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.’