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Chapter XI.

We will now take the reader again to the woods of Van Dieman's Land. The sun has just risen, the birds are beginning to chirp, and as they soar upwards they see the figure of a man, who lies, to all appearance, dead. With the curiosity of the feathered tribe, they view the form of the apparently lifeless body; but he stirs not. The sun gradually rises, and the day is alive with all the natives of the woods, but still the man remains motionless. Suddenly he moves, then tries to rise, but sinks again, for his strength seems to be entirely gone. He mutters to himself, but his thoughts seem to keep on one subject. "Clara," he says, your mother is coming. Yes, she comes. What a long time she has been away. She will not know you now; you have grown, my girl—yes, almost out of recollection. But she will know you; yes, who could ever forget Clara? my Clara! my only comfort for so many weary years. You would not listen to him; I knew you would not. No, John Hobart, you cannot deceive her. Go villain, go to your wife, Mary Torridge, the unwilling bride, whom you gained by stratagem, only to lose her. How she rejected you with scorn! I saw it, although an unwilling witness. I knew not what your intention was, and you deceived us all—even the parson, and Felix, too, the knowing one. Ah, ah! but did she not tell you, John, that you had put a stone round your own neck, which you would live to curse? How true 'twill come, and then she, too, will be avenged." So went on Matthew Grant muttering to himself in this wise. Several times he attempts to rise, but his limbs refuse their office, and he sinks upon the ground, and again all is still.

After a time the murmur of voices is heard in the distance; the birds flutter in the trees, and again the lonely bush seems all astir. The voices approach rapidly, and the tramp as of page 84many feet is heard. On, on, they come, looking behind every huge tree, for they think that he whom they are seeking is secreted in some secluded spot. Suddenly the recumbent figure rises into a sitting position, and calls aloud: "Clara, my girl, 'tis time to rise; 'tis long past sunrise, and I must away."

At the sound the men halt and listen, and then resume their search, but as they are unable to find anything, they conclude that what they had heard was only the result of their imagination. Suddenly again, almost in their midst, comes that voice, "I am not guilty;" and the seekers look before them where lies the figure of Matthew Grant.

The first who goes to his side is the overseer of the division to which Grant belongs, and he exclaims in a self-satisfied tone, "I knew he had not bolted. Come, get up, my man." He does not move, however, but mutters, "Tell her to come—I am not cross."

"Poor old fellow," several exclaim in a breath, "he has lost his reason."

"Or does he sham?" asks another.

"Sham! Not he," says the first comer; "he doesn't know how to do that. I knew as soon as he was first reported missing, and that note was found crumpled up outside his hut, that he had only wandered away in hopes of finding his daughter. The ungrateful girl, to leave the poor old fellow, when he was always so kind to her. This comes of giving them too much of their own way."

"Come come," says one, who seems to be in command, "we must not waste time. Let us prepare a litter, and try to save his life if possible."

With this two long saplings are found, and several smaller sticks are laid across them, and at each corner they are tied with some strips of stringy bark, and so an Australian litter is formed. Grant is now lifted as gently as such men know how page 85to lift a prisoner; for they, at least, do think a prisoner is no longer a man—they take into consideration the fact that there are some cases of victimised innocence. Two men now take up the litter, one at each end, and they march forward for some time in silence.

Presently old Matthew again tries to rise, but his strength is not equal to it; and again he mutters, "Yes, John Hobart, I will see you some day; when you try to cast the stone from off your neck, you will possibly try to hang another there, for you are villain enough. But if you do, beware, John, for the first stone may choke you. And you tried to take my Clara, too. Ah, but you could not. She would not leave her poor old father. No, she will stay and comfort me; but sooner or later I will come and see you, John, and will also tell Clara at once to whom you are married; and then, John, what will she think of you when she knows how you obtained a wife?"

"I say, Kilgour," says one of the carriers, "he is quite gone. He talks of nothing but her and Hobart. They must be a nice couple—he to induce her to leave, and she to go from the poor old fellow."

"Aye," said Kilgour, "blood will tell. What could you expect from the offspring of two lifers?"

"True," said the first speaker; "but what does he mean by speaking of Hobart's wife?"

"I'm sure I don't know. I never heard he had one. But with this class of people, you or me never knows. They keep their affairs in their own class."

"True, but Hobart is not one of their class; he is a solicitor, and never was a prisoner."

"I know that, but his father was; and you know what they say about 'bred in the bone, &c.'"

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This seemed to be conclusive, and they accepted the arguments of the latter speaker.

