Читать книгу Helen Adair - Becke Louis - Страница 8

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“A most daring and desperate villain, truly,” said the clergyman, laying down his knife and fork, crossing his smooth hands across his rotund figure, and looking severely at Dr. Haldane, as if to reprove him for his ill-timed levity, “yet we must trust he will soon be brought to justice, and pay the penalty of his crimes on the gallows. There is a reward of fifty pounds for his apprehension. He cannot long escape, and his execution should be made as public as possible. Only by such publicity can the evil-minded and wicked be brought to realise the terrors of the law, and be restrained from a further indulgence in the paths of crime. Hum, ha!”

Lathom shook his head in grave dissent, as Mrs. McNab resumed—

“The three robbers were all well-mounted, and a hot pursuit followed; but they separated, and were not again seen in company. Hewitt, however, came upon three of Major Cartwright’s men when they were asleep, took away their arms, and left them in peace until the morning, when he rode up and called on them to surrender. He was quite affable, and beyond taking all the tobacco they possessed did not harm them. He told them that he was making off towards Sydney again, and that he would be heard of in a few weeks. And this was no doubt true, for it is now rumoured that he has been seen within a few miles of Newcastle, where he has many sympathisers.”

“No doubt, madam, no doubt,” said Mr. Marsbin. “This man Hewitt was sent out—instead of being hanged at home—for seditious practices in Ireland, and among the prisoners in the Newcastle district are many of his fellow-countrymen, dangerous Papists, and disloyal to a degree—men, who like Hewitt, delight in the practice of crime, and do not stop at murder.”

“It is false! He never was, and never could be a murderer! He is a man, and a gentleman! Only savage and vindictive laws have made him act as a felon!”

All Captain Lathom’s guests half-rose from their seats in astonishment and gazed at Helen, who, with her head thrown proudly back, and her dark eyes blazing with anger, was leaning with one hand against a side table, her whole frame shaking with excitement.

Walsh put his hand on her arm, and whispered something as Lathom left his seat and came towards her.

“You can leave the room, Helen,” he said quietly. “You are not quite well, I think, or would not have been so rude. Walsh can do all that is necessary.”

The girl bent her head, bowed in mute apology to Mrs. Lathom, who looked at her with the deepest resentment, and left the room.

Lathom returned to his seat, and Haldane, always tactful, even though so rough in his manner, said, “Heat, heat, Lathom. That’s what’s the matter. Heat and nerves. Do you know, Mrs. Lathom, that I envy you your trip to Sydney, where the sea breezes will bring back the roses to your cheeks. The weather during the past week has been enough to sour the temper of a saint. By the way, Lathom, you want a change yourself. ‘All work and no play!’ You should make him follow you, Mrs. Lathom.”

“Sydney has no attractions for Fred, Doctor Haldane. It is not the slightest use my trying to get him to apply for a removal. He thinks too much of Waringa.”

“And Waringa has thriven well under his judicious care, madam,” said the clergyman, who really had a feeling of admiration and respect for his host; and, in his ponderous manner, desired to show it. “I have never seen in the course of my travels throughout the colony a more thriving and well-ordered community. Hum, ha!”

Lathom expressed his thanks, and then the conversation drifted into other channels. The ladies, after leaving the gentlemen to their wine and cigars, retired to Mrs. Lathom’s own room to discuss the latter’s intended visit to Sydney. Presently Helen came in to them with tea. Her mistress looked at her keenly, and in something less than her usual sharp manner when she was annoyed, asked her what had made her “behave so ridiculously.”

“I am very sorry, madam. I hardly knew what I was saying. I trust you will excuse me.”

“Very well,” replied Mrs. Lathom graciously. “I suppose you will be more particular in future not to startle us in that way again. I am quite sure that Mr. Marsbin felt very much annoyed at your rude exclamation. I trust that this man Hewitt is not known to you—as we really might have inferred?”

Helen made no answer, but her face showed a darkening flush, and Mrs. McNab whispered to her hostess to say nothing more.

“Oh, but indeed I must,” said Mrs. Lathom, with childish petulance. “What should a girl like her have to do with such a man? Now, tell me, Helen, at once, do you know this Hewitt?”

“I beg of you, madam, to pardon my not answering your question. I—I do not feel very well to-night.”

“Very well, you may go. I think you had better go to bed.”

“Poor thing,” said Mrs. McNab; “she certainly does not look at all well. I could see that her hands were trembling.”

“I’m afraid I treat her too well. She really can be quite obstinate, and almost sullen at times. I’ve tried to show her, too, that I take an interest in her welfare, but instead of being thankful, I really believe she resents it.”

Mrs. McNab made no answer. She was a sympathetic little woman, and knew that Helen was suffering from some mental strain which she was hardly able to bear, and that Mrs. Lathom’s ill-timed questioning, had it been continued, would have probably led to another such passionate outburst as she had heard in the dining-room half an hour before. And secretly she resolved to at least speak a few words of sympathy to the girl in the morning, if an opportunity of so doing were afforded her.

Late that night, after every one in the commandant’s house but herself had gone to bed, Helen stepped out of her room, the door of which opened out on the verandah, and sat down on the steps. A faint air was blowing from the creek, and no sound broke the silence of the night but the steady footfall of the sentry stationed at the barrack-gate near by. Overhead was a star-studded sky of deepest blue; and the forest-clad spur of the mountain range in which were the dreaded “Quarries,” though its nearest point was four miles distant, loomed up so distinctly in the clear night air, that it seemed within a few hundred yards. Down from the base of the range a thin grey mist—the precursor of another hot day—was beginning to arise and envelop the tops of the lofty gum and tallow wood trees which stretched along the banks of the creek in an unvarying monotony of outline.

