 Section 24 of For the term of his natural life. The coarse tones of Maurice Faire roused him. What do you want? he asked. Rufus Dawes, raising his head, contemplated the figure before him, and recognized it. Is it you? he said slowly. What do you mean? Do you know me? asked Faire, drawing back. But the convict did not reply. His momentary emotion passed away. The pangs of hunger returned, and greedily seizing upon the piece of damper, he began to eat in silence. Do you hear, man, repeated Faire at length? What are you? An escaped prisoner. You can give me up in the morning. I've done my best, and I'm beat. The sentence struck Faire with dismay. The man did not know that the settlement had been abandoned. I cannot give you up. There is no one but myself and a woman and child on the settlement. Rufus Dawes, pausing in his eating, stared at him in amazement. The prisoners have gone away in the schooner. If you choose to remain free, you can do so as far as I am concerned. I am as helpless as you are. But how do you come here? Faire laughed bitterly. To give explanations to convicts was foreign to his experience, and he did not relish the task. In this case, however, there was no help for it. The prisoners mutinied and seized the brig. What brig? The Osprey. A terrible light broke upon Rufus Dawes, and he began to understand how he had again missed his chance. Who took her? That double-dyed villain, John Rex, says Faire, giving vent to his passion. May she sink and burn, and have they gone then? cried the miserable man, clutching at his hair with a gesture of hopeless rage. Yes, two days ago, and left us here to starve. Rufus Dawes burst into a laugh so discordant that it made the other shudder. We'll starve together, Maurice Faire, said he. For while you've accrossed, I'll share it. If I don't get liberty, at least I'll have revenge. The sinister aspect of this famished savage, sitting with his chin on his ragged knees, rocking himself to and fro in the light of the fire, gave Maurice Faire a new sensation. He felt as might have felt, that African hunter who, returning to his campfire, found a lion there. Wretch, said he, shrinking from him. Why should you wish to be revenged on me? The convict turned upon him with a snarl. Take care what you say, I'll have no hard words. Wretch? If I am a wretch, who made me one? If I hate you and myself and the world, who made me hate it? I was born free, as free as you are. Why should I be sent to herd with beasts and condemn to this slavery, worse than death? Tell me that, Maurice Faire. Tell me that. I didn't make the laws, says Faire. Why do you attack me? Because you are what I was. You are free. You can do as you please. You can love. You can work. You can think. I can only hate. He paused as if astonished at himself, and then continued with a low laugh. Fine words for a convict, eh? But never mind, it's all right, Mr. Faire. We're equal now, and I shan't die an hour sooner than you, though you are a free man. Faire began to think that he was dealing with another madman. Die? There's no need to talk of dying, he said, as soothingly as it was possible for him to say it. Time enough for that, by and by. There spoke the free man. We convicts have an advantage over you gentlemen. You are afraid of death, we pray for it. It is the best thing that can happen to us. Die! They were going to hang me once. I wish they had. My God, I wish they had. There was such a depth of agony in this terrible utterance that Maury's Faire was appalled at it. There, go and sleep, my man, he said. You are knocked up. We'll talk in the morning. Hold on a bit, cried Rufus Dawes, with a coarseness of manner altogether foreign to that he had just assumed. Who's with ye? The wife and daughter of the commandant, replied Faire, half afraid to refuse an answer to a question so fiercely put. No one else? No. Poor souls, said the convict, I pity them. And then he stretched himself like a dog before the blaze and went to sleep instantly. Maury's Faire, looking at the gaunt figure of this addition to the party, was completely puzzled how to act. Such a character had never before come within the range of his experience. He knew not what to make of this fierce, ragged, desperate man, who wept and threatened by turns, who was now snarling in the most repulsive base of the convict gamut, and now calling upon heaven in tones which were little less than eloquent. At first he thought of precipitating himself upon the sleeping wretch and pinioning him, but a second glance at the sinewy, though wasted limbs, forbade him to follow out the rash suggestion of his own fears. Then a horrible prompting, arising out of his former cowardice, made him feel for the jackknife with which one murder had already been committed. Their stock of provisions was so scanty, and, after all, the lives of the women and child were worth more than that of this unknown desperado. But to do him justice, the thought no sooner shaped itself than he crushed it out. We'll wait till morning and see how he shapes, said Faire to himself. And pausing at the brushwood barricade, behind which the mother and daughter were clinging to each other, he whispered that he was on guard outside, and that the absconder slept. But when morning dawned, he found that there was no need for alarm. The convict was lying in almost the same position as that in which he had left him, and his eyes were closed. His threatening outbreak of the previous night had been produced by the excitement of his sudden rescue, and he was now incapable of violence. Faire advanced and shook him by the shoulder. Not alive, cried the poor wretch, waking with a start, and raising his arm to strike. Keep off! It's all right, says Faire. No one is going to harm you. Wake up! Rufa's thoughts glanced around him stupidly, and then, remembering what had happened, with a great effort, he staggered to his feet. I thought they'd got me, he said. But it's the other way I see. Come, let's have breakfast, Mr. Faire. I'm hungry. You must wait, said Faire. Do you think there is no one here but yourself? Rufa's thoughts, swaying to and fro from weakness, passed his shred of a cuff over his eyes. I don't know anything about it. I only know I'm hungry. Faire stopped short. Now or never was the time to settle future relations. Lying awake in the night, with the jackknife ready into his hand, he had decided on the course of action that must be adopted. The convict should share with the rest, but no more. If he rebelled at that, there must be a trial of strength between them. Look you here, he said. We have barely enough food to serve us until help comes, if it does come. I have the care of that poor woman and child, and I will see fair play for their sakes. You shall share with us to our last bit and drop, but, by heaven, you shall get no more. The convict, stretching out his wasted arms, looked down upon them with the uncertain gaze of a drunken man. I am weak now, he said. You have the best of me. And then he sank suddenly down upon the ground, exhausted. Give me a drink, he moaned, feebly motioning with his hand. Faire got him water in the panic and, having drunk it, he smiled and lay down to sleep again. Mrs. Vickers and Sylvia, coming out while he slept, recognized him as the desperado of the settlement. He was the most desperate man we had, said Mrs. Vickers, identifying herself with her husband. Oh, what shall we do? He won't do much harm, returned Faire, looking down at the notorious Vicarthian with curiosity. He's as near dead as can be. Sylvia looked up at him with her clear child's glance. We mustn't let him die, said she. That would be murder. No, no, returned her Faire hastily. No one wants him to die, but what can we do? I'll nurse him, cried Sylvia. Faire broke into one of his coarse laughs, the first one that he had indulged in since the mutiny. You nurse him. By George, that's a good one. The poor little child, weak and excitable, felt the contempt in the tone, and burst into a passion of sobs. Why do you insult me, you wicked man? The poor fellow's ill and he'll die like Mr. Bates. Oh, mama, mama, let's go away by ourselves. Faire swore a great oath and walked away. He went into the little wood under the cliff and sat down. He was full of strange thoughts, which he could not express, and which he had never owned before. The dislike the child bore to him made him miserable, and yet he took delight in tormenting her. He was conscious that he had acted the part of a coward the night before in endeavoring to frighten her, and that the detestation she bore him was well earned, but he had fully determined to stake his life in her defense, should the savage who had thus come upon them out of the desert attempt violence, and he was unreasonably angry at the pity she had shown. It was not fair to be thus misinterpreted, but he had done wrong to swear, and more so in quitting them so abruptly. The consciousness of his wrongdoing, however, only made him more confirmed in it. His natural obstinacy would not allow him to retract what he had said, even to himself. Walking along, he came to Bates' grave, and the cross upon it. Here was another evidence of ill treatment. She had always preferred Bates. Now that Bates was gone, she must need transfer her child's affections to a convict. Oh, said fair to himself, with pleasant recollections of many coarse triumphs and love-making, if you were a woman, you little vixen, I'd make you love me. When he had said this, he laughed at himself for his folly. He was turning romantic. When he got back, he found Dawes stretched upon the brushwood, with Sylvia sitting near him. He is better, said Mrs. Vickers, disdaining to refer to the scene of the morning, sit down and have something to eat, Mr. Freyre. Are you better, asked Freyre, abruptly? To his surprise, the convict answered quite civilly, I shall be strong again in a day or two, and then I can help you, sir. Help me, how? To build a hut here for the ladies, and we'll live here all our lives and never go back to the sheds any more. He has been wandering a little, said Mrs. Vickers. Poor fellow, he seems quite well-behaved. The convict began to sing a little German song, and to beat the refrain with his hand. Freyre looked at him with curiosity. I wonder what the story of that man's life has been, he said. A queer one, I'll be bound. Sylvia looked up at him with a forgiving smile. I'll ask him when he gets well, she said. And if you are good, I'll tell you, Mr. Freyre. Freyre accepted the proffered friendship. I am a great brute, Sylvia, sometimes, ain't I, he said, but I don't mean it. You are, returned Sylvia, frankly. But let's shake hands and be friends. It's no use quarreling when there are only four of us, is it? And in this way was Rufus Daz admitted a member of the family circle. Within a week from the night on which he had seen the smoke of Freyre's fire, the convict had recovered his strength and had become an important personage. The distrust with which he had been at first viewed had worn off, and he was no longer an outcast to be shunned and pointed at, or to be referred to in whispers. He had abandoned his rough manner, and no longer threatened or complained, and though at times a profound melancholy would oppress him, his spirits were more even than those of Freyre, who was often moody, sullen, and overbearing. Rufus Daz was no longer the brutalized wretch who had plunged into the dark waters of the bay to escape a life he loathed, and had alternately cursed and wept in the solitudes of the forest. He was an active member of society, a society of four, and he began to regain an heir of independence and authority. This change had been wrought by the influence of little Sylvia. Recovered from the weakness consequent upon his terrible journey, Rufus Daz had experienced for the first time in six years the soothing power of kindness. He had now an object to live for beyond himself. He was of use to somebody, and had he died he would have been regretted. To us this means little, to this unhappy man it meant everything. He found, to his astonishment, that he was not despised, and that, by the strange concurrence of circumstances, he had been brought into a position in which his convict experiences gave him authority. He was skilled in all the mysteries of the prison sheds. He knew how to sustain life on as little food as possible. He could fell trees without an axe, bake bread without an oven, build a weatherproof hut without bricks or mortar. From the patient he became the advisor, and from the advisor the commander. In the semi-savage state to which these four human beings had been brought, he found that savage accomplishments were of most value. Might