"The old fellow has been here a long time now," says another. "Is he a lifer? What was it for?"

"Yes," says Kilgour, "he has been here about fifteen years. He was sent out for receiving and, I think, stealing as well. It was, I am told, a bad case; a man that he was employed by had promoted and given him about the best billet on his estate (for he was a gentleman), and then the ungrateful fool stole, and was very near being hanged. His wife followed him out, but she died."

"Yes," mutters again the old man, "it was all put there for spite, and I could not prove otherwise, and they lagged me. But some day, yes some day—"

"Yes, some day," laughed one of the crowd, "some day, old fellow, and I think before long you will get a selection of your own."

This seemed to be considered a good joke by all, for they laughed and marched on. About four in the afternoon they reached head-quarters, reported their search to the assistant-superintendent, and took old Grant to the hospital. The doctor carefully examined Grant, and questioned the party who had found him. Then, as Grant rallied again, he asked him questions, but his replies were so at variance that the doctor pronounced him hopelessly mad. "There is," he said, "nothing ailing him bodily, beyond the fact that he has lost strength from want of food. He is not even feverish, and is quite harmless. But I don't think there is any chance of his sanity returning."

So Matthew, when he recovered his bodily health, became a wanderer about the divisions. He was perfectly harmless, and would sit for hours by himself and talk as though Clara was with him, for he never seemed to let her out of his memory. In this state things remained for long, and in all probability would have page 87continued so until death had relieved the unfortunate man, but for an event happening to which he owed the return of his sanity. The medical man who had examined him when he was first found was one of the old school, who when they conclude a case is hopeless, never again try a remedy. Dr. Featherstone had been in the service for many years, first as an army doctor, and afterwards in the penal department. He at last decided to resign and return home, for he was at this time entitled to a pension. Accordingly he went, and in his place came a man of about twenty-nine years of age—one of the new school, whose motto is "kill or cure," and being fresh from his home studies, he was anxious to put some of his ideas to the test. He had been there some ten days or more when he observed Grant one morning going his rounds as usual, and asked his dispenser what was the matter, and was supplied with a full account of the affair.

"Did Dr. Featherstone never try to cure this man in any way?" he asked the dispenser.

"No, sir; he pronounced him hopelessly insane the day he was brought in, and nothing was ever done after."

"And is this hut you speak of still standing?"

"Yes, sir, and the furniture remains nearly the same, if not quite, as when he left it."

"Then," said the surgeon, "one day this week, if I am not mistaken, we will restore the old man's sanity. It is quite time the old regime of medical men should be replaced; they are a pack of old fools."

The dispenser felt quite shocked that his superior should speak so of their late doctor, whom he had always thought infallible, but he said nothing; and, the third day after this conversation, Dr. Brintor told him to get two or three of the old hands together and take Grant to the place where he had been found, and then lead him back to his hut.

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Accordingly the instructions were carried out, and long before they reached the hut Dr. Brintor awaited them. As they neared the hut there was a visible alteration in Grant; he looked around him more, and seemed to take notice of the surroundings. When they neared the hut Grant was allowed to walk on, while rest of the party remained behind. He went into the place as of old, looked round, and called "Clara!" Then he stood as though in thought; suddenly he placed his hand on his forehead as though trying to remember; presently he mutters: "Yes, the note—I remembered to preserve. Ah! from what? Yes, out in the night; yes. Now I remember all. She went to save me from—no, this I cannot remember," and suddenly turning to the doctor he says, "Do you know, sir, what she went to save me from?"

"Of course I do," replied the doctor; "she went to try and save you from dying in prison."

"Noble girl; but I fear, sir, she will not succeed, although, as I told her, I was innocent. What do you think of it—do you think there is any chance?"

"While there is life there is hope. Have patience for her return, and then you will know more."

"True," replied Grant, "I must have patience; but I seem to forget something. I wonder what I forget."

"You have been ill; that has no doubt affected your memory. You are nearly well now, but you must not ask questions or you may fall ill again. Have patience, and when you want to know anything ask me, but no one else."

"But, sir, I do not know or remember you. Who are you, if you please?"

"I am Dr. Brintor, who took the place of Dr. Featherstone."

"Ah, yes, I remember him. When did he go? I don't think I have seen him lately."

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"No, he has been gone some time; but we must go back to quarters now. Mind, you must not ask any one questions excepting of me; don't forget."

They returned to quarters, and the man that had some few hours before been looked upon as a hopeless idiot was now as sane, or nearly so, as ever.

