It is not pertinent to my story to dwell at any length upon my Australian experiences. As I am not writing for literary purposes, brief allusion to them will suffice.

I went out steerage in a sailing vessel, and was brought into contact with new phases of life and adventure. Had I been less anxious about myself and those connected with me, I should have found ample scope for contemplation and study in these novel pictures of human life and struggle; and even as it was, they frequently afforded me a healthy diversion from my own private cares. My time on board was chiefly occupied upon a diary which I subsequently sent home to Ellen, and being written for her I took pains to make it interesting. It interested me too, and I was amused at the importance with which trivial incidents were insensibly invested. I was, it is true, subject to fits of depression, but the salt breezes, the rough life, the open air, the alternations of storm and sunshine, invigorated me, and helped to shake them off. I had with me, besides, an infallible charm in the portraits of Ellen and our child, which I wore close to my heart. Whenever I gazed upon these pictures Ellen's words recurred to me: "Dear love, dear love, I am thinking of you," and hope bloomed like a flower within me.

At home I had given little thought to the special groove in which I should strive to obtain a livelihood in the Colonies. I was ready and willing to undertake any kind of work, but I was certainly not prepared for the difficulties I encountered. The market was crowded with unemployed labor; on all sides I heard the cry of hard times, and yet money seemed to be abundant. Surely, thought I, there must be some place for me, a man of education, in this great city, but this very quality of education seemed to stop the way. Gentlemen were at a discount; bone and muscle were the staple, despite the fact that bone and muscle were striking against capital. The wages rejected by rough workingmen I should have been glad to accept, and had I been a bricklayer, a carpenter, or a stonemason, I should soon have been in a situation; having no special trade to back me, I went to the wall. After weeks of vain endeavor, I determined to go up country and see what I could do on the goldfields. I could wield a pick if I could do nothing else.

I had lived very sparingly, but my little store of money was dwindling fast, and would, even with extreme frugality, be exhausted in a month or two. No time, therefore, to lose in idleness. To the goldfields I set my face, tramping it alone through the bush, seeking employment on the way, which I did not obtain. The golden days of the Colonies were over, and the familiar and magic cry of "Rush, O!" was seldom heard. Still, gold was being dug from the earth, and nuggets were as much my property as any man's—if I could only get on the track of them. I did not. For me Tom Tiddler's ground was nearly barren, the few pennyweights of gold I managed to extract from alluvial soil being scarcely sufficient to provide me with the commonest necessaries. Strangely enough, certain qualities which should have served me in good stead tended rather to retard me, and indeed made me unpopular with the class I mixed with. For instance, my sobriety. I was frequently invited to drink, and my steady refusal was regarded with disfavor, occasionally with contempt. Lucky diggers celebrate their good fortune by "going on the spree," and standing treat to one and all. No inducement could prevail upon me to join them; I held aloof from them, and they showed their feelings by refusing to associate with me. I regretted this the more because as a rule they were a set of free-hearted men, whose instincts were generous, if not exactly prudent. The consequence was that I made no friends, which did not help me in the battle I was waging. In this fight for fortune my greatest consolation was derived from Ellen's letters. Every month I received from my lawyer, through the Melbourne Post Office, a packet containing Ellen's letters, and one from himself upon business matters. His communications were brief. There was nothing of importance to report concerning my wife; her allowance was drawn regularly, and there was no improvement in her habits; Maxwell had called several times, and on one occasion would not depart without an interview, which was granted. He expressed anxiety about my welfare, and made efforts to ascertain where I was; the information not being supplied he retired, after indulging in mysterious threats—as to which, my lawyer said, I need not be in the least degree alarmed.

Ellen's letters were longer, and I need hardly say I read them again and again with delight. Not in one of them was to be found a complaining word; instinctively she always took the bright and cheerful view, and I knew that for my sake she would make light of crosses. How did her letters run? She was happy and in good health; she was comfortable in her lodgings, and the landlady was kindness itself; our child was wonderfully well, and was growing "so big" that I would hardly know him; his eyes were more beautiful than ever; everybody noticed them, everybody fell in love with him; it made her so proud to see people look admiringly at him, and "you would not believe the notice he takes of things"; he had learned already to lisp "mamma" and "papa;" and he sent his love to his dear papa, and a thousand, thousand kisses; she had obtained some needlework by which she was earning a few shillings a week, "not that through your great kindness we have not enough to live upon, but I want to put something by for a rainy day;" I was to be sure not to order her to give up the work, because she had too much idle time on her hands, and the hours flew by more quickly when she was fully employed; "when my needle is in my hand my thoughts are always on baby's dear father, and I am wondering what he is doing at that precise moment—but indeed, my love, you are never out of my thoughts;" and so on, and so on. Not a detail of her domestic life which she believed would afford me pleasure was omitted, "and I hope I am not worrying you by speaking of these small matters, but it is such a pleasure to me; I write every night when baby is asleep and my work is done." The tender expressions of concern for my welfare were inexpressibly comforting to me. In my lonely tent I saw with my mind's eye the dear woman in her London lodging sitting pen in hand at her labor of love, with baby asleep in his little crib, and everything in the humble room clean and sweet and orderly, and I thanked God she was happy and well.