was right, and Maurice Ferrer's authority of gentility soon succumbed to Rufus Dawes' authority of knowledge. As the time wore on, and the scanty stock of provisions decreased, he found that his authority grew more and more powerful. Did a question arise as to the qualities of a strange plant? It was Rufus Dawes who could pronounce upon it. Were fish to be caught? It was Rufus Dawes who caught them. Did Mrs. Vickery's complain of the instability of her brushwood hut? It was Rufus Dawes who worked a wicker shield, and plastering it with clay produced a wall that defied the keenest wind. He made cups out of pine knots, and plates out of bark strips. He worked harder than any three men. Nothing daunted him, nothing discouraged him. When Mrs. Vickers fell sick from anxiety and insufficient food, it was Rufus Dawes who gathered fresh leaves for her couch, who cheered her by hopeful words, who voluntarily gave up half his allowance of meat that she might grow stronger on it. The poor woman and her child called him Mr. Dawes. Frair watched all this with dissatisfaction that amounted at times to positive hatred. Yet he could say nothing, for he could not but acknowledge that, beside Dawes, he was incapable. He even submitted to take orders from this escaped convict. It was so evident that the escaped convict knew better than he. Sylvia began to look upon Dawes as a second bait. He was, moreover, all her own. She had an interest in him, for she had nursed and protected him. If it had not been for her, this prodigy would not have lived. He felt for her an absorbing affection that was almost a passion. She was his good angel, his protectress, his glimpse of heaven. She had given him food when he was starving, and had believed in him when the world, the world of four, had looked coldly on him. He would have died for her, and for the love of her, hoped for the vessel which should take her back to freedom, and give him again into bondage. But the day stole on, and no vessel appeared. Each day they eagerly scanned the water horizon. Each day they longed to behold the bowsprit of the returning ladybird, glide past the jutting rock that shut out the view of the harbor, but in vain. Mrs. Vickers' illness increased, and the stock of provisions began to run short. Dawes talked of putting himself and Freyr on half allowance. It was evident that, unless slucker came in a few days, they must starve. Freyr muttered all sorts of wild plans for obtaining food. He would make a journey to the settlement, and swimming the estuary, search if happily any casks of biscuit had been left behind in the hurry of departure. He would set springes for the seagulls, and snare the pigeons at liberty point. But all these proved impractical, and with blank faces they watched their bag of flour grow smaller and smaller daily. Then the notion of escape was broached. Could they construct a raft? Impossible without nails or ropes. Could they build a boat? Equally impossible for the same reason. Could they raise a fire sufficient to signal a ship? Easily, but what ship would come within reach of that doubly desolate spot? Nothing could be done but wait for a vessel, which was sure to come for them sooner or later, and growing weaker day by day they waited. One morning Silvio was sitting in the sun reading the English history, which, by the accident of fright, she had brought with her on the night of the mutiny. Mr. Freyr, she said suddenly, what is an alchemist? A man who makes gold, was Freyr's not very accurate description. Do you know one? No. Do you, Mr. Dawes? I knew a man once who thought himself one. What? A man who made gold? After fashion. But did he make gold, persisted Silvio? No, not absolutely make it, but he was, in his worship of money, an alchemist for all that. What became of him? I don't know, said Dawes, with so much constraint in his tone that the child instinctively turned subject. Then alchemy is a very old art? Oh yes. Did the ancient Britons know it? No, not as old as that. Silvio suddenly gave a little scream. The remembrance of the evening when she wrote about the ancient Britons to poor Bates came vividly into her mind, and though she had since reread the passage that had then attracted her attention a hundred times, it had never before presented itself in its full significance. Hurriedly turning the well-thumbed leaves, she read aloud the passage which had provoked remark. The ancient Britons were little better than barbarians. They painted their bodies with woad, and, seated in their light coracles of skin stretched upon slender wooden frames, must have presented a wild and savage appearance. A coracle? That's a boat. Can't we make a coracle, Mr. Dawes? The question gave the maroon part in new hopes. Morris Freyre, with his usual impetuosity, declared that the project was the most feasible one, and wondered, as such men will wonder, that it had never occurred to him before. It's the simplest thing in the world, he cried. Silvio, you have saved us. But upon taking the matter into more earnest consideration, it became apparent that they were as yet a long way from the realisation of their hopes. To make a coracle of skin seems sufficiently easy, but how to obtain the skins? The one miserable hide of the unlucky she-goat was utterly inadequate for the purpose. Silvio, her face beaming with the hope of escape, and, with delight of having been the means of suggesting it, watched narrowly the countenance of roofer's doors. But she marked no answering gleam of joy in those eyes. Can't it be done, Mr. Dawes? she asked, trembling for the reply. The convict knitted his brows gloomily. Come, Dawes, cried Freya, for getting his enmity for an instant in the flash of new hope. Can't you suggest something? Roofer's doors, thus appealed to as the acknowledged head of the little society, felt a pleasant thrill of self-satisfaction. I don't know, he said. I must think of it. It looks easy, and yet he paused as something in the water caught his eye. It was a massive bladdery sea-weed that the returning tide was wafting slowly to the shore. This object, which would have passed unnoticed at any other time, suggested to Roofer's doors a new idea. Yes, he added slowly, with a change of tone. It may be done. I think I can see my way. The others preserved a respectful silence until he should speak again. How far do you think it is across the bay? he asked a freer. What, to Sarah Ireland? No, to the pilot station. About four miles? The convict sighed. Too far to swim now, though I might have done it once. But this sort of life weakens a man. It must be done after all. What are you going to do, asked freer, to kill the goat? Sylvia uttered a little cry. She had become fond of her dumb companion. Kill nanny? I missed her doors. What for? I'm going to make a boat for you, he said, and I want hides and thread and tallow. A few weeks back, Morris Freer would have laughed at such a sentence. But he had begun now to comprehend that this escape convict was not a man to be laughed at. And though he'd detested him for his superiority, he could not but admit that he was superior. You can't get more than one hide off a goat man, he said, with an inquiring tone in his voice, as though it was just possible to such a marvellous being as doors could get a second hide, by virtue of some secret process known only to himself. I'm going to catch other goats. Where? At the pilot station. But how are you going to get there? Float across. Come, there is no time for questioning. Go and cut down some saplings and let us begin. The Lieutenant Master looked at the convict prisoner with astonishment, and then gave way to the power of knowledge and did as he was ordered. Before sundown that evening, the carcass of poor nanny, broken into various most unbutchely fragments, was hanging on the nearest tree. And Fria returning with as many young saplings as he could drag together, found roof of doors engaged in a curious occupation. He had killed the goat, and having cut off its head close under the jaws, and its legs at the knee joint, had extracted the carcass through a slit made in the lower portion of the belly, which slit he had now sewn together with string. This proceeding gave him a rough bag, and he was busily engaged in filling this bag with such coarse grass as he could collect. Fria observed also that the fat of the animal was carefully preserved, and the intestines had been placed in a pool of water to soak. The convict, however, declined to give information as to what he intended to do. It's my own notion, he said, let me alone. I may make a failure of it. Fria, on being pressed by Sylvia, effected to know all about the scheme, but to impose silence on himself. He was called to think that a convict brain should contain a mystery which he might not share. On the next day, by roof of doors direction, Fria cut down some rushes that grew about a mile from the camping ground, and brought them in on his back. This took him nearly half a day to accomplish. Short rations were beginning to tell upon his physical powers. The convict, on the other hand, trained by a woeful experience in the boats to endurance of hardship, was slowly recovering his original strength. What are they for, asked Fria, as he flung the bundles down. His master condescended to reply, to make a float. Well, the other shrugged his broad shoulders. You are very dull, Mr. Fria. I'm going to swim over to the pilot station and catch some of those goats. I can get a cross on the stuffed skin, but I must float them back on the reeds. How the do's do you mean to catch them, asked Fria, wiping the sweat from his brow. The convict motioned to him to approach. He did so, and saw that his companion was cleaning the intestines of the goat. The outer membrane having been peeled off, roof of stores was turning the gut inside out. This he did by turning up a short piece of it, as though it were a coat sleeve, and dipping the turned up cuff into a pool of water. The weight of the water pressing between the cuff and the rest of the gut bore down a further portion. And so, by repeated dippings, the whole length was turned inside out. The inner membrane having been scraped away, there remained a fine transparent tube, which was tightly twisted and set to dry in the sun. There is the cat-gut for the noose, said Dawes. I learnt that trick at the settlement. Now come here. Fria following saw that a fire had been made between two stones, and that the kettle was partly sunk in the ground near it. On approaching the kettle, he found it full of smooth pebbles. Take out those stones, said Dawes. Fria obeyed and saw at the bottom of the kettle a quantity of sparkling white powder, and the sides of the vessel crusted with the same material. What's that, he asked? Salt. How did you get it? I filled the kettle with seawater, and then, heating those pebbles red-hot in the fire, dropped them into it. We could have caught the steam in a cloth and rung out fresh water had we wished to do so. But, thank God, we have plenty. Fria started. Did you learn that at the settlement, too? He asked. Rufus Dawes laughed with a sort of bitterness in his tones. Do you think I've been at the settlement all my life? The thing is very simple. It is merely evaporation. Fria burst out in sudden, fretful admiration. What a fellow you are, Dawes. What are you? I mean, what have you been? A triumphant light came into the other's face, and for the instant, he seemed about to make some startling revelation. But the light faded, and he checked himself with a gesture of pain. I'm a convict. Never mind what I have been. A sailor, a shipbuilder, prodigal, vagabond. What does it matter? It won't alter my fate, will it? If we get safely back, Cisfria, I'll ask for a free pardon for you. You deserve it. Come, return, Dawes, with a discordant laugh. Let us wait until we get back. You don't believe me? I don't want favour at your hands, he said, with a return of the old fierceness. Let us get to work. Bring up the rushes here, and tie them with a fishing line. At this instant Sylvia came up. Good afternoon, Mr. Dawes. Hard at work? Oh, what's this in the kettle? The voice of the child acted like a charm upon Rufus Dawes. He smiled quite cheerfully. Salt, miss. I am going to catch the goats with that. Catch the goats? How? Put it on their tails? She cried merrily. Goats are fond of salt, and when I get over to the pilot station, I shall set traps for them baited with this salt. When they come to lick it, I shall have a noose of cat-gut ready to catch them. Do you understand? But how will you get across? You will see tomorrow. End of Section 25 Section 26 of For the Term of His Natural Life