As she sat leaning against one of the verandah posts, and looking dreamily down towards the landing-place, she thought of the events of the day—the letter given to her by old Tim taking first place in her musings. Who could have written it? Not Vincent Hewitt, surely! What could he—a proscribed man, hunted day and night—do towards giving her father and herself liberty? And then, besides that, surely he had forgotten her and the old, old days when, as boy and girl lovers, they had wandered together in the green lanes by Annalong, and under the shadow of Slieve Donard. And that was five years ago—five long years of misery and woe—and never but once had she heard his name spoken since, when Captain Lathom, in her hearing, had one day read out to Dr. Haldane the names of a batch of Irish prisoners just arrived, who had been transported for sedition, and among them was “Vincent Hewitt, of Kilkeel, County Down, fourteen years.” No, she thought, it could not be Vincent. Yet it must be some one who had known her father—some one who had not forgotten him, and was perhaps at that very moment not far away either from him or from herself. There was, she had been told, an almost perfect system of communication between not only the Irish political prisoners in the colonies, but between the convicts generally. Sometimes this was accomplished by means of letters passed from hand to hand and taking many months ere they reached the persons for whom they were intended; sometimes verbally, when an interchange of prisoners took place from one settlement to another, and a friendly gaoler or soldier guard would turn aside his head as he saw two men from different gangs exchanging a whispered word. Many prisoners, she knew, had succeeded in escaping, even in the very earliest days, when Australia was generally spoken of as “Botany Bay,” and her cheeks flushed when she remembered the daring deed of Will Bryant, the transported English smuggler, who, with his young wife and two infant children and five trusted fellow-convicts, had seized a small boat in Sydney Cove and sailed her more than three thousand miles to Timor.^[1]

Ah! she thought, how happy would she be to make such an attempt with her father! The brave and beautiful Mary Bryant had seen one of her children die in the boat from starvation and exhaustion, had seen her heroic and dying husband recaptured by the savage and infamous Edwards of the Pandora, the pursuer of the Bounty mutineers, and had heard his last sigh as, with his hand in hers, he breathed his last in the Dutch hospital in Batavia, and left her with her sickly babe alone in the world—and a prisoner still.

The tears filled her eyes as she thought of the sad story, which she had read when she was a child. For poor Bryant, just ere he died, wandered in his mind, and had sat up on his pallet and spread out his arms with a smile on his face and cried out weakly, “Look, Mary! The sea, the open sea at last—God’s own blue sea! Hold up our boy Emmanuel, and wake the babe, my girl. Oh, liberty, liberty, and life at last!”

And the poor young wife, whose boy Emmanuel lay buried under the torrid sands of the Queensland coast two thousand miles away, had cried out through her falling tears, “Yes, yes, dear Will. See, the babe is here, and laughs, but Emmanuel sleeps.”

Suddenly Helen was aware of something being near her, and presently Russ, who was a keen watch-dog and was lying down in front of the dining-room door, stood up and growled as he caught sight of a figure moving cautiously about among the trees in the garden a few yards away. Then he barked loudly and repeatedly, and the figure vanished just as Captain Lathom stepped out on the verandah. He caught sight of Helen at once.

“Who is that?”

“It is me, sir.”

“What is Russ barking at?”

“I do not know, sir. I fancied I saw something moving among the trees just now, but whatever it was it has gone now.”

Lathom called the dog to him, and then walked over to the place Helen had indicated. There was nothing to be seen. Then he went over to the sentry, and asked him if he had seen anything.

“Nothing, sir, except that some of the horses in the little paddock seemed a bit restless just awhile ago.”

“Native dogs prowling about, I suppose,” thought Lathom, as he went back to the house. Helen was awaiting his return.

“What are you doing up so late, Helen?”

“I could not sleep, sir, and came out to sit on the verandah a little while.” She paused a moment, and then said hurriedly, “I am very sorry, sir, for what occurred this evening. I trust you will not think I intended any disrespect to you. But——”

“But you must not let your feelings carry you away, Helen,” said the commandant kindly. “We had better let the matter drop. So good-night.”

He went to his room, and Helen to hers, and Russ again laid himself down in front of the door with a contented sigh, and the house was once more silent.

But in the stables old Tim and another man were conversing in whispered tones.

“Sure, I tould ye, sor, that the dog would see ye at wanst. An’ the captain is a powerful light sleeper. For the love av God and the sake av the girl, an’ your honour’s own life, do not attempt any more. It’s meself that’ull be prayin’ for ye both to-night.”

“Thank you, old man,” said the visitor, as he took Tim’s hand; “I will run no further risks, but when you see her in the morning, tell her that Vincent Hewitt is near, and will see her soon. And tell her that never for one day since I saw her last has she been absent from my thoughts.”

“I will, I will indade,” said the old man energetically. “Maybe ’twas you, sor, that sint her the letther she got the day?”

“A letter! No. I sent no letter,” replied the stranger. “Now, good-night. My horse is on the other side of the creek, and I must swim across again.”

[1]	This extraordinary feat of Bryant and his fellow-convicts—which outrivalled Bligh’s famous boat voyage—is described in “A First Fleet Family” (T. Fisher Unwin: London).