Mrs. Wilder, a rather stern-faced woman in, I imagined, her late thirties, had emerged from the house and was coming towards us.

“Good day, Mrs. Wilder,” said Ben. “This is Mrs. Mandeville. I was telling you and Mr. Morley about the new arrivals, you remember.”

“Of course, Mr. Lansdon,” said Mrs. Wilder. “Welcome to Golden Creek, Mrs. Mandeville. Mr. Morley will be delighted to see you. Do come in.”

I had not heard of Mrs. Wilder before but I guessed by the manner in which she went to Lizzie and took her arm that she was a sort of housekeeper or companion to Lizzie.

“Lizzie has been wanting to meet you,” said Mrs. Wilder. “Haven’t you, Lizzie?”

“Oh yes … yes,” said Lizzie.

Her candid gaze met mine and I returned her smile.

We were taken into a hall. It was hung with prints of horses mostly. There was a heavy oak chest over which was an ornate mirror in a heavy brass frame. Mrs. Wilder knocked at a door and called out: “Visitors, Mr. Morley. Mr. Lansdon has brought Mrs. Mandeville.”

“Come along in,” called a voice.

We went into a room which seemed full of heavy furniture. On the mantelshelf where there were many ornaments was a daguerreotype picture of a woman in a tight black bodice and a voluminous skirt. Her hair was drawn down at the sides of her face to a knot at the back and I could see in her a faint resemblance to Lizzie. I guessed this was Alice Morley, for the picture had pride of place among the vases.

In a big armchair, a table beside him, on which stood a glass of ale, sat James Morley.

“Hello, James,” said Ben. “I’ve brought one of our newcomers to meet you. This is Mrs. Mandeville.”

He was about to make a great effort and rise, but Ben stopped him. “Don’t get up, James. Mrs. Mandeville understands.”

“I’m a bit stiff in my joints these days,” said James Morley. “But welcome to Golden Creek. I’m glad to see you.”

“Do sit down,” said Mrs. Wilder. “I daresay you would like some refreshment. Wine … or ale …”

We both agreed that we would like a little wine and Mrs. Wilder went away to get it.

“Now,” said James Morley. “What do you think of Golden Creek?”

Ben laughed.

“A difficult question for Mrs. Mandeville to answer politely, James. She has just come from fashionable London.”

“A little different here, eh?”

I said that indeed it was but that I was finding Golden Creek very interesting.

“People come and go. I should never have come …” He looked at the picture on the mantelshelf.

Ben said quickly: “We could all say that at times.” He turned to me. “Mr. Morley has one of the most prosperous properties in Victoria.”

His eyes brightened a little at that. “Good grazing land,” he said. “I was one of the lucky ones. I was here before the others came. Why, when I first came here there wasn’t a homestead for a good many miles.”

The wine had arrived and Mrs. Wilder served it.

“We met Lizzie doing something with the flowers,” said Ben.

“Lizzie’s always doing something with the flowers,” said her father indulgently. “Aren’t you, Lizzie?”

The girl nodded, smiling happily.

“And she’s done wonders with them, too, hasn’t she, Mrs. Wilder?”

“I never thought,” said Mrs. Wilder, “to see them grow as they do. You have green fingers, Lizzie.”

Lizzie laughed happily.

“So you’re out here to find gold, Mrs. Mandeville,” said James Morley.

“Yes,” I said, “and that seems to be the usual reason why people are here.”

“A wild goose chase, I reckon.”

“But some people catch the goose,” added Ben.

James Morley looked at him and cocked his eye on one side. “And if anyone’s going to do that, I’ll lay a sovereign it’ll be you, Ben Lansdon.”

“It is what I intend,” said Ben.

“The quest for gold,” said the old man. “If only we were content with what we’ve got and didn’t go stretching out for more.”

“The world would just stand still,” said Ben. “Now, James, we’ve had this argument before.” He turned to me. “James thinks I ought to go in for grazing. He reckons it’s the sensible thing to do.”

“Well, look how it’s turned out for me. Look at my land … and who’s to say I’ve finished yet. There’s money in sheep. There’s money in cattle. I reckon I’ve got the finest house here … barring none.”

“Well, mine is not exactly a hovel,” said Ben. “Bear me out, Angel, Mrs. Wilder, Lizzie …”

Lizzie laughed. “It is a lovely house,” she said. I saw her father’s eyes on her. They were fond and a little sad.

“Tell me,” went on James Morley, “what is happening in London. We don’t get much news out here.”

I tried to think of what had happened. England seemed far away. I told him of the death of the Prince Consort and how sad the Queen was; then I wished I hadn’t because I saw him look at the picture on the mantelshelf.

I searched my mind. There had been trouble with the cotton workers in Lancashire. Not a very pleasant topic. The Prince of Wales was going to marry Princess Alexandra of Denmark and there was Civil War in America.

It all sounded very remote. So I told them about our journey and the ports we had visited. Then I said: “Morwenna … Mrs. Cartwright … would love to visit you. She would have been with me this morning but in fact she was not feeling very well. She is going to have a baby.”

Lizzie’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, I love little babies.”

“Well,” I said. “You will be able to see Morwenna’s.”

Mrs. Wilder said: “Not very many babies are born out here. Has Mrs. Cartwright seen Mrs. Bowles yet?”

“No … not yet.”

“I think she should. I know a little about nursing … not very much. But I did look after my husband for several years. Babies are not my line. It’s more general nursing.”

“I’ll tell Morwenna. You will like her.”

“Morwenna …” repeated Lizzie.

