Читать книгу Bertha Shelley - Aubrey Burnage - Страница 12

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Spirit of BEAUTY, that dost consecrate

With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon

Of human thought or form, where art thou gone?

Why dost thou pass away, and leave our state,

This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate?

Ask why the sunlight not for ever,

Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river;

Why aught should fail and fade that once is shone;

Why fear, and dream, and death, and birth,

Cast on the daylight of this earth

Such gloom; why man hath such a scope

For love and hate, despondency and hope!

—PERCY SHELLEY.

Sydney in 1835! The metropolis of Australia forty years ago, bore a very different aspect to its present. In place of the magnificent public buildings and substantial warehouses of to-day, were humble slab or weatherboard tenements; and the lumbering bullock-dray, now a rare sight in its streets, was the ordinary means of transit. But time, that has made these changes among the works of man, has been powerless to alter the face of our beautiful harbour. It is now disturbed by more constant navigation, and the presence of the crowd of vessels continually moving upon its waters has scared away the flocks of waterfowl that at one time frequented it; but the 'harbour with a hundred bays' defies the hand of man to mar its beauty, which must remain co-existent with time itself. Then, as now, through its varied extent, were places vieing with, nay, surpassing in natural picturesqueness and beauty the most vaunted bays of the older world. The numberless romantic coves along its shores were each in itself a study for a landscape painter. Alike, yet how different! Each with its background of abrupt forest-clothed hill, its open sward, covered with a carpet of rich verdure, and its foreground of dark-blue waters. The same in general features, yet with what infinite variety of detail! Then, as now, the tourist would well be repaid the trouble of a journey from Europe to witness the beauty of the fairest harbour upon the face of the whole earth.

Hyde Park Barracks was a large brick building, at the eastern extremity of King-street, and was employed as a sort of head-quarters for the unassigned convicts. To this barracks Mr. Shelley and his father-in-law, Mr. Fullerton, went, armed with the necessary authority, to select a couple of servants.

'I have my eyes on a gentlemanly-looking young fellow, who arrived, the other day in the Southern Cross,' said Mr. Fullerton, as they walked up Macquarie-street, towards the barracks. 'I think he would suit me as a clerk, but if he takes your fancy you may have him.'

'What was he transported for? I don't want anyone likely to demoralize my men,' replied Mr. Shelley.

'I don't know. I intended to inquire, but it slipped my memory. I don't imagine he was either a burglar or a highwayman, though, from his appearance.'

'O, by-the-bye, a girl, too! A cook I think it was that Grace said,' exclaimed Mr. Shelley, as if suddenly recollecting something he ought not to have forgotten.

'Here you will find all you may require, from a scullery maid to a legal adviser; and from the villain who cheated the gallows, to the unfortunate wight, transported through Justice being as blind as she professes so be,' replied Mr. Fullerton, as they entered the gate.

It was the hour for the unemployed prisoners to be assembled in the barrack yard; and Mr. Fullerton pointed out the subject of their conversation standing among several other men, all dressed in the prisoner's motley garb of shame. Before finally deciding to take his father-in-law's choice, Mr. Shelley examined the group attentively; but seeing none to compare in evident respectability with the thoughtful-looking young man his attention had been directed to, he selected him, and took down the name of 'Percy Sinclair, forgery, ex Southern Cross,' upon his printed form of application. He also picked out a pale, thin, young man, about twenty years of age.

'What do you want that youth for? He is not strong enough for bush work, I should think?' said Mr. Fullerton.

'O, he'll do for a shepherd,' returned his son-in-law. 'The poor fellow doesn't look able to rough it with some of the masters, I know. Well, my man,' he continued, addressing the youth, 'what were you sent out for?'

'Cos I stealed a bit of a loaf out'r a baker's cart, when my brothers and sisters was a starvin!' he replied—his eyes flashing defiantly, as if he would repeat the crime (if, in the eyes of heaven, a crime it was) under similar distressing circumstances. Who would not, and still claim to be a man?

'And now about the maid servant for Grace,' said Mr. Shelley, bent on redeeming his promise to his wife. ('Oh, that all husbands would do the same!' sigh some of our fair readers.)

They repaired to the part of the barracks set apart for female convicts.

'What do you think of that girl yonder?' Mr. Fullerton said, pointing to a young girl standing by a window, and gazing listlessly out upon the street. 'I don't suppose, from her appearance, she ever fried a steak or peeled a potatoe in her life; but it would be a pity if a girl like her were assigned to some of the heartless wretches about here, gentlemen though they call themselves. If she should be a little awkward in the kitchen at first, Grace could teach her the work.'

