‘They might judge by what they had seen and enjoyed to-day, of what value to the old country men like their worthy host were likely to be. He would not weary them. He was not a man of words, but his friends knew that what he said, he meant. His heart was in the toast which he gave them; there was no need to ask them to drink it with all the honours—their worthy host and hostess, with their amiable family and friends’ (here he looked paternally at Corisande), ‘and long life to them, to enjoy what they have so honourably gained, so liberally used.’
Arnold Banneret stood up in his place and faced the great assemblage. He looked around for a few seconds, permitting the applause which had followed the Duke’s peroration to die down. He met his wife’s gaze, half-proud, half-overcome by mingled feelings. He read the expression on her countenance, with the tear which dimmed her eye but did not fall. He knew that she was recalling the days of hard endeavour—the doubts at times, almost the despair, which had clouded early days in their chequered life, and now as he stood there, with plaudits resounding in his honour, his heart swelled high with natural pride and satisfaction.
‘My Lord Duke, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘it would be insincere for me to deny that I feel intensely the compliment, I may say the honour, paid me by his Grace and this distinguished and representative assemblage.
‘That the work is hard, the privations severe, in the pioneer’s life may not be denied; but the difficulties, though grave, are not greater than thousands of Britons have been willing to encounter in the pursuit of fame and fortune, and, thank God! are still willing for such prizes to risk all that men hold dear. In the mysterious lottery of life there is no denying the presence of an element known as Chance, defying all calculation, and turning the balance to success or failure. “The race,” as they all knew, “was not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong.” They had the warrant of Holy Writ for that. In his own experience he had seen it often exemplified. Of his comrades, one of the boldest explorers, one of the most capable pioneers of the Great West Australian desert, survived but to fall a victim in later years to the arrow of a Nigerian savage; another not less dauntless, and, in time of need, patient of hunger, thirst, and all but the direst extremity of famine, a master of woodcraft—ever tireless, cheerful, and inventive, lay beneath South African sands. But why dwell on failure or disaster—on history as old as humanity? He, by God’s grace, had _not_ failed, but stood there to-day—not proud, not vainglorious, but grateful to the bottom of his heart for that Divine mercy which had shielded him in danger and distress, in the dreary days when he lay under the shadow of death. And, next to the interposition of Divine Providence, was he indebted to the lady who sat by Sir Piers Hazelwood, his dear, constant, faithful wife, who had nursed him in sickness, cheered him in misfortune, and been bravest and most steadfast in the darkest hour before dawn. (Continuous cheering.) He would say, in conclusion, that he recognised the exceptional good fortune which had come to him, less for his personal advantage, than for the power it gave of benefiting his fellow-creatures, and relieving those less fortunately circumstanced.’ (Tremendous cheering.)