I remarked that I did. Then, giving me a note to the doctor, who would examine me, he bade me come back to him next day.
To make a long story short, the doctor's examination proving satisfactory, I was enrolled a member of the Adelaide Fire Brigade, with permission to do as much work as the day had room for, give as much satisfaction as possible, and risk my life in the interest of the city and the reputation of the Brigade as often as opportunity occurred. All things considered, it was by no means an unpleasant life, and until the novelty wore off, I believe I enjoyed it. One strange coincidence, however, happened to me during my connection with it, which I take to be so extraordinary that I must ask your indulgence while I narrate it.
One miserable, gusty night, early in winter, the alarm sounded for a fire. Our promptness was proverbial, and almost before the bell had ceased to sound we were racing for the scene. It turned out to be the New Federation Hotel, in King William Street, and when we arrived the whole building was one enormous blaze. The fire had originated, so it was said, in a small store cupboard behind the bar, and had spread all over the ground-floor, thus practically cutting off the escape of those lodged in the rooms above. According to the manager's statement, nearly every bedroom was occupied that night, and so far only four people had effected exits. Within two minutes of our arrival we had the escapes up against the building, and were passing the terrified occupants down as fast as we could lay hold of them. It was dangerous work, but we were not paid to think of that.
Suddenly, at a side window, I saw a woman preparing to hurl herself into the street below. The crowd noticed her too, and raised a yell. Running a ladder round, I mounted to her side, and before she could carry out her purpose had taken her in my arms and borne her safely to the ground. As we reached it, a weird, dishevelled, scallywag of a man rushed towards us, with arms outstretched, crying, "Oh, my God, my God, she's safe—my wife!"
In that brief moment I recognized my old enemy, Captain Welbourne, the man who I believed had deprived me of Maud!
Next day I learnt that he was on his wedding tour, and what interested me far more, that his wife's maiden name was Hawkhurst! Two points, therefore, raised themselves for my consideration: either he had never loved Maud; or he had declared himself, and she had refused him. If this latter supposition were correct, what could have induced her action? I must leave it to my readers to imagine what agonies of self-reproach I suffered after this discovery. I saw plainly that I had wrecked my whole life by one little foolish exhibition of jealousy, and that too without the slightest cause or justification. A hundred times a day I cursed my senseless stupidity. But there, what is to be gained by opening the old wound? Rather let me draw a curtain over such a painful subject, one which even to-day I hardly like to think about.
Now, though life in the Fire Brigade might and undoubtedly did possess attractions, they were such as were liable to become exceedingly monotonous after a time. So it chanced that when I had been employed therein nearly eight months, a friend heard of a situation as store-keeper, on a Darling River sheep station, which he was kind enough to think might suit me. At his suggestion I applied for the position, and had the good fortune to secure it.
Sending in my resignation to the Board, I left Adelaide, and proceeded into the Bush. But the billet did not come up to expectations, and when I had given it a good trial, I discarded it in favour of another as cook to an Overlanding Party. In this capacity I wandered far afield, with the result that at the end of eighteen months I found myself in Brisbane, tired of the Bush, and pining for a breath of sea air again.
While inactive in Brisbane, an English letter was forwarded to me from the Melbourne Post-office. The writer was a cousin, and her mission was to announce the death of my poor old mother, after a brief illness. The blow, as may be supposed, affected me keenly, the more so because I could not but feel that, all things considered, I had not been the son to her that she deserved. Poor old lady, I never knew how much she was to me until I had lost her. Her death, and the thought that I should never see her loving face, or hear her gentle voice again, seemed to sever the one remaining link that united me to my old life. Could I, I asked myself, be the same person as the little boy she took to school at Plymouth? Could I be the same John Ramsay who followed her into Sir Benjamin Plowden's office, so many years ago? Yes—the same, but oh! how differently situated! With Virgil, I could well cry, "O mihi praeteritos referat si Jupiter annos!" Alas! those dear dead years, how bright they are to look back upon, yet how shamefully I misused them!
But in spite of the bitterness of the blow, I could not go on brooding over my loss for ever. My mother was gone, nothing could bring her back to me. It behoved me now to look after myself, for my necessities were on the point of obtruding themselves upon my notice once more.