This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Magdalena Cook For the Term of His Natural Life by Marcus Clarke Book 2, Macquarie Harbour, 1833 Chapter 14 A Wonderful Day's Work The next morning Rufus Dawes was stirring by daylight. He first got his cat-gut wound upon a piece of stick, and then, having moved his frail floats alongside the little rock that served as a pier, he took a fishing line and a larger piece of stick, and proceeded to draw a diagram on the sand. This diagram, when completed, represented a rude outline of a punt, eight feet long and three broad. At certain distances were eight points, four on each side, into which small willow rods were driven. He then awoke Friar and showed the diagram to him. Get eight steaks of celery-top pine, he said. You can burn them where you cannot cut them, and drive a stake into the place of each of these willow ones. When you have done that, collect as many willows as you can get. I shall not be back until tonight. Now give me a hand with the floats. Friar, coming to the pier, saw Dawes strip himself and piling his clothes upon the stuffed goatskin, stretch himself upon the reed bundles, and paddling with his hands, push off from the shore. The clothes floated high and dry, but the reeds, depressed by the weight of the body, sank so that the head of the convict alone appeared above water. In this fashion he gained the middle of the current, and the outgoing tides wept in down towards the mouth of the harbour. Friar, soulfully admiring, went back to prepare the breakfast. They were on half-rations now. Dawes, having forbidden the slaughtered goat to be eaten, lest his expedition should prove unsuccessful. Wandering at the chants which had thrown this convict in his way. Parsons would call it a special providence, he said to himself. For, if it hadn't been for him, we should never have got thus far. If his boat succeeds, we're all right, I suppose. He's a clever dog. I wonder who he is. His training as a master of convicts made him think how dangerous such a man would be on a convict's station. It would be difficult to keep a fellow of such resources. They'll have to look pretty sharp after him if they ever get him back, he thought. I'll have a fine tale to tell of his ingenuity. The conversation of the previous day occurred to him. I promised to ask for a free pardon. He wouldn't have it, though. Too proud to accept it at my hands. Wait until we get back. I'll teach him his place. For after all, it is his own liberty that he is working for, as well as mine. I mean ours. Then a thought came into his head that was in every way worthy of him. Suppose we took the boat and left him behind. The notion seemed so ludicrously wicked that he laughed involuntarily. What is it, Mr. Freya? Oh, it's you, Sylvia, is it? I was thinking of something funny. Indeed, said Sylvia. I'm glad of that. Where's Mr. Dawes? Freya was displeased at the interest with which she asked the question. You're always thinking of that fellow. It's Dawes, Dawes, Dawes, all day long. He is gone. Oh, with a sorrowful accent. Mama wants to see him. What about, says Freya roughly? Mama is ill, Mr. Freya. Dawes isn't a doctor. What's the matter with her? She is worse than she was yesterday. I don't know what is the matter. Freya somewhat alarmed, strode over to the little cavern. The lady of the commandant was in a strange plight. The cavern was lofty but narrow. In shape it was three-cornered, having two sides open to the wind. The ingenuity of Rufus Dawes had closed these sides with wicker work and clay, and a sort of door of interlaced brushwood hung at one of them. Freya pushed open this door and entered. The poor woman was lying on a bed of rushes strewn over young brushwood, and was moaning feebly. From the first she had felt the privation to which she was subjected most keenly. And the mental anxiety from which she suffered increased her physical debility. The exhaustion and lassitude to which she had partially succumbed soon after Dawes' arrival had now completely overcome her, and she was unable to rise. Cheer up, ma'am, said Morris, with an absorption of heartiness. It will be all right in a day or two. Is it you I sent for Mr Dawes? He is away just now. I am making a boat. Did not Sylvia tell you? She told me that he was making one. Well, I, that is, we, are making it. He will be back again tonight. Can I do anything for you? No, thank you. I only wanted to know how he was getting on. I must go soon, if I am to go. Thank you, Mr Freya. I am much obliged here. This is a dreadful place to have visitors, isn't it? Never mind, said Freya again. You will be back in Hobart Town in a few days now. We are sure to get picked up by a ship. But you must cheer up. Have some tea or something. No, thank you. I do not feel well enough to eat. I am tired. Sylvia began to cry. Don't cry, dear. I shall be better by and by. Oh, I wish Mr Dawes was back. Morris Freya went out indignant. This Mr Dawes was everybody, it seemed, and he was nobody. Let them wait a little. All that day, working hard to carry out the convict's directions, he meditated a thousand plans by which he could turn the tables. He would accuse Dawes of violence. He would demand that he should be taken back as an absconder. He would insist that the law should take its course, and that the death, which was the doom of all who were caught in the act of escape, from a penal settlement, should be enforced. Yet, if they got safe to land, the marvellous courage and ingenuity of the prisoner would tell strongly in his favour. The woman and child would bear witness to his tenderness and skill and plead for him. As he had said, the convict deserved a pardon. The mean bad man, burning with wounded vanity and undefined jealousy, waited for some method to suggest itself, by which he might claim the credit of an escape, and snatch from the prisoner who had dared to rival him in the last hope of freedom. Rufus Dawes, drifting with the current, had allowed himself to coast along the eastern side of the harbour until the pilot station appeared in view, on the opposite shore. By this time it was nearly seven o'clock. He landed at a sandy cove and, drawing up his raft, proceeded to unpack from among his garments a piece of damper. Having eaten sparingly and dried himself in the sun, he replaced the remains of his breakfast and pushed his floats again into the water. The pilot station lay some distance below him on the opposite shore. He had purposely made his second start from a point which would give him this advantage of position. For had he attempted to paddle across at right angles, the strength of the current would have swept him out to sea. Weak as he was, he several times nearly lost his hold on the reeds. The clumsy bundle presenting two greater broadside to the stream, whirled round and around, and was once or twice nearly sucked under. At length, however, breathless and exhausted, he gained the opposite bank, half a mile below the point he had attempted to make, and carrying his floats out of reach of the tide, made off across the hill to the pilot station. Arrived there about midday, he set to work to lay his snares. The goats, with whose hides he hoped to cover the coracle, were sufficiently numerous and tamed to encourage him to use every exertion. He carefully examined the tracks of the animals, and found that they converged to one point, the track to the nearest water. With much labour, he cut down bushes so as to mask the approach to the waterhole on all sides. Save where these tracks immediately conjoined. Close to the water, and at unequal distances along the various tracks, he scattered the salt he had obtained by his root distillation of seawater. Between this scattered salt and the points where he judged the animals would be likely to approach, he set his traps, made after the following manner. He took several pliant branches of young trees, and having stripped them off leaves and twigs dug with his knife, and the end of the root paddle he had made for the voyage across the inlet, a succession of holes about a foot deep. At the thicker end of these saplings he fastened by a piece of fishing line, a small crossbar, which swung loosely like the stick handle which a scoreboy fastens to the string off his peg top, forcing the ends of the saplings thus prepared into the holes. He filled in and stamped down the earth all around them. The saplings thus anchored as it were by the cross piece of stick. Not only stood firm, but resisted all his efforts to withdraw them. To the thin ends of these saplings he bound tightly into not just cut in the wood and secured by a multiplicity of twisting. The cat-gut springes he had brought from the camping ground, but the saplings were then bent double, and the gutted end secured in the ground by the same means as that employed to fix the butts. This was the most difficult part of the business, for it was necessary to discover, precise with the amount of pressure that would hold the bent rod without allowing it to escape by reason of this elasticity, and which would yet give to a slight pull on the gut. After many failures, however, this happy medium was discovered, and roofer stores concealing his springers by means of twigs smoothed the disturbed sand with a branch and retired to watch the effect of his labours. About two hours after he had gone the goats came to drink. There were five goats and two kids, and they trotted calmly along the path to the water. The watcher soon saw that his precautions had been in a manner wasted. The leading goat marched gravely into the springe, which, catching him around his neck, released the bent rod, and sprang him off his legs into the air. He uttered a comical bleat and then hung kicking. Roofer stores, though the success of the scheme was a matter of life and death, burst out laughing at the antics of the beast. The other goats bounded off at this sudden elevation of their leader, and three more were entrapped at a little distance. Roofer stores now thought it time to secure his price. Though three of the springers were as yet unsprung, he ran down to the old goat, knife in hand, but before he could reach them the barely dried cat-gut gave way, and the old fellow shaking his head with protest dismay, made off at full speed. The others, however, were secured and killed. The loss of the springe was not a serious one, for three traps remained unsprung, and before sundown Roofer stores had caught four more goats. Removing with care the cat-gut that had done such good service, he dragged the carcasses to the shore, and proceeded to pack them upon his floats. He discovered, however, that the weight was too great, and that the water entering through the loops of the stitching in the hide had so soaked the rushgrass as to render the floats no longer buoyant. He was compelled, therefore, to spend two hours in restuffing the skin which such material as he could find. Some light and flock-like seaweed, which the action of the water had swayed after the fashions of hay-bands along the shore, formed an excellent substitute for grass, and having bound his bundle of rushes lengthwise, with a goatskin as a centerpiece, he succeeded in forming a sort of rude canoe, upon which the carcasses floated securely. He had eaten nothing since the morning, and the violence of his exertions had exhausted him. Still, sustained by the excitement of the task he had set himself, he dismissed with fierce impatience the thought of rest, and dragged his weary limbs along the sand, endeavoring to kill fatigue by further exertion. The tide was now running in, and he knew it was imperative that he should regain the further shore while the current was in his favor. To cross from the pilot station at low water was impossible. If he waited until the ebb, he must spend another day on the shore, and he could not afford to lose an hour. Cutting a long sapling, he fastened to one end of it the floating bundle, and thus guided it to a spot where the beach salved abruptly into deep water. It was a clear night, and the risen moon large and low flung a rippling streak of silver across the sea. On the other side of the bay, all was bathed in violent haze, which veiled the inlet from which he had started in the morning. The fire of the exiles hidden behind a point of rock cast a red glow into the air. The ocean breakers rolled in upon the cliffs outside the bar with a horse and threatening murmur, and the rising tide rippled and lapped with treacherous melody along the sand. He touched the chill water and drew back. For an instant, he determined to wait until the beams of morning should illuminate that beautiful but treacherous sea. And then the thought of the helpless child, who