Things went from bad to worse with me. Driven by necessity I wandered from place to place, and there seemed to be no rest for the sole of my foot. When I plied my pick on the goldfields I worked as "a hatter," by which is meant a man who works singlehanded. I spent weeks and weeks prospecting for gold and finding none. Bad luck dogged me wherever I went, whatever I undertook. I had a reasonable longing for money—for the sake of my dear Ellen and my boy, and once I missed a great fortune.

I had been compelled to part with all my belongings except a short-handled pick. All my other tools were gone, and tent and blankets as well; not a shilling in my pockets, but happily the best part of a cake of cavendish and a cutty. No man knows the comfort that lies in a pipe of tobacco as a bushman does; it has sustained the courage of many a man in as desperate a plight as I was in on that day. I had started in the early morning for a cattle station where I had heard there was the chance of a job, and towards evening found that I had missed my way. Had there been such twilight as we enjoy in England there would have been time to get into the right track, but in Australia night treads close upon the shadows of evening. It was not the first time I had been "bushed," and I accepted the position as cheerfully as my circumstances would permit. The night was fine, the sky was filled with stars, the air was sweet and warm. I had camped out under more favorable conditions, but I made the best of this, comforting myself with the reflection that I had only a few hours to wait before I obtained a meal at the cattle station I had missed. Meanwhile I smoked my pipe, and soon afterwards fell asleep upon a bed of dry leaves.

I was up with the sun, and was about to resume my search for the lost track when my eyes fell upon a range of hills studded with quartz. I thought of the stories I had heard of rich reefs being accidentally discovered by men who had lost their way in the bush, and considered that it was as likely to happen to me as to another. It is true I was hungry, but I could hold on a bit longer, and I determined to spend an hour or two in prospecting. So to it I went, selecting the most likely-looking hill, on the uppermost ridge of which rested a huge boulder of quartz, which a vivid imagination might have converted into the fantastic image of a human monster. Detaching some pieces of stone from the base of this boulder I saw fine specks of gold in them in sufficient quantity to give promise of a paying reef. The specks were so finely distributed that they could only be won by the aid of fire, water, and quicksilver, and the pulverizing stamps of a crushing machine. The discovery was therefore valueless to me in its power to relieve my present necessities, but I marked the spot and determined to return to it when my circumstances were more favorable to the opening of a new reef.

I reached the cattle station in the evening, and to my disappointment learned that there was no work for me. The kind-hearted people on the station gave me a plentiful supper and a shake-down, and when I rose the next morning to continue my wanderings I was not allowed to depart empty-handed. The life I led in the Colonies was rough and hard, but it was studded with stars of human kindness which I can never forget.

Six months afterwards I was in a position—having a few pounds in my pocket—to visit the quartz ranges I had prospected, my intention being to mark off a prospector's claim and set to work. Other men were before me; every inch of ground north and south was marked off for miles, and a thousand miners were at work. The huge boulder in which I had found specks of gold had been blasted away, and I was informed that a wonderful amount of gold had been taken from it. The claim upon which it had stood was the richest on the line of reef, the stone averaging five or six ounces to the ton. A quartz crushing machine had been erected, and was merrily pounding away.

With a sigh I turned my back upon the el dorado I was the first to discover. Hundreds of other men on the goldfields have missed fortune in the same manner by a hair's breadth.

I will not prolong this record of my three years' sojourn in Australia. At the expiration of this time a stroke of good fortune really fell to my share, and then it was that I received news of an event which changed the current of my life and led to the unconscious committal of the crime for which I must answer to the law. On a partially deserted goldfield, where there were still a few miners at work on claims which were supposed to be worked out, I took possession of a shaft, and in one of the pillars I found a "pocket" of gold which in less than a fortnight yielded me between fifty and sixty ounces.

Mammon worship is an evil instinct, but gold can bring unalloyed joy to suffering hearts. It brought joy to mine.