Some few days after this, under the pretence of keeping him in to gain strength, Grant was sent back to his old employer, and was allowed to retake possession of his hut. So things went on month after month, and when no signs came of Clara returning he became most anxious and uneasy, and at last, to save his reason, it became imperative to tell the truth. At this the old man became almost frantic, and for days his mind seemed giving way, and he gradually sank in health so that his life was despaired of. Gradually he became weaker, and the doctor gave it as his opinion that the poor old fellow would eventually sink under his troubles. Matters were in this state when the news came of the confession and his free pardon, which Hobart and Fixer had read. This news made a great alteration in the old fellow, and in a very short time he again began to recover, for he buoyed himself up with the hope of finding his daughter. Slowly but surely he came round; and, the press having caused great interest to be taken in his past misfortunes, subscriptions came in so freely that at the expiration of six weeks, when he was pronounced well enough to travel, there was collected for him nearly £100, and with this he concluded he could easily find Clara.

The day, the joyful day for the unfortunate man, at length arrived, and the boat in which he had taken passage for Melbourne stood at the Hobartown pier. Many of the free population who had known Matthew Grant came to see him off, and many a cordial shake of the hand and kind wish did he receive from those around. In this new joy and excitement, for the time at least, he forgot his past and present troubles. There were many down at the wharf on this occasion; in fact, so unusual an page 90occurrence was it, that there were hundreds to witness his departure. Now in all this bustle and excitement there is to be seen a man of mature years, who looks around him in a suspicious manner. He does not wear the convict dress, but there is a nervousness about him that would attract anyone's attention who was not looking at other matters. Carefully does he look around, and suddenly, when all are busy with other things, he seizes a box of fruit which lies on the wharf, and which is to go on board, and rushes on, deposits it with the others, and then mingles again with the crowd. After a little time he descends the cabin steps and there he remains until the whistle blows and the steamer's paddles are heard. He too, like Grant, knows, at least for a time, he is free. Yes, an escaped convict is on board, without a shilling. But what cares he for money—he knows but the value of one thing, liberty, and this he now concludes he has obtained. On, on steams the boat, and when the time arrives for tickets to be examined, the escaped man goes aft, descends the hold which happens to be open, and for the remainder of the voyage, four whole days, he is not seen. No food does he taste except the fruit stored below, but of this he eats his full. In those days there was no telegraph, and all his fear is that another boat will follow; but fortune favours him, and without further adventure the vessel arrives safely at the Sandridge pier, Melbourne. With the crowd the convict mingles, and now he feels sure of his freedom. Yes, after ten years in Van Dieman's Land, and a probable twenty more—for he is a hardy man, and his sentence was for life, and in those days it was a little matter that gave an unfortunate man that sentence—but from the probable twenty he escapes, and for the time he goes amid the crowd and we see him no more.

Grant now soon makes his way to the Sandridge railway station, takes a ticket, and in a very few minutes is landed in the city of Melbourne. What were his feelings at finding himself in such a place, and after such a number of years? For my part, I feel how unequal I am to the task of describing his emotions. First, he sees the throng of people—to him so un-page 91usual a sight—and hears the hum of voices, the cry of the newsboy; but he walks on and forgets for the time the object of his search; in fact, he only revels in the enjoyment of his lately-found liberty. What delight there exists to him in such knowledge. How long has he waited and yearned for what be has now obtained? How long has he hoped without any reason for so doing? And now, when he least expected, indeed long after all hope was dead within him, he finds himself free; and not only free, but acquitted of all blame. Every time he realises the truth he feels overjoyed. This new experience raises him to the seventh heaven of delight, and as he experiences the joy of such freedom, on, on he walks, heedless of the direction he takes; for why should he care? Can he not at any moment turn and retrace his steps, which are no longer bound to keep in certain precincts? He has strolled on for fully three hours, when he is aroused by hearing the newsboy crying the evening paper, and announcing the escape of a convict. Eagerly he purchases a paper, scans its contents, and there he finds that the same steamer which had brought him has carried the runaway. The missing man is known to him, and he is aware that should he see him he would recognise him. The full description of the convict is given, and nearly every detail of the description would apply to himself, although he does not notice that. Deep in thought, he still rambles on, wondering within himself if the unfortunate man will be lucky enough to avoid detection in the crowded thoroughfares of Melbourne, for he has too much sympathy to desire to aid in his arrest; and while thinking on in this strain, he is quite unaware of the fact that a man follows him, eagerly watching to see if he looks as though to find the runaway. Presently, having made up his mind that such is not the case, he overtakes Grant, and before the latter can turn round he is addressed in the following words:—"Well, Matthew, would you know me were you to see me?"