was, without doubt, waiting and watching for him on the shore, gave new strength to this wearied frame, and fixing his eyes on the glow that hovering above the dark treeline marked her presence. He pushed the raft before him out into the sea. The reeds sustained him bravely, but the strength of the current sucked him underneath the water, and for several seconds he feared that he should be compelled to let go his hold. But his muscle, stilled in the slow fire of convict labour, withstood this last strain upon them, and half suffocated with bursting chest and paralyzed fingers, he preserved his position until the mass getting out of the eddies along the shoreline drifted steadily down the silvery track that led to the settlement. After a few moments' rest, he set his teeth and urged his strange canoe towards the shore. Paddling and pushing, he gradually edged it towards the firelight, and at last, just when his stiffen limbs refused to obey the impulse of his will, and he began to drift onwards with the onward tide, he felt his feet strike firm ground. Opening his eyes, closed in the desperation of his last efforts, he found himself safe under the lee of the rugged promontory, which hid the fire. It seemed that the waves, tired of persecuting him had, with disdainful pity, cast him ashore at the goal of his hopes. Looking back, he for the first time realized the frightful peril he had escaped, and shuddered. To this shudder succeeded a thrill of triumph. Why had he stayed so long when escape was so easy? Dragging the carcasses above high watermark, he rounded the little promontory, and made for the fire. The recollection of the night when he had first approached it came upon him, and increased his exhortation. How different a man was he now from then. Passing up the sand, he saw the stakes which he had directed Freya to cut white and in the moonshine. His officer worked for him, and his own brain alone lay the secret of escape. He, roof of doors, the scarred, degraded prisoner, could alone get these three beings back to civilization. Did he refuse to aid them, they would forever remain in that prison, where he had so long suffered. The tables were turned. He had become a jailer. He had gained the fire before the solitary watcher there heard his footsteps, and spread his hands to the place in silence. He felt as Freya would have felt had their possessions been reversed, disdainful of the man who had stopped at home. Freya starting cried, It is you, have you succeeded? Roofers doors nodded. What, did you catch them? There are four carcasses down by the rocks. You can have meat for breakfast tomorrow. The child, at the sound of the voice, came running down from the hut. Oh, Mr. Doors, I am so glad. We were beginning to despair, Mama and I. Door snatched her from the ground and bursting into a joyous laugh swung her into the air. Tell me, he cried, holding up the child with two dripping arms above him. What you will do for me if I bring you and Mama safe home again? Give you a free pardon, says Sylvia, and Papa shall make you his servant. Freya burst out laughing at this reply, and Doors, with a choking sensation in his throat, put the child upon the ground and walked away. This was, in truth, all he could hope for. All his scheming, all his courage, all his peril, would but result in the patronage of a great man like Major Vickers. His heart, big with love, with self-denial, and with hopes of a fair future, would have this flattering unction laid to it. He had performed a prodigy of skill and daring, and for his reward he was to be made a servant to the creature he had protected. Yet what more could a convict expect? Sylvia saw how deeply her unconscious hand had driven the iron, and ran up to the man she had wounded. And, Mr. Doors, remember that I shall love you always. The convict, however, his momentary excitement over, motioned her away, and she saw him stretch himself wearily under the shadow of a rock. CHAPTER XV. THE CORRACLE In the morning, however, Rufus Doors was first at work, and made no allusion to the scene of the previous evening. He had already skinned one of the goats, and he directed Freya to set up to work upon another. Cut down the rump to the hawk, and down the brisket to the knee, he said. I want the hides as square as possible. By dint of hard work they got the four goats skinned, and the entrails cleaned ready for twisting by breakfast time. And, having brawled some of the flesh, made a hearty meal. Mrs. Vickers being no better, Doors went to see her, and seemed to have made friends again with Sylvia, for he came out of the hut with a child's hand in his. Freya, who was cutting the meat in long strips to dry in the sun, saw this, and added fresh fuel to the fire in his unreasonably envy and jealousy. However, he said nothing, for his enemy had not yet shown him how the boat was to be made. Before midday, however, he was a partner in the secret, which, after all, was a very simple one. Rufus Dawes took two of the straightest and most tapered of the celery top pines, which Freya had cut on the previous day, and lashed them tightly together, with the butts outwards. He thus produced a splice stick about twelve feet long. About two feet from either end, he notched the young tree until he could bend the extremities outwards, and having so bent them, he secured the bent portions in their places by means of lashings of raw hide. The splice trees now presented a rude outline of the section of a boat, having the stem, keel and stern all in one piece. This having been placed lengthwise between the stakes, four other poles notched in two places, were lashed from stake to stake, running crosswise to the keel and forming the knees. Four saplings were now bent from end to end of the upturned portions of the keel, that represented stem and stern. Two of these four were placed above as gun whales, two below as bottom rails. At each intersection, the sticks were lashed firmly with fishing line. The whole framework being complete, the stakes were drawn out, and there lay upon the ground the skeleton of a boat eight feet long by three broad. Freya, whose hands were blistered and sore, would feign have rested, but the convict would not hear of it. Let us finish, he said, regardless of his own fatigue. The skins will dry if we stop. I can work no more, says Freya sulkily. I can't stand. You've got muscles of iron, I suppose. I haven't. They made me work when I couldn't stand, Morris Freya. It is wonderful what spirit the cat gives a man. There's nothing like work to get rid of aching muscles, so they used to tell me. Well, what's to be done now? Cover the boat. There, you can set the fat to melt and sew these hides together. Two and two, do you see? And then sew the pair at the necks. There is plenty of cat-gut yonder. Don't talk to me as if I was a dog, says Freya, suddenly. Be civil, can't you? But the other, busily trimming and cutting at the projecting pieces of sapling, made no reply. It is possible that he thought the fatigue lieutenant beneath his notice. About an hour before sundown, the hides were ready, and roofer stores, having in the meantime, interlaced the ribs of the skeleton with wattles, stretched the skins over it, with the hairy side inwards. Along the edges of this covering, he bored holes at intervals, and passing through these holes, thongs of twisted skin. He drew the hole to the top rail of the boat. One last precaution remained. Dipping the panican into the melted tallow, he plentifully anointed the seams of the sewn skins. The boat thus turned topsy-turvy, looked like a huge walnut shell, covered with red and reeking hide, or the skull of some titan who had been scalped. There! cried roofer stores triumphant. Twelve hours in the sun to tighten the hides, and she'll swim like a duck. The next day was spent in minor preparations. The jerk goat meat was packed securely into a smaller compass as possible. The rum barrel was filled with water, and water bags were improvised out of portions of the intestines of the goats. Roofer stores, having filled these last with water, and ran a wooden skewer through their mouths and twisted it tight, torn a cave fashion. He also stripped cylindrical pieces of bark, and having sewn each cylinder at the side, fitted to a bottom of the same material and caulked the seams with gum and pine tree resin. Thus four tolerable buckets were obtained, one goat skin yet remained, and out of that it was determined to make a sail. The currents are strong, said roofer stores, and we shall not be able to row far with such oars as we have got. If we get a breeze, it may save our lives. It was impossible to step a mast in the frail basket structure, but this difficulty was overcome by a simple contrivance. From thwart to thwart, two poles were bound, and the mast, lashed between these poles with thongs of raw hide, was secured by shrouds of twisted fishing line running fore and aft. Sheets of bark were placed at the bottom of the craft and made a safe flooring. It was late in the afternoon on the fourth day when these preparations were completed, and it was decided that on the morrow they should adventure the journey. We will coast down to the bar, said roofer stores, and wait for the slack of the tide. I can do no more now. Sylvia, who had seated herself on a rock at a little distance, called to them. Her strength was restored by the fresh meat, and her childish spirits had risen with a hope of safety. The mercurial little creature had read sea-weed about her head, and holding in her hand a long twig decorated with a tuft of leaves to represent a wand, she personified one of the heroines off her books. I am the queen of the island, she said merrily, and you are my obedient subjects. Pray, Sir Eglamore, is the boat ready? It is your majesty, said poor Dawes. Then we will see it. Come, walk in front of me. I won't ask you to rub your nose upon the ground like Man Friday, because that would be uncomfortable. Mr. Freer, you don't play. Oh, yes, said Freer, unable to withstand the charming pout that accompanied the words. I'll play, what am I to do? You must walk on this side and be respectful. Of course, it is only pretend, you know. She added with a quick consciousness of Freer's conceit. Now then, the queen goes down to the sea shore surrounded by her nymphs. There is no occasion to laugh, Mr. Freer. Of course, nymphs are very different from you, but then we can't help that. Marching in this pathetically ridiculous fashion across the sand, they halted at the coracle. So that is the boat, says the queen, fairly surprised out of her assumption of dignity. You are a wonderful man, Mr. Dorth. Rufus Dorth smiles sadly. It is very simple. Do you call this simple, says Freer, who in the general joy had shaken off a portion of his sulkiness? By George, I don't. This is shipbuilding with a vengeance, this is. There's no scheming about this. It's all sheer hard work. Yes, Echo Sylvia, sheer hard work, sheer hard work by good Mr. Dorth. And she began to sing a childish chant of triumph. Drawing lines and letters in the sand the wall, with a scepter off the queen. Good Mr. Dorth, good Mr. Dorth, this is the work of good Mr. Dorth. Morris could not resist a sneer. See, saw Marjorie Dorth, sold a bed and lay upon straw, said he. Good Mr. Dorth, repeated Sylvia. Good Mr. Dorth, why shouldn't I say it? You are disagreeable, sir. I won't play with you any more, and she went off along the sand. Poor little child, said Rufus Dorth, you speak too harshly to her. Freya, now that the boat was made, had regained his self-confidence. Civilisation seemed now brought sufficiently close to him to warrant his assuming the position of authority, to which his social position entitled him. One would think that a boat had never been built before to hear her talk, he said. If this washing basket had been one of my old uncle's three deckers, she shouldn't have said much more. By the Lord, he added, with a coarse laugh. I ought to have a natural talent for shipbuilding. For if the old villain hadn't died when he did, I should have been a shipbuilder myself. Rufus Dorth turned his back at the word died, and visited himself with the fastenings of the hides. Could the others have seen his face? He would have been struck by its sudden pallor. Ah, continued Freya, half to himself and half to his companion. That's a sum of money to lose, isn't it? What do you mean? asked the convict, without turning his face. Mean? Why, my good fellow? I should have been left a quarter of a million of money. But the old hunks who was going to give it to me died before he could alter his will. And every shelling went to escape Grey's son, who hadn't been near the old man for