I was sorely tempted. Longing for home, for a sight of Ellen and my boy, had for some time past assailed me; there had been hours when I rebelled against my lot, when it needed all my moral strength to overcome the anguish of my soul. I had now the means to gratify my cherished desire—why should I not do so? Debating the risks of the adventure, I was tossed this way and that, now held back by the fear that my presence in London might be discovered by my enemies to the disturbance of the life of peace which Ellen was enjoying, now encouraged by my ardent wish to clasp my dear ones in my arms. The question, however, was decided for me.

A mail from home was due, and I was expecting my monthly packet of letters, which I had directed to be forwarded to a neighboring township. So anxious was I that I set off for this township in the middle of the night.

The mail had arrived and was being delivered. Scores of bearded men were clustered about the wooden building in anxious expectation. Some came away from the little window with joy on their faces, some fell back with a sigh of disappointment. The strength of the human tie which binds heart to heart is nowhere more strikingly displayed than on these distant shores, where groups of rough, stalwart men hurry to the post office in the hope of receiving letters from home.

My packet was handed to me, and I stood aside to open it. Ellen's budget I put into my pocket; I could not read her loving words with prying eyes around me. The lawyer's letter was bulkier than usual, and I tore it open. I read but a few lines when I reeled.

"Hold up, mate," cried a man, catching me by the arm. "Bad news?"

"No, no," I muttered, and the denial struck me like a spiritual blow the moment it was uttered.

To some men the news which caused this shock would have brought a never-to-be-forgotten sorrow. To me it brought release from a chain which had galled my soul. Barbara was dead!

It would be the worst kind of hypocrisy to say that I felt as a man feels at the loss of one who is dear to him. It was impossible—impossible. There are those who deem it fitting to assume a grief which finds no place in their hearts; it is common to see white handkerchiefs held before tearless eyes. Let it tell against me that I neither felt nor assumed such sorrow. Equally wrong—and at the same time unjust to myself—would it be to say that I rejoiced. But an immense weight was lifted from my heart. Barbara was dead and I was free!

Yes, free to marry Ellen, to commence a new and purer life, to have a home which I could enter without fear; a home where love awaited my coming, where I could look in my child's face without shame, where I could show by my devotion how deeply I appreciated the sacrifices his dear mother had made for me. To remove the stigma which in the eyes of the world was attached to Ellen through her association with me—to give her my name, to call her "wife"—was this nothing to be grateful for? Was it for this that I should put on a mournful face and conjure false tears into my eyes? No. Heaven had sent me relief, had proclaimed that my long agony was over, had lifted the curse from me. It was not for me to play the hypocrite.

My agitation somewhat subdued, I set myself to the perusal of the lawyer's letter.

The details of Barbara's death were shocking and startling. Her depraved habits had been the cause of a miserable tragedy. The letter stated that the first intelligence the writer received of the event was through the newspapers, cuttings from which he enclosed. My wife, it seems, had not removed from her lodging in Islington where I last saw her. In the middle of the night an alarm of fire was raised, and the lodgers in the house had great difficulty in escaping. Barbara had not been thought of. She did not make her appearance and no cries proceeded from her room. When she was missed the firemen made their way to her apartment, and brought out her charred body. The fire, it was proved, had originated in her bedroom, and it was supposed that she overturned a lighted candle, and so caused the catastrophe.

Among the newspaper cuttings was a report of the inquest, which my solicitor had attended, and evidence was given of Barbara's depraved habits, one witness stating that "she was drunk from night till morning, and from morning till night," a statement which Maxwell declared was a calumny.

His sister had dreadful troubles; her married life was most unhappy, but she suffered in silence. His attempts to bring obloquy upon me were frustrated by my solicitor, and by the evidence of the doctors. The latter proved that she must have been a confirmed dipsomaniac for years; the former produced receipts for the allowance I made her. The verdict was in accordance with the evidence.

After the funeral, the arrangements for which were made by my solicitor, Maxwell called upon him with a document purporting to be Barbara's will, in which she left everything to him, including the £300 a-year I had allowed her. Upon my solicitor suggesting that he should take legal steps to obtain what he called "his rights," he offered to compromise and to forego his claim for a stated sum. This being scouted, he asked whether it would not be worth my while to give him a smaller sum to get rid of him forever. My solicitor replied that that was a matter for my consideration upon my return home, but that he should advise me not to give him a shilling, and there the matter ended. My solicitor said he gathered from my letters that I had not prospered in the Colonies, that my presence at home was necessary for the settlement of my financial affairs, and that he enclosed me a draft for £200 to defray the expenses of my passage and outfit.

Ellen's letter was of the usual affectionate nature, somewhat steadier in tone because of the tragedy which she had read in the papers. She expressed herself most pitifully towards Barbara, whose errors were expiated by her death.

