The last farewell was said, the last embrace given. With a brave and tearless face, but an aching heart, the loyal wife bade adieu to the one man that the world held for her—stood looking after the fast-receding vehicle which was to meet the coach at the country town—waving her handkerchief till the turning-point of the road was reached, then, with falling tears, walked slowly back to the cottage, and busied herself with the never-ending needlework—over which the tears flowed so fast at times that a pause in the stitching was necessary. In her chamber she poured out her heart in fervent supplication, that he whom she loved and trusted above all other created beings might return to her, safe as to health and successful in his enterprise, if so God willed, but if otherwise, in His good Providence, let him only be spared to return in health to glad his wife’s and children’s eyes, and her soul would be satisfied—‘Thy will, not mine be done, O Lord!’ were the closing words of the heartfelt, simple petition. Rising with an expression of renewed confidence and trusting faith, she smoothed her hair, bathed her face, and with a composed and steadfast countenance betook herself to the ever-recurring duties of the household.
The wrench of parting with wife and children was over. Mr. Banneret, like most strong men of an observant turn of mind, enjoyed change. A born traveller, he was equally at home on sea and land, hill or dale, plain or forest—hot or cold, wet or dry—it made no difference to him. There was always some one, or something, to see and be interested in. His was a chiefly sympathetic constitution of mind, which could, in all literal truth, be described as irrepressible and universal.
Such being the case, he had no sooner looked up Waters, whom he found well and hearty, at the hostelry agreed upon, in Melbourne, and taken passage in the first steamer bound for far Westralia, than Hope, the day star, which had illumined so many darksome passages of his life, arose, and amid the twilight of the uncertain adventure, commenced to glow with a mild but steady irradiation. The next afternoon found them on the wave, units of a crowd, bound for the newest Eldorado.
Under instructions, an agent had arranged for the purchase of a strong, but light-running waggonette, and three horses, together with the ordinary necessaries for an overland journey through new, untried country. Reduced to their smallest weight and compass, there was still a sufficient load for the team, probably condemned to indifferent fare on the road. The selection had been careful—no one is a better judge of travel requisites than that man of many makeshifts and dire experiences, the mining prospector. The outfit needed but to be paid for, and shipped, and the first act of the melodrama began.