years. That's the way of the world, isn't it? Rufus Dorth still keeping his face away, caught his breath as if in astonishment, and then recovering himself, he said in a harsh voice, a fortunate fellow that son. Fortunate, Christ Freya, with another oath. Oh, yes, he was fortunate. He was burnt to death in the High Daspis, and never heard of his luck. His mother has got the money, though. I never saw a shelling of it. And then, seemingly displeased with himself for having allowed his tongue to get the better of his dignity, he walked away to the fire, musing, doubtless, on a difference between Morris Freya with a quarter of a million, disborting himself in the best society that could be procured, with command of dog carts, price fighters, and game cocks galore, and Morris Freya, a penniless lieutenant, marooned on the barren coast of Macquarie Harbour, and acting as boatbuilder to a runaway convict. Rufus Dorth was also lost in revering. He lent up on the gunwale of the much-wanted boat, and his eyes were fixed upon the sea. Weltering golden in the sunset, but it was evident that he saw nothing of the scene before him. Struck dumb by the sudden intelligence of his fortune, his imagination escaped from his control, and fled away to those scenes which he had striven so vainly to forget. He was looking far away, across a glittering harbour and the wide sea beyond it, looking at the old house at Hampstead, with its well-remembered gloomy garden. He pictured himself escape from this present peril, and freed from the sordid thralldom which so long had held him. He saw himself returning with some plausible story of his wanderings, to take possession of the wealth which was his. Saw himself living once more, rich, free, and respected, in the world from which he had been so long in exile. He saw his mother's sweet pale face, the light of a happy home-circle. He saw himself received with tears of joy and marvelling affection, entering into this home-circle as one risen from the dead. A new life opened radiant before him, and he was lost in the contemplation of his own happiness. So absorbed was he that he did not hear the light footstep of the child across the sand. Mrs. Vickers, having been told of the success which had crowned the convict's efforts, had overcome her weakness so far as to hobble down the beach to the boat. And now, heralded by Sylvia, approached, leaning on the arm of Morris Freya. Mama has come to see the boat, Mr. Dawes, Christ Sylvia. But Dawes did not hear. The child reiterated her words, but still the silent figure did not reply. Mr. Dawes, she cried again, and pulled him by the coat's sleeve. The touch aroused him, and looking down, he saw the pretty thin face upturned to his, scarcely conscious of what he did, and still following out the imagination which made him free, wealthy, and respected. He caught the little creature in his arms, as he might have caught his own daughter and kissed her. Sylvia said nothing. But Mr. Freya, arrived, by his chain of reasoning, acquired another conclusion as to the state of affairs, was astonished at the presumption of the man. The lieutenant regarded himself as already reinstated in his old position, and with Mrs. Vickers on his arm, reproved the apparent insolence of the convict as freely as he would have done had they both been at his own little kingdom of Maria Ireland. You insolent beggar, he cried. How dare you keep your place, sir? The sentence recalled Rufus Dawes to reality. His place was that of a convict. What business had he with the tenderness for the daughter of his master? Yet, after all he had done and proposed to do, this harsh judgment upon him seemed cruel. He saw the two looking at the boat he had built. He marked the flush of hope on the cheek of the poor lady, and the full-blown authority that had already hardened the eye of Morris Freya, and all at once he understood the result of what he had done. He had, by his own act, given himself again to bondage. As long as escape was impracticable, he had been useful and even powerful. Now he had pointed out the way of escape. He had sunk into the beast of burden once again. In the desert he was Mr. Dawes, the Saviour. In civilised life he would become once more Rufus Dawes the Ruffian, the prisoner, the absconder. He stood mute and let Freya point out the excellences of the craft in silence, and then, feeling that the few words of thanks uttered by the lady were chilled by her consciousness of the ill-advised freedom he had taken with the child. He turned on his heel and straight up into the bush. A queer fellow said Freya as Mrs. Vickers followed the retreating figure with her eyes. Always in an ill temper, poor man. He has behaved very kindly to us at Mrs. Vickers. Yet even she felt the change of circumstance, and knew that without any reason she could name her blind trust and hope in the convict who had saved their lives, had been transformed into a patronising kindliness which was quite foreign to esteem or affection. Come, let us have some supper, says Freya. The last we shall eat here, I hope. He will come back when his fit of sulks is over. But he did not come back. And after a few expressions of wonder at his absence, Mrs. Vickers and her daughter wrapped in the hopes and fears of the morrow, almost forgot that he had left them. With marvellous credulity they looked upon the terrible stake that were about to play for, as already won. The possession of the boat seemed to them so wonderful, that the perils of the voyage they were to make in it were altogether lost sight of. As for Morra's Freya, he was rejoiced that the convict was out of the way. He wished that he was out of the way altogether. End of Section 27 Section 28 of For the term of his natural life. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Magdalena Cook. For the term of his natural life by Marcus Clarke. Book 2, Macquarie Harbour, 1833. Chapter 16. The Writing on the Sand Having got out of eyeshot of the ungrateful creatures he had befriended, Rufus tore through himself upon the ground in the agony of mingled rage and regret. For the first time for six years he had tasted the happiness of doing good, the delight of self-abnegation. For the first time for six years he had broken through the selfish misanthropy he had taught himself, and this was his reward. He had held his temper in check, in order that it might not offend others. He had banished the galling memory of his degradation. Lest happily some shadow off it might seem to fall upon the fair child, whose lot had been so strangely cast with his. He had stifled the agony he suffered. Lest its expression should give pain to those who seem to feel for him. He had foreborn retaliation, when retaliation would have been most sweet. Having all these years waited and watched for a chance to strike his persecutors, he had held his hand now that an unlooked-for accident had placed the weapon of destruction in his grasp. He had risked his life, foregone his enmities, almost changed his nature, and his reward was cold looks and harsh words, so soon as his skill had paved the way to freedom. This knowledge coming upon him while the thrill of exaltation at the astounding news of his riches yet vibrated in his brain. Made him grind his teeth with rage at his own hard fate. Bound by the purest and holiest of ties, the affection offered son to his mother. He had condemned himself to social death, rather than by his liberty and life by a revelation which would shame the gentle creature whom he loved. By a strange series of accidents Fortune had assisted him to maintain the deception he had practised. His cousin had not recognised him. The very ship in which he was believed to have sailed had been lost with every soul on board. His identity had been completely destroyed. No link remained which could connect Rufus' doors to convict with Richard Devine, the vanished heir to the wealth of the dead shipbuilder. Oh, if he had only known, if while in the gloomy prison distracted by a thousand fears and weighed down by crushing evidence of circumstance, he had but guessed that death had stepped between Sir Richard and his vengeance. He might have spared himself the sacrifice he had made. He had been tried and condemned as a nameless sailor who could call no witnesses in his defence and give no particulars as to his previous history. It was clear to him now that he might have adhered to his statement of ignorance concerning the murder, locked in his breast the name of the murderer, and have yet been free. Judges are just, but popular opinion is powerful. And it was not impossible that Richard Devine, the millionaire, would have escaped the fate which had overtaken Rufus' doors the sailor. Into his calculations in the prison, when half-crace with love, with terror and despair, he had countered up his chances of life. The wild supposition that he had even then inherited the wealth of the father who had disowned him had never entered. The knowledge of that fact would have altered the whole current of his life, and he learned it for the first time now, too late. Now lying prone upon the sand, now wandering aimlessly up and down among the stunted trees that bristled white beneath the mist-barrowed moon, now sitting as he had sat in the prison long ago, with a head gripped hard between his hands, swaying his body to and fro, he thought out the frightful problem of his bitter life. Of little use was the heritage that he had gained. A convict absconder, whose hands were hard with menial service, and his back was scarred with a lash, could never be received among the gently nurtured. Let him lay claim to his name and rights, what then? He was a convicted felon, and his name and rights had been taken from him by the law. Let him go and tell Morris Freed that he was his lost cousin. He would be laughed at. Let him proclaim aloud his birth and innocence, and the convict's sheds would grin, and the convict overseer set him to harder labour. Let him even, by dint of reiteration, get his wild story believed. What would happen? If it was heard in England after the lapse of years, perhaps, that a convict in the chain gang in Macquarie Harbour, a man held to be a murderer and whose convict career was one long record of mutiny and punishment, claimed to be the heir to an English fortune, and to own the right to dispossess staden-worthy English folk off their rank and station, with what feeling would the announcement be received? Certainly not with a desire to redeem this ruffian from his bonds and place him in the honoured seat of his dead father. Such intelligence would be regarded as a calamity, an unhappy blot upon a fair reputation, a disgrace to an honoured and unsullied name. Let him succeed. Let him return again to the mother who had by this time become reconciled in a measure to his loss. He would, at the best, be to her a living shame, scarcely less degrading than that which she had dreaded. But success was almost impossible. He did not dare to retrace his steps through the hideous labyrinth into which he had plunged. Was he to show his scarred shoulders as a proof that he was a gentleman and an innocent man? Was he to relate the nameless infamies of Macquarie Harbour as a proof that he was entitled to receive the hospitality of the generous, and to sit a respected guest at the tables of men of refinement? Was he to quote the horrible slang of the prison ship and retell the filthy jests of the chained gang and the hawks as a proof that he was a fit companion for pure-minded women and innocent children? Suppose even that he could conceal the name of the real criminal and show himself guiltless of the crime for which he had been condemned? All the wealth in the world could not buy back that blissful ignorance of evil which had once been his. All the wealth in the world could not purchase the self-respect which had been cut out by him by the lash or banished from his brain the memory of his degradation. For hours this agony of thought racked him. He cried out as though with physical pain and then lay in a stupor, exhausted with actual physical suffering. It was hopeless to think of freedom and of honour. Let him keep silence and pursue the life fate had marked out for him. He would return to bondage. The law would claim him as an absconder and would meet out to him such punishment as was fitting. Perhaps he might escape severe punishment as a reward for his exertions in saving the child. He might consider himself fortunate if such was permitted to him. Fortunate. Suppose he did not go back at all, but wandered away into the wilderness and died. Better death than such a doom as his. Yet need he die? He had caught goats, he could catch fish, he could