.

“‘And look dashed quick about it, or ye’ll not come back at all. Bring up the darbies, Joe! We’ll see how the bloomin’ swells like ’em.’

“As the last speaker uttered this threat, he and the other men raised their revolvers.

“‘I’ll see you d—d first,’ I replied (excuse bad language). ‘We’re from Trelawney this morning, and on our lawful business.’ Here I drew my revolver.

“The encounter looked doubtful, when the three new arrivals rode up, and, like the other bushmen, stopped dead, with their horses side by side.

“‘No, yer don’t!’ said one of the new arrivals, a man as tall and massive as the first ‘robber’ (for such he seemed). ‘I’m not goen’ to stand by and see Mr. Bruce, of Marondah, double-banked by you Queensland duffers while I’m round. There’s been trouble between him and our crowd; but he’s a man and a gentleman, and I’m here to stand by him to the bitter end. It’s five go four now, so fire away, and be d—d to you!’

“‘Who the devil are you?’

“‘I’m Phelim O’Hara, and this is Little-River-Jack, and my brother Pat. We’ve come up, like the Proosians at Waterloo, rather late in the day; but “better late than never.” You’re Joe Bradfield, that we’ve heard of, and Jerry the Nut that murdered his mate, I suppose. So you’d better go back to the French, and let the allies go their own way. No one’s goen’ to give you away, if your own foolishness doesn’t. We’re on our own ground, so hear reason and clear out. I heard a big lot of police, and Superintendent Gray, of Albany, was on yer track.’

“‘When did you hear that?’

“‘No later than yesterday. And you’re ridin’ straight into their bloomin’ arms, if yer don’t get back the way yer kem’ in. Take a fool’s advice, and get into the ranges again. This country’s too open for your crowd, and you’ll have to do the gully-raker’s racket for a month or two, till the “derry’s” toned down a bit.’

“This apparently reasonable advice seemed to have weight with the troop of highly irregular horse, as, after a short colloquy, they rode back to their companions in charge of the horses, and heading them towards the distant ranges, disappeared shortly from sight.

“‘O’Hara!’ said I, ‘whatever you and your mates may have done in the past—at any rate, as far as I am concerned—is now past and gone. I freely forgive anything that there may have been to forgive, in consequence of your manly conduct to-day. If you will come back with me to the head station, I dare say Mr. Mackenzie can find you something to do in this bad season. Unfortunately, we have only too many vacancies for bushmen like yourselves and Jack Carter.’

“‘We’ll take your word for it, Mr. Bruce,’ said Little-River-Jack; ‘and, if we come to terms, there’ll be no station on the Upper Sturt that’ll lose fewer stock—barrin’ from the season—while we’re to the fore.’

“‘All right,’ said Mackenzie, ‘you’re just the chaps we want this awful season; and, now you’re going straight, each of you will be worth half a dozen ordinary men.’”

The day was still warm, not much change from the 110° in the shade which the sunset-hour had registered, but a gradual coolness commenced to o’erspread the heated landscape. “The stars rush out, at one strike comes the dark,” making an appearance of coolness, to which the abnormal dryness of the air in mid-Australia lends a perceptible relief. Confident of a welcome, and the hospitable reception of a head-station—always superior in comfort to the more casual arrangements of the out-stations—the five horsemen rode steadily forward in peace and amity; Mr. Mackenzie, as knowing every foot of the run, taking the lead with the two O’Haras, while Mr. Bruce and Little-River-Jack followed quietly in the rear.