Grant, at the sound of a familiar voice, turns and sees before him a man whose features he fancies he has seen before, but yet he cannot call to mind who he is.

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"So you do not recognise me. I am glad of that. I thought I could hide my identity."

"John Whittler, as I live," answers Grant; "I am glad to see you—glad because I know you are safe. And then again I am sorry you have not managed to put a greater distance between you and those who will be hot in pursuit."

"I know, Grant, you are glad—for I am certain you would not aid them to overtake me, although you are not one of my sort, for you always were of a better lot. But you are of the humane kind, and would not wish to see me back in that hell's hole again."

"No, John, that I would not; for no matter what you have been, you were not like some in the hole we have just come from. I do believe you will, if you are allowed, try and do better."

"Aye, Grant, that I will, and I only long to get out of this place, and reach the goldfields, and then I shall feel safer."

"Why do you lose time? Every hour you are here increases your danger; in fact, your talking to me is far from wise, for I am most assuredly known."

"I only wait to get a few shillings to take me on, for so far I have nothing. The disguise I have I got from one of our, or rather my, sort; but money he could not give me, for he had none. To-night I hope to get a little, and then I will start."

"I am but poor myself," said Grant, "for what little I possess I have an all-important use for. But still I would like to do you a good turn; and if you will promise me, if I give you some of what little I have, that you will away at once, I can only say you are welcome."

As Grant said this he put his hand into his pocket and brought forth three bright sovereigns.

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"Grant," said Whittler, "I had no thought of this when I accosted you; but if you will so far befriend me, and I should ever find an opportunity to repay you, I shall do so as willingly as I know you give me this."

"I care not about repayment; we are, or have been, brothers in adversity; and although I am aware I am aiding you to evade the law, yet all I ask in return for this is that in future you may try and do better. Should you ever be in a position to aid another, do so with this amount, and leave this city at once. These are the only conditions I impose."

So saying, Grant placed the money in the hand of John Whittler.

"Matthew Grant," said Whittler, catching him by the hand, "for ten long years I have never had occasion to look on any one but as an enemy; for you know what they are where we have just come from, and can therefore feel and know a little of what I now would say. I cannot find words to say what I want, but I only trust that the day may come when I can show I am not quite so bad as not to remember this act. Good-bye, Grant, and may you never regret this one kind act."

"Good-bye, Whittler; clear away as quickly as possible is my advice to you."

So they parted. Grant now decided it was getting time for him to seek some place where he could put up, which, until now, he had not thought of. He accordingly, as he concluded he had strayed a considerable distance, started to walk briskly; and so for a short space we will leave him and follow John Whittler.

On his leaving Grant he at once decided to make what haste he could to get clear of the city, but he had not gone far when he observed he was closely watched, and he soon came to the conclusion that the detectives were on his track.

"Now," he thought, "I am again in the hands of the philis-page 94tines if I do not effect my escape by some fraud or other. How shall I do it? Shall I?" he mutters. "Yes, why not? It will be but a few days; but to me it would be life. I must, and will escape, so here goes."

"With this he crosses the street, and walks towards the man, who, he concluded, had been following him. When he is face to face with the stranger, he says: "Can you tell me how far I am from a police station? or where can I find a policeman?"

"Why do you ask?" enquires the individual.

"Because I wish to do an act of justice. I want an answer before it is too late; so, if you can tell me, do so, and at once."

"Well, then, I am a detective. Now, what would you?"

"Good," says Whittler, "did you meet or see that man that I have just left?"

"Yes," answers the detective, all excitement.

"Well," replied he, "that man is John Whittler, just escaped from Van Dieman's Land. Quick and arrest him, and I will call in casually and identify him, for I am Matthew Grant, just pardoned, and from there."

"Well, fool that I have been," says the detective, "for I had followed you, and took you for him."

"Well, lose no time now, but away. I will pass by in about an hour, and then, if you like, you can call me, and even arrest me. I can identify him, but I would not like it known that I gave information."

The detective was decided by the style of the man and his assurance; and, further, fearing he might lose the right one, started off in full pursuit of Grant, whom he soon overtakes; while Mr John Whittler, in less time than it took to convey Grant to the lock-up, was on his way along the Keilor Plains, page 95and in the direction of Bendigo. Grant, to save the man who had just betrayed him to the police, refused, for the present at least, to say a word.