“‘Paul et Virginie’. I have read it before in English.”
“Ah, you read French, then, my dear young lady?”
“Not very well. I had a master for some months, but papa had to send him back to the gaol again. He stole a silver tankard out of the dining-room.”
“A French master! Stole–”
“He was a prisoner, you know. A clever man. He wrote for the London Magazine. I have read his writings. Some of them are quite above the average.”
“And how did he come to be transported?” asked Mr. Meekin, feeling that his vineyard was getting larger than he had anticipated.
“Poisoning his niece, I think, but I forget the particulars. He was a gentlemanly man, but, oh, such a drunkard!”
Mr. Meekin, more astonished than ever at this strange country, where beautiful young ladies talked of poisoning and flogging as matters of little moment, where wives imprisoned their husbands, and murderers taught French, perfumed the air with his cambric handkerchief in silence.
“You have not been here long, Mr. Meekin,” said Sylvia, after a pause.
“No, only a week; and I confess I am surprised. A lovely climate, but, as I said just now to Mrs. Jellicoe, the Trail of the Serpent– the Trail of the Serpent–my dear young lady.”
“If you send all the wretches in England here, you must expect the Trail of the Serpent,” said Sylvia. “It isn’t the fault of the colony.”
“Oh, no; certainly not,” returned Meekin, hastening to apologize. “But it is very shocking.”
“Well, you gentlemen should make it better. I don’t know what the penal settlements are like, but the prisoners in the town have not much inducement to become good men.”
“They have the beautiful Liturgy of our Holy Church read to them twice every week, my dear young lady,” said Mr. Meekin, as though he should solemnly say, “if that doesn’t reform them, what will?”
“Oh, yes,” returned Sylvia, “they have that, certainly; but that is only on Sundays. But don’t let us talk about this, Mr. Meekin,” she added, pushing back a stray curl of golden hair. “Papa says that I am not to talk about these things, because they are all done according to the Rules of the Service, as he calls it.”
“An admirable notion of papa’s,” said Meekin, much relieved as the door opened, and Vickers and Frere entered.
Vickers’s hair had grown white, but Frere carried his thirty years as easily as some men carry two-and-twenty.
“My dear Sylvia,” began Vickers, “here’s an extraordinary thing!” and then, becoming conscious of the presence of the agitated Meekin, he paused.
“You know Mr. Meekin, papa?” said Sylvia. “Mr. Meekin, Captain Frere.”
“I have that pleasure,” said Vickers. “Glad to see you, sir. Pray sit down.” Upon which, Mr. Meekin beheld Sylvia unaffectedly kiss both gentlemen; but became strangely aware that the kiss bestowed upon her father was warmer than that which greeted her affianced husband.
“Warm weather, Mr. Meekin,” said Frere. “Sylvia, my darling, I hope you have not been out in the heat. You have! My dear, I’ve begged you–”
“It’s not hot at all,” said Sylvia pettishly. “Nonsense! I’m not made of butter–I sha’n’t melt. Thank you, dear, you needn’t pull the blind down.” And then, as though angry with herself for her anger, she added, “You are always thinking of me, Maurice,” and gave him her hand affectionately.
“It’s very oppressive, Captain Frere,” said Meekin; “and to a stranger, quite enervating.”
“Have a glass of wine,” said Frere, as if the house was his own. “One wants bucking up a bit on a day like this.”
“Ay, to be sure,” repeated Vickers. “A glass of wine. Sylvia, dear, some sherry. I hope she has not been attacking you with her strange theories, Mr. Meekin.”
“Oh, dear, no; not at all,” returned Meekin, feeling that this charming young lady was regarded as a creature who was not to be judged by ordinary rules. “We got on famously, my dear Major.”
“That’s right,” said Vickers. “She is very plain-spoken, is my little girl, and strangers can’t understand her sometimes. Can they, Poppet?”
Poppet tossed her head saucily. “I don’t know,” she said. “Why shouldn’t they? But you were going to say something extraordinary when you came in. What is it, dear?”
“Ah,” said Vickers with grave face. “Yes, a most extraordinary thing. They’ve caught those villains.”