"She is now at peace, and I am sure you will have none but tender thoughts for her." Nobility of soul, in alliance with the tenderest feeling and the purest sentiments shone forth in every line. It softened my heart towards the dead; it made me solemnly grateful for the living. She said not a word about her position and my intentions. She trusted me and had faith in me. Conscious that I would do what it was right to do, she made not the most remote reference to our future.

Our future! How brightly it spread before me! There was a new sweetness in the air, a fairer color in the skies. How strangely, how strangely are woe and joy commingled! Blessed with a good woman's love, with no fear of poverty before me, I would not have changed places with the highest in the world. The money I had capitalized to secure Barbara's allowance was now without a charge upon it, and reverted to me. The future was assured, the way was clear, the sun shone upon a flower-strewn path. Alas! the reality!

There was nothing to detain me a day longer in the Colonies; the richest claim on the goldfields would not have tempted me to delay my journey home. I had money enough for content, and love made me rich. I looked through the shipping advertisements in a Melbourne newspaper. A mail steamer was advertised to leave for London this very day; I could not catch it, and I should have to wait a fortnight for the next. Another merchant steamer was to leave for Liverpool in two days. I determined to take passage in it. I could get to Melbourne in time.

As I walked to the telegraph office, the man who had saved me from falling when I opened my solicitor's letter passed by and looked me in the face.

"Better, mate?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"It was good news, then?" he said.

"Yes," I said, mechanically, and caught my breath.

What if I had told him that the good news was the death of my wife?

From the telegraph office I dispatched three messages. One to the shipping agent in Melbourne to secure a cabin in the outgoing steamer; the second to my solicitor in London, announcing my intended departure from the colony; the third to Ellen—"I am coming home."

Wonderful was the contrast between this sea voyage and the last I had undertaken. For the greater part of the time I think I must have been the happiest man on board. On the first voyage I had schooled myself into resignation and submission to my fate, and had taken but a fitful interest in the novel aspects of life by which I was surrounded. Now they appealed to me sympathetically, and I instinctively responded to the appeal. I chatted and made friends. I found zest in the simple amusements of ship life. I spent many happy hours in contemplation of the future, and in arranging the details. Ellen and I would go to some quiet country place, where we were not known, and there we would get married. Deciding not to live in London, we would discuss together in what part of England we would make our home. The sunniest months of my life had been passed in Swanage, and I would have chosen that delightful spot because of its memories, and because it would have been Ellen's choice, had I not been restrained by the thought of Maxwell. Although with Barbara's death his power over me had practically disappeared, still in the circumstances of our life in Swanage—Ellen a single woman and I a married man living apart from my wife—Maxwell's malice might sow thorns in our path. As far as was possible, this must be avoided. We would select some part of England where we were strangers, where the people we mixed with had no personal experience of our past. There, in a little cottage with a garden we would pass our days, and there I would resume my literary labors, and under a nom de plume strive to obtain a footing in the field most congenial to me. My adventures on the goldfields would supply me with attractive themes.

In this endeavor I had no personal vanity to serve; it was simply that I recognized the mischief of living an idle life. I would have no more wasted days. If I did not succeed with the pen I would bring my muscles into play. I laughed as the idea occurred to me that I might eventually become a market gardener, a cultivator of fruits. Straightway my thoughts traveled gaily in that direction.

Towards the end of the voyage I became impatient. The nearer we got to England the greater was my eagerness to see Ellen. I was on the threshold of a new existence, and I was in a fever to cross it. This uncontrollable desire burnt within me to the exclusion of every other topic. I became restless and abstracted, and I withdrew from cordial relationship with my fellow-passengers. This mood—for which I cannot account except on the grounds of pure selfishness—lasted a week, and then I took myself to task and endeavored to make myself companionable; but I was not regarded with the same favor, and my society was not courted. It taught me a lesson, and I inwardly reproached myself with ingratitude.

It is perhaps necessary to mention that I still retained the name I had adopted, and that I appeared on the passenger list as John Fletcher. Time enough, I thought, to resume my own name when Ellen and I were married. But my principal reason for retaining the name of Fletcher was the fear that some of the passengers might have read the account of the fire in which Barbara perished. Newspapers nowadays deal largely in horrors, and accounts of the fire had been published in the Melbourne journals. Naturally I shrank from identification.

The date of my arrival in Liverpool was the 30th of November, and I landed late at night in the midst of a snowstorm. From a railway guide on board ship I noted that a train for London started from Lime Street at midnight, and by this train I had decided to travel to London. Fatal decision! Had I been struck down dead in the streets, my fate would have been the happier!