'She is, certainly, a most interesting-looking girl. I wonder what in the category of crime her's was?' replied Mr. Shelley. 'Unless appearances are strangely deceptive, her presence here, in a convict barracks, is another of blind Justice's blunders. Well, make enquiries for me, and if you think she will suit us, enter her in the application form. It seems an anomaly to look for moral character in such a registry office as this; but you see, I am more anxious to obtain servants with the least possible amount of vice, than I am to secure useful ones!' said Mr. Shelley, thoughtfully.

'If the face is an index of the mind, you cannot do wrong in taking her. Goodness seems written upon her every feature, and if those dove-like eyes of her's, beaming with innocence and truth, belong to a depraved and guilty woman, I have lost all faith in physiognomy. You wonder, perhaps, why I take so great an interest in this girl. I will tell you; but it must go no further. I was through here yesterday with Brownlow (you know him—the most heartless libertine in Sydney.) He appeared struck with the girl's appearance, and told me he should apply for her, as he was in want of a housekeeper!' said the elder gentleman.

'If that's how the wind blows,' returned Mr. Shelley, 'I will take her. Can you get the assignment papers made out by to-morrow?'

'I will try. And now about the flower-seeds for Bertha. You can get the best variety from old Ben. Jacobs, in Castlereagh-street. I will see about these papers at once, while you are attending to any other business you may have on hand.'

'Thanks. I have enough to attend to, to keep me employed till dark; so don't wait for me, when you are ready to go home!' said Mr. Shelley, as they were passing out of the Barrack gate.

'Very well! But manage to get back in time for an early tea. I have not had a good game of backgammon since you were in Sydney last!' replied Mr. Fullerton.

Promising to return home in time for the coveted game, Mr. Shelley bent his steps towards Hyde Park, or the Race-course, as it was then more commonly called, and his father-in-law turned down Macquarie-street, to attend to the business of getting the assignment over.

Two nights after the thriving squatter had selected his new hands, he placed them on board the little Sophia Jane, and started homeward. The steamer left the wharf at eleven o'clock, and passed down the harbour.

Percy Sinclair finding the fore-cabin close and hot went on deck, and paced its contracted space in gloomy reverie. He liked the appearance and manner of his new master, and felt that he ought to feel grateful for falling into the hands of Captain Shelley, as that gentleman was still called in Sydney; but he could not dismiss the haunting thought, that he was now, to all intents and purposes, a slave, and in a position more degraded than that of the negros in the United States—they were accepted to be such through no fault of their own; but he, and those in his shameful situation, were looked upon as having, led by their evil passions, voluntarily abandoned their good name, and forfeited with their liberty all claim to sympathy and respect. To those, who, like himself, were victims of a miscarriage of justice, these bitter reflections occasioned the acutest mental suffering.

Wrapped in this cloud of gloomy reverie, Percy Sinclair passed down the harbour, unconscious of the moon-flooded beauty that lay upon the scene. As the steamer was rounding the North Head, he was aroused by a touch upon his arm, and, on turning round, found a young girl, also arrayed in prison garb, standing at his elbow.

'I hope you will forgive me, sir, for addressing you, but I would so much like to know whether you are assigned to Mr. Shelley of the Hunter River?' she said, in a low voice.

'Yes!' answered Percy Sinclair, in a blunt preoccupied manner—he had evidently left his politeness behind him.

'I beg your pardon, sir, for disturbing you,' she answered, timidly.

Percy noticed the disappointed tone of her sweet voice, and, holding out his hand, said kindly 'Make no apology, Miss? It is for me to beg your pardon for my discourtesy. Yes, I am assigned to Mr. Shelley. Are you?'

'Yes, sir,' she answered smiling, reassured by his altered tone, 'and I hoped you were also; because he is, I am told, a kind and just man, and because, as I am going among strangers, I would like someone I have seen before to be there too. I was one of your fellow-prisoners in the Southern Cross.' This last sentence was said in a low whisper, as though the poor girl was loth to speak of her shame, and afraid of hurting her companion's feelings.

'Ah, I remember having seen you on the deck of the transport. Well, as we are still to be fellow-prisoners,' he said, with bitter emphasis upon the last word, 'and may be thrown very much in each other's company, it will be convenient to know each other's names. Mine is Sinclair—Percy Sinclair.'

'My name is Marion Macaulay.'