build a hut. In here was, perchance, at the deserter settlement some remnant of seed-corn that planted would give him bread. He had built a boat, he had made an oven. He had fenced in a hut. Surely he could contrive to live alone, savage and free. Alone. He had contrived all these marvels alone. Was not the boat he himself had built below upon the shore? Why not escape in her and leave to their fate the miserable creatures who had treated him with such ingratitude? The idea flashed into his brain as though someone had spoken the words into his ear. Twenty strides would place him in procession off the boat, and half an hour's drifting with the current would take him beyond pursuit. Once outside the bar he would make for the westward in the hopes of falling in with some whaler. He would doubtless meet with one before many days, and he was well supplied with provision and water in the meantime. A tale of shipwreck would satisfy the sailors, and he paused. He had forgotten that the rags which he wore would betray him. With an exclamation of despair he started from the posture in which he was lying. He thrust out his hands to raise himself, and his fingers came in contact with something soft. He had been lying at the foot of some loose stones that were piled can-wise besides the low-growing bush, and the object that he had touched was protruding from beneath these stones. He caught it and dragged it forth. It was a shirt of poor baits. With trembling hands he tore away the stones and pulled forth the rest of the garments. They seemed as though they had been left purposely for him. Heaven had sent him the very disguise he needed. The night had passed during his reverie, and the first faint streaks of dawn began to lighten in the sky. Haggered and pale he rose to his feet, and scarcely daring to think about what he proposed to do, ran towards the boat. As he ran, however, the voice that he had heard encouraged him. Your life is more important than theirs. They will die, but they have been ungrateful and deserve death. You will escape out of this hell, and return to the loving heart who mourns you. You can do more good to mankind than by saving the lives of these people who despise you. Moreover, they may not die. They are sure to be sent for. Think of what awaits you when you return. An absconded convict. He was within three feet of the boat when he suddenly checked himself and stood motionless, staring at the sand with as much horror as though he saw there the writing which foretold the doom of Belshazzar. He had come upon the sentence traced by Sylvia the evening before, and glittering in the low light of the red sun suddenly risen from out the sea, it seemed to him that the letters had shaped themselves at his very feet. Good Mr. Dawes. Good Mr. Dawes. What a frightful reproach there was to him in that simple sentence. What a world of cowardice, baseness and cruelty, had not these eleven letters open to him. He heard the voice of the child who had nursed him, calling on him to save her. He saw her at that instant standing between him and the boat, as she had stood when she held out to him the loaf on the night of his return to the settlement. He staggered to the cabin and, ceasing the sleeping Freya by arm, shook him violently. Awake! Awake! he cried, and let us leave this place. Freya, starting to his feet, looked at the white face and bloodshot eyes of the wretched man before him with blunt astonishment. What's the matter with you, man? he said. You look as if you'd seen a ghost. At the sound of his voice, Rufus Dawes gave a long sigh and drew his hand across his eyes. Come, Sylvia Shadafreya, it's time to get up. I am ready to go. The sacrifice was complete. The convict turned away, and two great listening tears rolled down his rugged face and fell upon the sand. CHAPTER XVII. A hour after sunrise the frail boat, which was the last hope of these four human beings, drifted with outgoing current towards the mouth of the harbour. When first launch she had come nice-womping, being overloaded, and it was found necessary to leave behind a great portion of the dried meat. With what pangs this was done can be easily imagined, for each atom of food seemed to represent an hour of life. Yet there was no help for it. As Freya said, it was neck or nothing with them. They must get away at all hazards. That evening they camped at the mouth of the gates, Dawes being afraid to risk a passage until the slack of the tide, and about ten o'clock at night adventured to cross the bar. The night was lovely and the sea calm. It seemed as though Providence had taken pity on them. For notwithstanding the insecurity of the craft and the violence of the breakers, the dreaded passage was made with safety. Once, indeed, when they had just entered the surf, a mighty wave curling high above them seemed about to overwhelm the frail structure of skins and weaker work. But Rufus Dawes, keeping the nose off the boat to the sea, and Freya bailing with his hat, they succeeded in reaching deep water. A great misfortune, however, occurred. Two of the bark buckets left by some unpardonable oversight uncleated were washed overboard, and with them nearly a fifth of their scantistoral water. In the face of the great apparel the accident seemed trifling, and, as drenched and chilled, they gained the open sea. They could not but admit that fortune had almost miraculously befriended them. They made tedious way with their rude oars. A light breeze from the northwest sprang up with a dawn, and hoisting the goatskin sail they crept along the coast. It was resolved that the two men should keep watch and watch, and Freya for the second time enforced his authority by giving the first watch to Rufus Dawes. I am tired, he said, and shall sleep for a little while. Rufus Dawes, who had not slept for two nights, and who had done all the harder work, said nothing. He had suffered so much during the last two days that his senses were dull to pain. Freya slept until late in the afternoon, and when he woke found the boat still tossing on the sea, and Sylvia and her mother both seasick. This seemed strange to him. Seasickness appeared to be a melody which belonged exclusively to civilisation. Moodly watching the great green waves which curled incessantly between him and the horizon, he marveled to think how curiously events had come about. A leaf had, as it were, been torn out of his autobiography. It seemed a lifetime since he had done anything but moodly scan the sea ashore. Yet on the morning of leaving the settlement he had countered the notches on a calendar stick he carried, and had been astonished to find them but twenty-two in number. Taking out his knife he cut two nicks in the wicker gunwell off the coracle, that brought him to twenty-four days. The mutiny had taken place on the thirteenth of January. It was now the sixth of February. Surely, thought he, the Ladybird might have returned by this time. There was no one to tell him that the Ladybird had been driven into Port Davy by stress of weather, and detained there for seventeen days. That night the wind fell, and they had to take to their oars. Rowing all night, they made but little progress, and Rufus Dorff suggested that they should put into the shore and wait until the breeze sprung up. But upon getting under the lee of a long line of basaltic rocks, which rose abruptly out of the sea, they found the waves breaking furiously upon a horseshoe reef, six or seven miles in length. There was nothing for it but to coast again. They coasted for two days, without a sign of a sail, and on the third day a great wind broke upon them from the southeast, and drove them back thirty miles. The coracle began to leak, and required constant bailing. What was almost as bad, the rum cast that had held the best part of their water, had leaked also, and was now half empty. They corked it by cutting out the leak, and then plugging the hole with linen. It's lucky we ain't in the tropics, said Freya. Poor Mrs. Vickers, lying in the bottom of the boat, wrapped in her wet shawl, and chilled to the bone with the bitter wind, had not the heart to speak. Surely the stifling calm of the tropics could not be worse than this bleak imbarancy. The position of the four poor creatures was now almost desperate. Mrs. Vickers, indeed, seemed completely prostrated, and it was evident that unless some help came, she would not long survive the continued exposure to the weather. The child was in somewhat better case. Rufus Dorth had wrapped her in his woolen shirt, and, unknown to Freya, had divided with her daily his allowance of meat. She lay in his arms at night, and in the day crept by his side for shelter and protection. As long as she was near him, she felt safe. They spoke little to each other, but when Rufus Dorth felt the pressure of her tiny hand in his, or sustained the weight of her head upon his shoulder, he almost forgot the cold that froze him and the hunger that gnawed him. So two more days passed, and yet no sail. On the tenth day, after their departure from Aquari Harbour, they came to the end of their provisions. The saltwater had spoiled the goatmeat, and soaked the bread into a nauseous paste. The sea was still running high, and the wind, having veered to the north, was blowing with increased violence. The long, low line of coast that stretched upon the left hand was at times obscured by a blue mist. The water was the colour of mud, and the sky-threatened rain. The wretched craft to which they had entrusted themselves was leaking in four places. If caught in one of the frequent storms which ravaged the iron-bound coast, she could not live an hour. The two men, weary, hungry, and cold, almost hoped for the end to come quickly. To add to their distress the child was seized with fever. She was hot and cold by turns, and in the intervals of moaning, talked deliriously. Rufus Dorth, holding her in his arms, watched the suffering he was unable to alleviate with a savage despair at his heart. Was she to die after all? So another day and night passed, and the eleventh morning saw the boat yet alive, rolling in the trough of the same deserted sea. The four exiles lay in her almost without breath. All at once Dorth uttered a cry, and ceasing the sheet put the clumsy craft about. A sail, a sail, he cried. Do you not see her? Friar's hungry eyes ranged the dull water in vain. There is no sail full, he said. You mock us! The boat, no longer following the line of the coast, was running nearly due south, straight into the great southern ocean. Friar tried to rest the thong from the hand of the convict, and bring the boat back to her course. Are you mad, he asked, in fretful terror, to run us out to sea? Sit down, returned the other, with a menacing gesture, and staring across the grey water. I tell you, I see a sail. Friar, overawed by the strange light, which gleamed in the eyes of his companions, shifted sulkily back to his place. Have your own way, he said, madman. It serves me right for putting off to sea, and such a devil's craft as this. After all, what did it matter, as well be drowned in mid-ocean as in sight of land? The long day wore out, and no sail appeared. The wind freshened towards evening, and the boat, plunging clumpsily on the long brown waves, staggered as though drunk with the water she had swallowed. For at one place near the boughs the water ran in and out, as through a slit in a wine-skin. The coast had altogether disappeared, and the huge ocean, vast stormy and threatening, heaved and hissed all around them. It seemed impossible that they should live until morning. But Roofer stores, with his eyes fixed on some object visible alone to him, hugged the child in his arms, and drove the quivering coracle into the black waste of night and sea. To Friar, sitting suddenly in the boughs, the aspect of this grim, immovable figure, with its back blown hair and staring eyes, had in it something supernatural and horrible. He began to think that privation and anxiety had driven the unhappy convict mad. Thinking and shuddering over his fate, he fell, as it seemed to him, into a momentary sleep, in the midst of which someone called to him. He started up with shaking knees and bristling hair. The day had broken, and the dawn in one long pale streak of sickly saffron lay low on the left hand. Between this streak of saffron-coloured light and the boughs of the boat gleamed for an instant a white speck. A sail, a sail, cried Roofer stores, a wild light gleaming in his eyes and a strange tone vibrating in his voice. Did I not tell you that I saw a sail? Friar, utterly confounded, looked again, with his heart in his mouth, and again did the white speck glimmer. For an instant he felt