“Yes. Isn’t it a pretty name, Lizzie? Is it Cornish?” asked Mrs. Wilder.

“Yes. Morwenna is Cornish. So am I partly. My grandfather was Cornish. We have a house there.”

“A wonderful place,” said Ben. “It has stood there for hundreds of years. You must tell Lizzie all about it.”

“Oh yes, please,” said Lizzie clasping her hands and smiling.

I noticed how pleased her father looked and when we rose to go he took my hand and pressed it warmly.

“Come again,” he said. “There will be a welcome for you at Morley House.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “I am so pleased we called in.”

Mrs. Wilder and Lizzie walked with us to the stables to get our horses. They stood waving as we rode away.

Ben said: “You see how it is with Lizzie.”

“They seemed to treat her like a child.”

“She is a child in a way. She is not dull. It is just that she has never really grown up.”

“Who is Mrs. Wilder?”

“She is the indispensable one. She came to the place when her husband died. Another casualty of the mines. He was half suffocated down there and after they brought him up he was never the same again. When James’s wife died he was always looking round for someone to look after the servants and to be a surrogate mother to Lizzie. Mrs. Wilder came … She’s been there ever since.”

“She seems very efficient.”

“Morley is lucky. So is Mrs. Wilder. It is a good post for her and she fills it admirably. She gets on wonderfully well with Lizzie.”

“I could see that Lizzie is fond of her.”

“My dear Angelet, Lizzie loves the whole world. She thinks everyone is as good and kind as herself. Sometimes I think people like Lizzie are the lucky ones. They think the world is a beautiful place. They are happy.” He looked at me steadily. “It is because they never reach out for the impossible.”

I felt there was some deep meaning behind his words and they made me uneasy.

After the first two or three weeks at Golden Creek time began to fly past. The days were so full. We had to clean the shacks and try to bring a little homely comfort to them, which was not easy. Neither Morwenna nor I was accustomed to housework; moreover we had to cook. We took this in turns—sometimes the four of us eating in their shack, at others in ours.

Both Gervaise and Justin—perhaps even less accustomed to the sort of work they were doing than we were—were exhausted at the end of the day. I used to wonder how long they would stay here. I could sense a growing disillusionment. I mentioned this to Gervaise when we lay in our narrow uncomfortable bed, too tired almost even to talk and just doing so in sleepy sentences.

“Gervaise,” I said, “why don’t we go home?”

“To all those debts?”

“We’d do something. How can you go on digging … endlessly tipping those cradles into the stream … looking in vain.”

“It won’t always be in vain. If I left … and the very next day they found gold I should never forgive myself.”

I understand what kept all these men going. Not yesterday … not today … but tomorrow.

There was a similarity between Gervaise, Justin and all these men around us. It was the lust for gold. Ben had it, too. It was only a few like Arthur Bowles and James Morley who had turned their backs on what I thought of as the Golden Goddess and when I considered those two I sensed a certain serenity about them which the others lacked.

When I became used to this way of life, I found I could do what I had to do in the house and enjoy a little leisure. I began to know the people. Ben had been right when he said there were all sorts and conditions. There was Peter Callender, of whom it was whispered that he sported a title back in the Old Country. He never used it here; that would have been frowned on; but his manners and speech betrayed him as what they called “one of the nobs.” He was always gallant to the women and displayed an easygoing nonchalance, but he worked on his patch as fervently as the rest.

In contrast there was David Skelling, a weasel-like cockney, who, it was said, had worked his term and settled. What crime he had committed no one knew. There were several like him. Backgrounds were never inquired into. There were certain conventions in the township and that was one of them.

There was the Higgins family—father, mother and two sons; they worked like maniacs and I heard that a year ago they struck quite a little haul. They ought to have left when they did, but they wanted more.

And of course I made the acquaintance of Bruin. I liked him. As with Lizzie, there was something child-like and trusting about him. He had the gold fever too. I was surprised really because I should never have thought he was an ambitious man.

He was not a great talker. Almost everything I learned about him had to be squeezed out of him by relentless questioning.

“Do you never miss England, Bruin?” I asked.

His battered face creased into an almost tender smile. “Well, Missus, I wouldn’t say yes and I wouldn’t say no.”

“Well, what would you say, Bruin?”

Then he laughed and said: “You are a caution.”

It was a favorite saying of his. I believe he had quickly summed me up as being that, whatever it was, and he was going to stick to his deduction. I hoped it was meant to be some sort of compliment.

“When did you discover you were a fighter, Bruin?” I asked.

“Oh … er … a long time ago.”

“When you were eight … ten?”

“Aye,” he said. “Aye.”

“And did someone find out and make you start?”

“Reckon.”

“You had to learn, of course.”

He grinned, looking down at his fist, clenching it and taking a punch at an imaginary opponent.

“I believe it is a sport enjoyed by royalty. The Prince Regent, I have heard, was very enthusiastic about it in his day.”

He was silent. I was sure he was looking back in the past. Then suddenly his face puckered and I guessed he was thinking of the man he had killed in the ring. It was easy to sense his emotions because he was too guileless to hide them.

“Tell me how you came out to Australia, Bruin,” I asked, changing the subject and I hoped diverting his thoughts.

“On a ship.”

“Of course. But why?”

“Gold,” he said. “Mr. Ben … he was good to me.” His face expressed a kind of adoration. He looked upon Ben as above ordinary mortals.

Ben came into our conversation quite frequently. I realized that was one of the reasons why I liked talking to Bruin.

Gradually I drew from him how Ben had sorted out his papers. He could not make head nor tail of them. He had thought he would have to go back home because he could never understand the papers.