He promised himself the satisfaction, however, [166] ]of revisiting Tumut, and personally assuring the future of Mrs. Richard Lawless and her children, which, as he had always loved and admired the place and people, he regarded as a sacred duty, and a delightful holiday not to be neglected. Thus, filled with anticipations of home-returning joys, as he trod once more the deck of the P. & O. liner Baghdad, marked once more the Oriental garb, and heard the familiar-sounding voices of the Lascar crew, his heart swelled within him, as in ‘the dear, dead days beyond recall.’

. . . . . . . . .

The return voyage in the Baghdad was pure unmixed delight. Very rarely is it otherwise in the ‘floating clubs’ of the P. & O. ‘The liner she’s a lady,’ in every sense of the word. In the eyes of the outward-bound passengers for England Arnold Banneret and Lord Newstead were heroes and ‘conquistadores,’ rivalling the comrades of Pizarro returning from Peru laden with the treasure of the Incas. Lord Newstead secured the larger share of admiration—young and handsome, heir to an historic name, wounded in the fight, what modern gallant could hope to rival him in the good graces of the lady passengers? His right arm still supported by a sling, and his disabled condition, called forth many proffers of active sympathy.

Mr. Banneret, on account of his age and patriarchal rank, was not so much an object of interest and admiration; nevertheless, the ‘scar on his brown cheek revealed’ if not ‘a token true of Bosworth Field,’ a genuine record of a ‘close call,’ [167] ]as an American ‘shift boss,’ travelling east from ‘Great Holder,’ entitled the incident.

Their gold, now safe under hatches, was variously estimated at from fifty to a hundred thousand ounces, according to the experience or imagination of the narrator. The winds and waves were kind; the Great Bight was so smooth that ‘you’d hardly know it,’ as a fair voyager of experience in the South Pacific characterised it. And shortly after the dawnlight—clearer grown, and faintly roseate-hued—opened to view the sandstone portals of the harbour lake of the South, the Baghdad’s passengers, in cabs, carriages, trams, and omnibuses, distributed themselves throughout the Sydney clubs and hotels, with an economy of time and trouble unattainable in any but the mother State.

. . . . . . . . .

Home again! Everything had gone well in his absence. For the twentieth time Arnold Banneret vowed that never again would he leave the domestic Eden for the outer world, how fair soever might be the lure held out by inconstant fortune. The girls were growing up; his boys, like every other man’s boys, needed the occasional parental warning—the guiding hand. His wife’s cheek paled as she traced the still visible track of the robber’s bullet. ‘What was sufficient repayment, what compensation adequate, for such risks? And if——’ but she would not suffer him to proceed with the conjectures of what might have happened. The ‘if’ had remained undeveloped, so there was no use speculating on grisly possibilities.

[168]
]Sydney was more beauteous than ever, with glorious gardens, and the daily ocean breeze. Say that the noonday heat was at times oppressive, what was it in comparison with the terrible sun-rays of the West—a tent only between the dweller therein and the cloudless, relentless sky? The glorious semi-tropical foliage of the sea-girt city, the lawns so freshly verdurous, the stately pines, the flowering shrubs, the rose thickets, the carefully tended, if somewhat narrow roads, which, winding around the harbour cliffs, open out such enchanting views of sea and shore, earth and sky—specially arranged for the delectation of strangers and pilgrims! The swift-winged yachts and pleasure-boats still floated like sea-gulls above the translucent wave. All these delights and refreshments smote the senses of the home-returning wayfarer almost as freshly as if tasted for the first time.

Then the delicious awakening in the fair, sweet dawn of the early summer, with the certainty that there was now no need for doubt or anxiety touching the family fortunes. A competence, nay, more than a sufficiency for all their needs, was assured. Their luck had turned. No more was it necessary to go stolidly on with the daily work which gained the daily bread. There was not, could not be again, the necessity for calculation as to what liability required to be arranged for—what pressing account to be paid in full, or if not, compromised by payment on account. Such things had been in the past—in that shadowy region now so dim and distant-seeming. No, thank God! and a wave of gratitude passed through his every sense and faculty [169] ]as he realised that those days and their accompanying sacrifices had passed away for ever. Were they happier now? In his musings by the seashore, at eve or moonrise, he sometimes asked himself the question. The reply was not always in the affirmative. They had been happy—truly, consciously happy, then. If there were difficulties, they had overcome them. If there had been debts and doubts, anxiety never far distant, succour unexpected had come in time of need. The responsibilities of official position had been great—at times almost overpowering, but their very magnitude had stimulated his energies—he had never faltered; strong in the resolve to deal justly, impartially, with the high questions committed to his judgment, he had fought through opposition, misrepresentation, and discouragement, to emerge at last, with the approval of his conscience and the confidence of the heterogeneous workers whom he had ruled for a quarter of a century.

And now, having passed through the Sturm und Drang of early manhood, he had reached a period of life when youth had flown—when strength and activity could no longer be looked for—when whatever changes took place must necessarily be, in some respects, for the worse. What would the future be? In what direction would the rising generation of the family, nay, of Australia, be impelled?