“What, you don’t mean? No, papa!” said Sylvia, turning round with alarmed face.
In that little family there were, for conversational purposes, but one set of villains in the world–the mutineers of the Osprey.
“They’ve got four of them in the bay at this moment–Rex, Barker, Shiers, and Lesly. They are on board the Lady Jane. The most extraordinary story I ever heard in my life. The fellows got to China and passed themselves off as shipwrecked sailors. The merchants in Canton got up a subscription, and sent them to London. They were recognized there by old Pine, who had been surgeon on board the ship they came out in.”
Sylvia sat down on the nearest chair, with heightened colour. “And where are the others?”
“Two were executed in England; the other six have not been taken. These fellows have been sent out for trial.”
“To what are you alluding, dear sir?” asked Meekin, eyeing the sherry with the gaze of a fasting saint.
“The piracy of a convict brig five years ago,” replied Vickers. “The scoundrels put my poor wife and child ashore, and left them to starve. If it hadn’t been for Frere–God bless him!–they would have died. They shot the pilot and a soldier–and–but it’s a long story.”
“I have heard of it already,” said Meekin, sipping the sherry, which another convict servant had brought for him; “and of your gallant conduct, Captain Frere.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” said Frere, reddening. “We were all in the same boat. Poppet, have a glass of wine?”
“No,” said Sylvia, “I don’t want any.”
She was staring at the strip of sunshine between the verandah and the blind, as though the bright light might enable her to remember something. “What’s the matter?” asked Frere, bending over her. “I was trying to recollect, but I can’t, Maurice. It is all confused. I only remember a great shore and a great sea, and two men, one of whom–that’s you, dear– carried me in his arms.”
“Dear, dear,” said Mr. Meekin.
“She was quite a baby,” said Vickers, hastily, as though unwilling to admit that her illness had been the cause of her forgetfulness.
“Oh, no; I was twelve years old,” said Sylvia; “that’s not a baby, you know. But I think the fever made me stupid.”
Frere, looking at her uneasily, shifted in his seat. “There, don’t think about it now,” he said.
“Maurice,” asked she suddenly, “what became of the other man?”
“Which other man?”
“The man who was with us; the other one, you know.”
“Poor Bates?”
“No, not Bates. The prisoner. What was his name?”
“Oh, ah–the prisoner,” said Frere, as if he, too, had forgotten.
“Why, you know, darling, he was sent to Port Arthur.”
“Ah!” said Sylvia, with a shudder. “And is he there still?”
“I believe so,” said Frere, with a frown.
“By the by,” said Vickers, “I suppose we shall have to get that fellow up for the trial. We have to identify the villains.”
“Can’t you and I do that?” asked Frere uneasily.
“I am afraid not. I wouldn’t like to swear to a man after five years.”
“By George,” said Frere, “I’d swear to him! When once I see a man’s face– that’s enough for me.”
“We had better get up a few prisoners who were at the Harbour at the time,” said Vickers, as if wishing to terminate the discussion. “I wouldn’t let the villains slip through my fingers for anything.”
“And are the men at Port Arthur old men?” asked Meekin.
“Old convicts,” returned Vickers. “It’s our place for ‘colonial sentence’ men. The worst we have are there. It has taken the place of Macquarie Harbour. What excitement there will be among them when the schooner goes down on Monday!”
“Excitement! Indeed? How charming! Why?” asked Meekin.
“To bring up the witnesses, my dear sir. Most of the prisoners are Lifers, you see, and a trip to Hobart Town is like a holiday for them.”
“And do they never leave the place when sentenced for life?” said Meekin, nibbling a biscuit. “How distressing!”
“Never, except when they die,” answered Frere, with a laugh; “and then they are buried on an island. Oh, it’s a fine place! You should come down with me and have a look at it, Mr. Meekin. Picturesque, I can assure you.”
“My dear Maurice,” says Sylvia, going to the piano, as if in protest to the turn the conversation was taking, “how can you talk like that?”
“I should much like to see it,” said Meekin, still nibbling, “for Sir John was saying something about a chaplaincy there, and I understand that the climate is quite endurable.”