Having completed his task, he was not satisfied until he had posted the letters and packet with his own hands, and with an unuttered prayer that they would meet with no mischance similar to the last, he returned to the Tasmanian Club, where he slept soundly till aroused by the fully arisen sun and the hum of labour, combined with the ceaseless clatter of vehicles.
A man’s mental turmoils and uncertainties doubtless act upon his physical constitution, but he must indeed be exceptionally framed who can withstand the cheering influence of a well-cooked breakfast and a fine day in spring. The surroundings of a first-class Australian Club are such as to cause the most fastidious arrival from Europe to recognise the social kinship of the cultured Briton to be worldwide and homogeneous. The conventional quietude of manner, the perfection of attendance, the friendliness towards the stranger guest, all these minor matters, differentiated from the best hotel life, tend to placate the traveller, much as he may be given to criticise all more or less foreign institutions, when distant from the “Mecca” of his race.
So it came to pass that, on forth issuing from that most agreeable caravanserai, his bruised and lacerated spirit felt soothed by the courtesy of the members generally, as well as of those immediately near to him at the table where he sat. He had drifted easily into conversation with several manifestly representative men: with one, indeed, an all-powerful mining investor (as he learnt subsequently), holding the fortunes of a mammoth copper syndicate in the hollow of his hand. Of this gentleman he took special heed, but neither from his appearance, manner nor conversation was he enabled to make a probable guess as to the nature of his occupation.
He might have been an habitué of cities, or a life-long dweller in the country, interested in commerce, in finance, pastoral or agricultural pursuits; in any one of these, or in all. But there was nothing to indicate it. A complete negation of the first person singular marked his conversation, yet he was apparently equally at ease in each and every topic as they arose. One thing, however, could not be mistaken—the massive frame and exceptional capacity for leadership, which would seem to be wasted on a city life.
Another of a widely different type had been his right-hand neighbour at the genial but conventional board—a young and fashionably-dressed man, “native and to the manner born,” who seemed to be the recognised arbiter elegantiarum, as well as leader and referee of all sport and pastime. Secretary to the polo club, steward at the forthcoming Race-meeting and Hunt Club Cup, on the committee of the Assembly Ball, also imminent, he tendered an offer to our honorary member to procure seats, tickets, and introductions for himself and friends, with special facilities for joining or witnessing these annual celebrations. He also was not affiché to any known profession—at least, to none that could be gathered from looks or manner. Others of the ordinary denizens of club-land to whom he was introduced mentioned his partner, Mr. Tregonwell, as an out-and-out good fellow, and, as a mining expert, a benefactor to this island. He had evidently toned down his exuberance in the interests of conventionality. Mr. Blount, in contradistinction to the men who had extended the right-hand of friendship to him, was patently a novus homo—ticketed as such by dress and deportment, and assured of courteous entertainment from that very circumstance.
It was early in the “season” for Hobart to be in full swing as the recuperating region for the exhausted dwellers in continental Australia, where from Perth to the Gulf of Carpentaria King Sol reigns supreme in the summer months. Still, there was no lack of hospitality, including agreeable réunions, which, more informal than in metropolitan Australian cities, are pleasanter for that circumstance. There was an old-fashioned air about the environs of Hobart, a pleasantly-restful expression, a total absence of hurry or excitement. Small farms with aged orchards abounded, the fruit from which, exceptionally well flavoured and plenteous, recalled the village homes of Kent and Devon. Unlike the dwellers on the continent, the yeomen—for such they were—seemed fully contented with a life of modest independence, which they were unwilling to exchange for any speculative attempt to “better themselves.”
What better position could they hope to attain than a home in this favoured island, blessed with a modified British climate and a fertile soil, where all the necessaries of a simple yet dignified existence were within reach of the humblest freeholder?
No scorching droughts, no devastating floods, no destructive cyclones harassed the rural population. Mr. Blount amused himself with daily drives through the suburbs, within such distances as were accessible in an afternoon. Having been much struck with the action of a pair of cab-horses which he took for his first drive, he arranged for their services daily during his stay in Hobart. Of one—a fine brown mare, occupying the “near” side in the pair—he became quite enamoured; the way in which she went up the precipitous road to Brown’s River, and down the same on the return journey, without a hint from the driver, stamped her, in his estimation, as an animal of exceptional quality.
The metalled road, too, was not particularly smooth, albeit hard enough to try any equine legs. On inquiring the price the owner put on the pair, he was surprised to find it was but £35. Twenty pounds for his favourite, and fifteen for her less brilliant companion—useful and stanch though she was, and a fair match for shape and colour. He immediately closed the bargain, and thought he should enjoy the feeling of setting up his own carriage, so to speak; a barouche, too, chintz-lined, as are most of the cabs of Hobart—obsolete in fashion, but most comfortable as hackney carriages.
Before the fortnight expired, to which he limited his holiday, he was sensible of a slight, a very slight, change of feeling, though he would have indignantly repelled any imputation of disloyalty to Imogen. But it was not in human nature for a man of his age, still on the sunny side of thirty, to live among bevies of, perhaps, the handsomest women in Australasia, by whom he found himself to be cordially welcomed, without a slight alleviation of the feeling of gloom, if not despair, into which the absence of any recognition of his letters from Bunjil had thrown him. Moreover, the reports of the richness of the Comstock mine, confirmed, even heightened, by every letter from Tregonwell, were in all the local papers.