'Marion Macaulay? Too pretty a name for a convict!' he said, thoughtlessly.

'I might say the same of yours,' she replied, and added, 'It is not always wise to judge by appearance; but unless I heard it from your own lips, I could not believe you guilty of anything very wicked.'

An expression of pain flitted across his features. 'I am very grateful to you for your good opinion of me, Miss Macaulay,' he replied. 'I must admit that I hold the same of you. However, we are here—guilty, or not guilty—and whatever facts may say to the contrary, we are, in the eyes of all, convicts.'

'I cannot say why, unless it is because you so strongly resemble a very dear friend of mine, but I feel strangely drawn to you, and would so much like to have you as a friend! Have you a sister?'

'Yes,' he replied, mournfully, the picture of home rising vividly before him.

'Then, may I be that sister, till you see her again?' she asked, eagerly.

In spite of himself, Percy Sinclair began to feel a deep interest in his fellow-prisoner. Taking both her hands in his, he said, gently, 'Yes, Marion, we will be brother and sister, true and dear to each other as such for ever.'

The girl fairly wept—her heart overpowered by the joy of having found a friend, after those weary friendless months at sea. 'It is so new to have anyone to care for me, ever so little,' she sobbed, 'that I can't help this weakness.'

With all a brother's solicitude Percy strove to comfort her. After she had relieved her pent-up feelings by a few minutes' silent weeping, she looked up and said, in a voice tremulous with emotion, 'Oh, Mr. Sinclair, my heart is slowly, slowly breaking. May I tell you my sad story? It is all, all true—too true!'

Feeling that the recital of her troubles might compose her a little, he led her to a large coil of rope by the bulwarks, and making a seat of it for her, said tenderly, 'Tell me all your grief, if its relation will ease your heart!'

She began the story of her past life, but at first his thoughts would wander continually back to Elmsdale; to his beloved parents and sisters, and the pure-minded, true-hearted Anne. As Marion proceeded in her narration, however, he became absorbed in its mournful interest.

'I am the daughter of a clergyman—a curate, who laboured in a small country town in the county of Westmoreland. We were poor, as the family of a curate usually is; but we were all so contented and happy, till papa died, two years ago. I was just seventeen then. Mamma, only survived him a month; and my brother Reginald and I (there were only two of us) were left to fight our way alone through the cold world. Reginald obtained a situation as tutor in a gentleman's family; and I went out as governess. I was engaged in the family of a gentleman the next neighbour of Reginald's employer; and after the first pangs of our grief had subsided, we gradually became more contented and reconciled to our altered circumstances. I used frequently to meet my brother, as the parks of our respective employers adjoined; and for nearly a year we were very happy. About that time a gentleman, a school friend of my brother's, came on a visit to the neighbourhood, and renewed his acquaintance with Reginald. I often saw him in my walks with my brother; and he was so noble and good, and so very kind, that when one day I met him alone, and he told me he loved me, I found I already loved him as devotedly as he did me. He was not in a position to marry, being only a poor artist and writer for the magazines, and we were to wait for a year, by which time he was to get the situation of editor of one of the London Reviews, as the gentleman who then occupied it intended resigning. This is the anniversary of the day we were betrothed and, and—' Overcome by emotion she could say no more for a few minutes, but, by an effort, suppressing her sobs, she continued: 'Living with my employer's family was a young lady, a cousin, named Sara Grey. She had met Edgar in Paris two years before; and though he only thought of her and treated her as a friend, she fell violently in love with him. When she learnt that we were engaged, she seemed to go mad with jealousy. She accused me of having undermined her in his affection, and threatened to have a terrible revenge. Well, she kept her word. The eldest of my pupils had a small gold brooch set with diamonds. One day, about a month after Sara's threat, I received permission to visit a sick aunt, who lived in a neighbouring town, and to stay a few days. I packed my little carpet bag with a change of things, and Edgar drove me over in a gig that a friend of his lent to him. I found my aunt so very ill that I had no time to open the bag; but next morning, having occasion to take out a clean handkerchief, I unlocked it, and, on lifting up a dress, I out rolled the brooch. How it came there I couldn't tell; I picked it up, and at that moment entered a police officer with a search warrant. No need to search! He found the missing piece of jewellery in my hand! But I cannot tell you more now, I feel so very, very miserable!'

She leaned her arm upon the damp bulwarks, and, resting her fair head upon it, appeared to sleep, but the deep sighs that continually escaped her shewed that the unhappy girl was only too much awake to her misery.