almost safe. And then a blanker to spare than before fell upon him. From the distance at which she was, it was impossible for the ship to sail. They will never see us, he cried. Doors, do you hear? They will never see us. Roofer stores started as if from a trans, lashing the sheet to the pole which served as a gun whale. He laid the sleeping child by her mother, and tearing up the strip of bark on which she had been sitting, moved to the boughs of the boat. They will see this, tear up that board. So, now place it thus across the boughs of the boat. So, now place it thus across the boughs. Hack off that sapling end. Now that dry twist of oesia. Never mind the boat, man, we can afford to leave her now. Tear off the outer strip of hide. See, the wood beneath is dry. Quick, you are so slow. What are you going to do? cried Friar, gasped, as the convict tore up all the dry wood he could find, and heaped it on the sheet of bark placed on the boughs. To make a fire, see? Friar began to comprehend. I have three matches left, he said, fumbling with trembling fingers in his pocket. I wrapped them in one of the leaves of the book to keep them dry. The word book was a new inspiration. Roofer stores ceased upon the English history which had already done such service tore out the dry leaves in the middle of the volume, and carefully added them to the little heap of touch wood. Now steady. The match was struck and lighted. The paper, after a few obstinate curling, caught fire, and Friar, blowing the young flame with his breath, the bark began to burn. He piled upon the fire all that was combustible. The hides began to shrivel, and a great column of black smoke rose up over the sea. "'Silvia!' cried Roofer stores. "'Silvia, my darling, you are saved!' She opened her blue eyes and looked at him, but gave no sign of recognition. Delirium had hold of her, and in the hour of safety the child had forgotten her preserver. Roofer stores, overcome by this last cruel stroke of fortune, sat down in the stern of the boat with the child in his arms speechless. Friar, feeding the fire, thought that the chance he had so longed for had come, with the mother at the point of death, and the child delirious, who could testify to this hated convict's skillfulness. No one but Mr. Morris Friar, and Mr. Morris Friar, as commander of convicts, could not but give up and abscond to justice. The ship charged her course and came towards this strange fire in the middle of the ocean. The boat, the four-part of her blazing like a pine torch, could not float above an hour. The little group of the convict and the child remained motionless. Mrs. Vickers was lying senseless, ignorant even of the approaching succour. The ship, a brig, with American colours flying, came within hail of them. Friar could almost distinguish figures on her deck. He made his way after where doors were sitting, unconscious, with the child in his arms, and stirred him roughly with his foot. "'Go forward,' he said, in tones of command, and give the child to me.' Roofer's doors raised his head, and seeing the approaching vessel awoke to the consciousness of his duty. With a low laugh, full of unutterable bitterness, he placed the burden he had borne so tenderly in the arms of the lieutenant, and moved to the blazing boughs. The brig was close upon them, her canvas loomed large and dusky, shadowing the sea, her wet deck shown in the morning sunlight, from her bulwarks peered bearded and eager faces, looking with astonishment at this burning boat in its haggard company, alone on that barren and stormy ocean. Friar, with Sylvia in his arms, waited for her. CHAPTER 1 A LABOUR IN THE VINYARD Society in Hobart Town in this year of grace, 1838, is, my dear Lord, composed of very curious elements. So ran a passage in the sparkling letter which the reverent Mr. Meakin, newly appointed chaplain, and seven days resident in Van Diemen's land, was carrying to the post office for the delectation of his patron in England. As the reverent gentleman tripped dainterly down the summer street that lay between the Blue River and the Purple Mountain, he cast his mild eyes hither and thither upon human nature, and the sentence he had just penned recurred to him with pleasurable appositeness. Elbowed by well-dressed officers of garrison, bowing sweetly to well-dressed ladies, shrinking from ill-dressed ill-oaded ticket of leavemen, or hastening across a street to avoid being run down by the handcarts that driven by little gangs of grey-clothed convicts, rattled and jangled at him unexpectedly from behind corners, he certainly felt that the society through which he moved was composed of curious elements. Now passed, with haughty nose in the air, a newly imported government official, relaxing for an instant his rigidity of demeanour to smile languidly at the chaplain whom Governor Sir John Franklin delighted to honour. Now swaggered with coarse defiance of gentility and patronage, a wealthy ex-prisoner, grown fat on the profits of rum, the population that was abroad on that sunny December afternoon had certainly an incongruous appearance to a dapper clergyman lately arrived from London, and missing for the first time in his sleek easygoing life those social screens which in London civilisation decorously concealed the frailties and vices of human nature. Clad in glossy black of the most fashionable clerical cut, with dandy boots and gloves of lightest lavender, a white silk overcoat hinting that its wearer was not wholly free from sensitiveness to sun and heat, the reverent meekin tripped daintily to the post office and deposited his letter. Two ladies met him as he turned. Mr Meekin. Mr Meekin's elegant hat was raised from his intellectual brow and hovered in the air like some courteous black bird for an instant. Mrs Jellico, Mrs Protherick, my dear ladies, this is an unexpected pleasure, and where pray are you going on this lovely afternoon to stay in the house is positively sinful? Ah, what a climate, but the trail of the serpent, my dear Mrs Protherick, the trail of the serpent, and he sighed. It must be a great trial to you to come to the colony, said Mrs Jellico, sympathising with the sigh. Meekin smiled, as a gentlemanly martyr might have smiled. The Lord's work, dear ladies, the Lord's work, I am but a poor labourer in the vineyard, toiling through the heat and burden of the day. The aspect of him with his faultless tie, his eerie coat, his natty boots, and his self-satisfied Christian smile, was so unlike a poor labourer toiling through the heat and burden of the day, that good Mrs Jellico, the wife of an Orthodox Comptroller of Convict's Stores, felt a horrible thrill of momentary heresy. I would rather have remained in England, continued Mr Meekin, smoothing one lavender finger with the tip of another, and arching his elegant eyebrows in mild deprecation of any praise of his self-denial. But I felt it my duty not to refuse the offer made me through the kindness of his lordship. Here is the field, ladies, a field for the Christian pastor. They appeal to me, ladies, these lambs of our church, these lost and outcast lambs of our church. Mrs Jellico shook her gay bonnet ribbons at Mr Meekin with a hearty smile. You don't know how convict, she said, from the tone of her jolly voice it might have been our cattle. They are horrible creatures, and as for servants, my goodness, I have a fresh one every week. When you have been here a little longer, you will know them better, Mr Meekin. They are quite unbearable at times, said Mrs Protherick, the widow of a superintendent of Convict's barracks, with a stately indignation mantling in her sallow cheeks. I am ordinarily the most patient creature breathing, but I do confess that the stupid vicious riches that one gets are enough to put a saint out of temper. We have all our crosses, dear ladies. All our crosses, said the reverent Mr Meekin piously. Heaven send us strength to bear them. Good morning. Why you are going our way, said Mrs Jellico. We can walk together. Delighted, I am going to call on Major Vickers. And I live within a stone's throw, returned Mrs Protherick. What a charming little creature she is, isn't she? Who asked Mr Meekin as they walked? Sylvia, you don't know her? Oh, dear little thing. I have only met Major Vickers at Government House, said Meekin. I haven't yet had the pleasure of seeing his daughter. A sad thing, said Mrs Jellico, quite a romance if it was not so sad, you know? His wife, poor Mrs Vickers. Indeed, what of her, asked Meekin, bestowing a condescending bow on the pass of eye? Is she an invalid? She is dead, poor soul, returned Jolly Mrs Jellico with a fat sigh. You don't mean to say you haven't heard the story, Mr Meekin. My dear ladies, I have only been in Hobart Town a week, and I have not heard the story. It's about the mutiny, you know, the mutiny at Macquarie Harbour. The prisoners took the ship and put Mrs Vickers and Sylvia ashore somewhere. Captain Freyr was with them too. The poor things had a dreadful time and nearly died. Captain Freyr made a boat at last, and they were picked up by a ship. Poor Mrs Vickers only lived a few hours. A little Sylvia, she was only 12 years old then, was quite light-headed. They thought she wouldn't recover. How dreadful, and has she recovered? Oh, yes, she's quite strong now, but her memory is gone. Her memory? Yes, struck in Mrs Protherick, eager to have a share in the storytelling. She doesn't remember anything about the three or four weeks they were ashore, at least not distinctly. It's a great mercy, interrupted Mrs Jellico, determined to keep the post of honour. Who wants her to remember these horrors? From Captain Freyr's account it was positively awful. You don't say so, said Mr Meekin, dabbing his nose with a dainty handkerchief. A bolter, that's what we call an escaped prisoner, Mr Meekin. Happened to be left behind, and he found them out, and insisted on sharing the provisions, though rich. Captain Freyr was obliged to watch him constantly for fear he should murder them. Even in the boat he tried to run them out to see and escape. He was one of the worst men in the harbour, they say, but you should hear Captain Freyr tell the story. And where is he now, asked Mr Meekin with interest. Captain Freyr? No, the prisoner. Oh, goodness, I don't know, at Port Arthur, I think. I know that he was tried for bolting, and would have been hanged but for Captain Freyr's exertions. Dear, dear, a strange story indeed, said Mr Meekin, and so the young lady doesn't know anything about it. Only what she has been told, of course, poor dear, she's engaged to Captain Freyr. Really, to the man who saved her, how charming, quite a romance. Isn't it? Everybody says so, and Captain Freyr is so much older than she is. But her girlish love clings to her heroic protector, said Meekin, mildly poetical, remarkable and beautiful, quite the, hm, the ivy and the oak, dear ladies. Ah, in our fallen nature, what sweet spots. I think this is the gate. A smart convict servant, he had been a pickpocket of note in days gone by, left the clergyman to repose in a handsomely furnished drawing room, whose sun blinds revealed a wealth of bright garden flecked with shadows, while he went in search of Miss Vickers. The major was out, it seemed, his duties as superintendent of convicts rendering such absences necessary. But Miss Vickers was in the garden, and could be called in at once. The reverent Meekin, wiping his heated brow and pulling down his spotless wristbands, laid himself back on the soft sofa, soothed by the elegant surroundings, no less than by the coolness of the atmosphere. Having no better comparison at hand, he compared this luxurious room with its soft couches, brilliant flowers and open piano, to the chamber in the house of a West India planter, where all was glare and heat and barbarism without, and all soft and cool and luxurious within. He was so charmed with this comparison, he had a knack of being easily pleased with his own thoughts, that he commenced to turn a fresh sentence for the bishop, and to sketch out an elegant description of the oasis in his desert of a vineyard. While at this occupation he was disturbed by the sound of voices in the garden, and it appeared to him that someone near at hand was sobbing and crying. Softly stepping on the broad veranda he saw on the grass plot two persons, an old man and a young girl. The sobbing proceeded from the old man. Deed miss, it's the truth on my soul. I've but just come back to you this morning. Oh my, but it's a cruel trick to play an old man. He was a white-haired old fellow, in a grey suit of convict frieze, and stood leaning with one veiny hand upon the pedestal of a vase of roses. But it is your own fault, Danny. We all warned you against her, said the young girl softly. Sure you did, but oh, how did I think it, miss? It is the second time she served me so. How long was it this time, Danny? Six months, miss. She said I was a drunkard and beat her. Beat her, God help me. Stretching forth two trembling hands. And they believed her, of course. Now, when I came back, there was me little place all trampled by the boys, and she's away with a ship's captain. Save and your presence, miss. Trinking in the George IV. Oh my, but it's hard on old man. And he felt a sobbing again. The girl sighed. I can do nothing for you, Danny. I dare say you can work about the garden as you did before. I'll speak to the major when he comes home. Danny, lifting his bleared eyes to thank her, caught sight of Mr. Meakin and saluted abruptly. Miss Vickers turned, and Mr. Meakin, bowing his apologies, became conscious that the young lady was about 17 years of age. That her eyes were large and soft, her hair plentiful and bright, and that the hand which held the little book she had been reading was white and small. Miss Vickers, I think. My name is Meakin, the Reverend Arthur Meakin. How do you do, Mr. Meakin, said Sylvia, putting out one of her small hands and looking straight at him? Papa will be in directly. His daughter more than compensates for his absence, my dear Miss Vickers. I don't like flattery, Mr. Meakin, so don't use it. At least, she added with a delicious frankness that seemed born of her very brightness and beauty. Not that sort of flattery. Young girls do like flattery, of course. Don't you think so? This rapid attack quite disconcerted Mr. Meakin, and he could only bow and smile at the self-possessed young lady. Go into the kitchen, Danny, and tell them to give you some tobacco. Say I sent you. Mr. Meakin, won't you come in? A strange old gentleman that, Miss Vickers, a faithful retainer, I presume. An old convict servant of ours, said Sylvia. He was with Papa many years ago. He has gotten into trouble lately, though, poor old man. Into trouble, asked Mr. Meakin, as Sylvia took off her hat. On the roads, you know. That's what they call it here. He married a free woman much younger than himself, and she makes him drink, and then gives him in charge for insubordination. For insubordination? Pardon me, my dear young lady. Did I understand you rightly? Yes, insubordination. He is her assigned servant, you know, said Sylvia, as if such a condition of things was the most ordinary in the world, and if he misbehaves himself, she sends him back to the road gang. The reverent Mr. Meakin opened his mild eyes very wide indeed. What an extraordinary anomaly. I am beginning, my dear Miss Vickers, to find myself indeed at the antipodes. Society here is different from society in England, I believe. Most new arrivals say so, return Sylvia quietly. But for a wife to imprison her husband, my dear young lady. She can have him flogged if she likes. Danny has been flogged. But then his wife is a bad woman. He was very silly to marry her, but you can't reason with an old man in love, Mr. Meakin. Mr. Meakin's Christian brow had grown crimson, and his decorous blood tingled to his fingertips. To hear a young lady talk in such an open way was terrible. Why, in reading the decalogue from the altar, Mr. Meakin was accustomed to softened one in decent prohibition, lest its uncompromising plainless of speech might offend the delicate sensibilities of his female souls. He turned from the dangerous theme without an instant pause for wonder at the strange power accorded to Hobart town free wives. You have been reading? Paul Averchigny, 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 jail 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 as Mr. Meakin, 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. Meakin, more astonished than ever at the 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, perfume the air with his cambrick handkerchief in silence. You have not been here long, Mr. Meakin, 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've seen 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, return Meakin hastening to apologise, 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. Meakin, as though he should solemnly say. If that doesn't reform them, what will? Oh, yes, return Sylvia. They have that, certainly, but that is only on Sundays. But don't let us talk about this, Mr. Meakin, she added, pushing back a stray curl of golden hair. Papa says that I'm 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 Meakin, much relieved as the door opened, and Vickers and Freyre entered. Vickers' hair had grown white, but Freyre carried his 30 years as easily as some men carried two and twenty. My dear Sylvia began Vickers, here's an extraordinary thing. And then, becoming conscious of the presence of the agitated Meakin, he paused. You know Mr. Meakin, Papa, said Sylvia? Mr. Meakin, Captain Freyre. I have that pleasure, said Vickers. Glad to see you, sir. Pray sit down. Upon which Mr. Meakin 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. Meakin, said Freyre. 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 shan'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, Morris, and gave him her hand affectionately. It's very oppressive, Captain Freyre, said Meakin, and to a stranger, quite innovating. Have a glass of wine, said Freyre, as if the house was his own. One wants bucking up a bit on a day like this. Hi, 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. Meakin. Oh, dear, no, not at all, returned Meakin, feeling that this charming young lady was regarded as a creature who was not to be judged by ordinary rules. We've gone 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 pop it? Pop it tossed ahead sorcery. 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's face. Yes, the most extraordinary thing. They caught those villains. What you don't mean? No, papa, said Sylvia, turning round with a long face. In that little family they 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, Shears and Leslie. 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 recognised 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, I speak in, eyeing the sherry with the gaze of a fasting saint. The piracy of a convict bridged five years ago, replied Vickers. The scoundrels put my poor wife and child ashore and left them to starve. It hadn't been for Freyre, God bless him. They would have died. They shot the pilot and the soldier. And but it's a long story. I have heard of it already, said Meakin, sipping the sherry, which another convict servant had brought for him. And of your gallant conduct, Captain Freyre. Oh, that's nothing, said Freyre, reddening. We're all in the same boat. Pop it. Have a glass of wine? No, said Sylvia. I don't want any. She was staring at the strip of sunshine between the veranda and the blind, as though the bright light might enable her to remember something. What's the matter, ask Freyre, bending over her? I was trying to recollect, but I can't, Morris. It is all confused. I only remember a great shore on a great sea, and two men, one of whom, that's you, dear, carried me in his arms. Dear, dear, said Mr. Meakin. She was quite a baby, said Becker's 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. Freyre, looking at her uneasily, shifted in his seat. There, don't think about it now, he said. Morris 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 Freyre, 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 Freyre, with a frown. By the by, said Becker's. 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 Freyre uneasily? I'm afraid not. I wouldn't like to swear to a man after five years. By George, said Freyre, 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 Becker's, 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 Meakin? Old convicts return, Becker's. 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 Meakin? To bring up the witnesses, my dear sir, most of the prisoners are life, as you see, and a trip to Hobart Town is like a holiday for them. And do they never leave the place when sentence for life, said Meakin, nibbling a biscuit? How distressing. Never, except when they die, answered Freyre with a laugh. And then they are buried on the island. Oh, it's a fine place. You should come down with me and have a look at it, Mr. Meakin. Picked your risk. I can assure you. My dear Morris, said 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 Meakin, still nibbling, for Sir John was saying something about a chaplaincy there, and I understand that the climate is quite indurable. The convict servant who had entered with some official papers for the major, stared at the dainty clergyman, and rough Morris laughed again. Oh, it's a stunning climate, he said, and nothing to do, just the place for you. There's a regular little colony there. All the scandals in Van Diemen's land are hatched at Port Arthur. This agreeable chatter about scandal and climate seemed a strange contrast to the graveyard island and the men who were prisoners for life. Perhaps Sylvia thought so, for she struck a few chords which, compelling the party out of sheer politeness to cease talking for the moment, caused the conversation to flag, and hinted to Mr. Meakin that it was time for him to depart. Good afternoon, dear Miss Vickers, he said, rising with his sweetest smile. Thank you for your delightful music. That piece is an old, old favorite of mine. It was quite a favorite of dear Lady Jane's and the bishops. Pray excuse me, my dear Captain Freyre, but this strange occurrence of the capture of the wreckers, you know, must be my apology for touching on a delicate subject. How charming to contemplate yourself and your dear young lady. The preserved and preserver, dear Major. None but the brave, you know, none but the brave, none but the brave deserve the fair. You remember glorious John, of course? Well, good afternoon. It's rather a long invitation, said Vickers, always well-disposed to anyone who praised his daughter. But if you've nothing better to do, come and dine with us on Christmas Day, Mr. Meakin. We usually have a little gathering, then. Charmed, said Meakin. Charmed, I'm sure. It is so refreshing to meet with persons of one's own tastes in this delightful colony. Kindred souls, together knit, you know, dear Miss Vickers. Indeed, yes. Once more. Good afternoon. Sylvia burst into laughter as the door closed. What a ridiculous creature, said she. Bless the man with his gloves and his umbrella, and his hair and his scent. Fancy that mincing noodle showing me the way to heaven. I'd rather have old Mr. Bowes, papa, though he is as blind as a beetle, and makes you so angry by bottling up his trumps, as you call it. My dear Sylvia, said Vickers seriously. Mr. Meakin is a clergyman, you know. Oh, I know, said Sylvia. But then a clergyman can talk like a man, can't he? Why do they send such people here? I'm sure they could do much better at home. Oh, by the way, papa, dear, poor old Danny's come back again. I told him he might go into the kitchen. May he, dear? You'll have the house full of these vagabonds, you little puss, said Vickers, kissing her. I suppose I must let him stay. What has he been doing now? His wife, said Sylvia, locked him up. You know, for being drunk, life. What do people want with wives, I wonder? Asked Maurice, said her father, smiling. Sylvia moved away and tossed ahead. What does he know about it? Maurice, you're a great bear, and if you hadn't saved my life, you know, I shouldn't love you a bit. There you may kiss me, a voice grew softer. This convict business has brought it all back, and I should be ungrateful if I didn't love you, dear. Maurice Freyre, with suddenly crimson face, accepted the prophet Caress, and then turned to the window. A grey-clothed man was working in the garden, and whistling as he worked. They're not so badly off, said Freyre, under his breath. What's that, dear, asked Sylvia? That I'm not half good enough for you, cried Freyre, with sudden vehemence. I— It's my happiness you've got to think of, Captain Bruin, said the girl. You've saved my life, haven't you? And I should be wicked if I didn't love you. No, no more kisses, she added, putting out her hand. Come, papa, it's cool now. Let's walk in the garden, and leave Maurice to think of his own unworthiness. Maurice watched the retreating pair with a puzzled expression. She always leaves me for her father, he said to himself. I wonder if she really loves me, or if it's only gratitude, after all. He had often asked himself the same question during the five years of his wooing, but he had never satisfactorily answered it.