Chapter III.

It is midnight, and the moon is just beginning to peep from behind the hills, for it is but rising. The night looks as though it was going to be stormy, for every now and then the masses of cloud which are to be seen drift on, and for the time completely obscure the little light from the moon. The place is between two very high hills, and in the distance can be seen dense thickets of timber. On the edge of the nearest of these stands a mean-looking hut of only two rooms, and from the window of one of these two rooms comes a light which shines but faintly. Occasional gusts of wind are the only sounds to be heard, save the occasional cry of the curlew and the plover. We will look in and see the interior of the dreary-looking hut, which, although very rude in its construction, shows an unmistakeable display of feminine taste. The room which is entered from the front door is small indeed, but its interior is very unlike what one would expect to find in such an outlandish page 23place. In one corner stands a neat and clean-looking bed, made on a stretcher; under the window there is a table made from four round poles driven into the ground, the top of them being covered with slabs which have been so neatly dressed with an adze or some such tool that they look rather as though they had been planed and polished; in the gable end of the building is built a large colonial fire-place—colonial, I say, for I don't think any other part of the world has such rude-looking chimneys. The fire-place is nearly the whole width of the building, and on the night in question there burns a large wood fire; the walls of the room have been neatly papered with pictures from illustrated papers—cuts from the Young Ladies' Journal, &c., &c.—but all so neatly arranged that much taste must have been expended on them; on each side of the fire stands a three-legged stool fashioned after the same manner as the table; in one corner of the hut is fixed a triangular bookshelf, made with three pieces of boards—each corner of these having a hole bored through, and cord running from hole to hole and corner to corner, which is knotted about twelve inches apart, and so forms a bookshelf. These shelves are also papered with a light-brown wrapping paper, which has been varnished with what is termed "colonial varnish"—made from a little of any kind of spirit, and mixed with some of the gum which is very plentiful in Victoria and Tasmania. There is also in the room, in the opposite corner, another smaller row of shelves, on which are placed the crockery and some cooking utensils. The floor is of earth, but has been so carefully watered and kept that it is very hard and solid; around the fire the floor is whitewashed, as is also the whole of the interior of the fire-place. On one of the stools which are mentioned as standing beside the fire, sits a man of at least forty years. He is dressed in clothing of the cheapest, but all he wears is as neat and clean as possible. He is in features a good-looking old man, but he seems to have something continually on his mind. His general appearance is that of a man of culture; his hair is turning grey, and this gives him a much more aged appearance than he would page 24otherwise have; he is above the medium height, and has been good-looking. As he sits looking steadily into the fire, he hears a footstep, at which he exclaims, "At last she comes!" The door opens, and there appears a girl whom the reader will doubtless soon recognise. The old man draws from his pocket an old English watch, and, looking at it, says, "Clara, my girl, whatever induced you to stay so late? It is now ten past twelve."

"I did not think, papa, it was so late as that, or I would have hurried, but just as I was leaving the town I met Mr Hobart, and he came along with me, and perhaps we did not come as quickly as we might; but you must forgive me this time." As she spoke her face, which was sweetness itself, seemed to be illuminated with some joyful news. The father, for such he was, did not seem to join her in the pleasurable thoughts, for at the mention of Hobart's name he frowned, and looked anything but pleased.

"Mr Hobart, eh?" he replied; "so he saw you home, my girl, did he?"

"Yes, father, and he is now waiting outside to speak to you, for he would not come in, as he said he wanted to remain there and speak to you alone, if you would join him for a few minutes. Don't keep him, papa, it is so late."

"No, my girl, I will not keep him, nor shall I be long; so you may wait up for me, as I wish to speak to you before you go to bed."

With this, Matthew Grant, for such was his name, rose, took his hat from a nail, and walked outside, where he was at once joined by John Hobart.

"Good evening, Matthew; it is rather late to disturb you, I know, but I will not keep you very long." The two now walked on together for some minutes, John Hobart doing all page 25the talking. Suddenly, old Matthew said, "Hold, friend; what would you ask of me next? I would sooner she were dead, or married to one of the idiots of the town than such. Go, John Hobart, and do your best and your worst, but if you ever make such a proposal to me again, one of us will not live to see the light of another day, of that I promise you. You are," he continued, "a true specimen of what your father was, and you, above all other men, are allowed to be a member of the bar! Oh, how much must it degenerate, sooner or later, through you; of that I am but too certain."

"Very well," exclaims Hobart, "we will see if you dare not only insult me personally, but also violate the memory of my dead father. Look to yourself, Grant, and also your daughter!"

"Aye, Hobart, I can easily do that. I know how much you would do if you could, but I fear you not; I shall never do aught to place myself in your power—for I know I may expect no mercy."

The old man now staggered rather than walked to the humble hut. Clara, as he had requested, was sitting waiting for him. He took the spare stool, and for some minutes he spoke not, and Clara did not disturb him; he looked flushed and excited.

"Clara," at last he said, "are you fond of that man who was here just now? Tell the truth, my girl, as you have always done. Are you fond of, or do you love John Hobart?"

The poor girl started at the abruptness of the question and for a second or two looked confused, indeed, almost frightened. She gradually recovered herself, and at last said, "Father, I will tell you no untruth. I do like John sometimes; then again at other times I like him less. But he seems always to have a power over me, for when he so wishes it I am almost become his slave; but this does not occur often."

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"Well, my girl, I only regret that he is not what he should be, then I should be pleased to speak to you differently than I must now; but, my girl, there are some things I must say to you; in fact, there are many things that should be said, and as I am now on the subject I will go on. You must not, Clara, under any circumstances, think more of John Hobart. There exist the best reasons possible for you to discontinue altogether even your acquaintance with him."

"Father, why is this? Only this evening he proposed to me, and you have seen me with him repeatedly, and never until now even objected to what was going on. He is in a position far above me—for of course I know my actual standing in society. The subject is one that I would not willingly refer to; but when you speak to me as you have just done, it seems so incredible that I feel inclined to say many things that I would not think of otherwise."

"Clara," exclaimed the old man, "pray do not you, above all others, remind me that I am Matthew Grant, the convict, for it is too much to listen to from the child I love as I love my life; aye, more, for gladly would I part with the one to secure the happiness of the other. But I have no desire to parade my virtue, whether I possess it or not, and I had no intention of making any mention of it when I first spoke to you this evening—so, enough of that. What I wish to speak to you about is John Hobart and my past life, of which you know nothing; and further, of Hobart senior, and the reasons why you should think nothing of his son, for you can never be more to him than you are now; but enough of that."

Clara was in tears, but she now, at the last words, held up her head and gave her father a look which was full of enquiry, but she spoke not, her heart was too full to ask any questions. She had learned to love John Hobart, and to love him too well.

"I will explain all to you, Clara," he said, "but let me tell page 27you what I choose first. I would ten thousand times sooner spare you the pain of telling you at all; but that it must be, for it is the inevitable."

"Father, oh father," sobbed the poor girl, "why did you not tell me sooner that it must not be? Then I could have endured it; but now I know not what to say, neither do I know your reasons for speaking as you do, but I fear you have reason or you would not speak. I trust there may be some chance of an explanation putting all matters right."

"There is no chance of an explanation, nor will he ever offer one, for he knows I know too much. I almost wish I did not, for secrets are always a burden to one. But now, my child, if you will be patient I will relate to you some of my past life, and in time come to what I have to say about him; and when I have finished you will no doubt be able to look at things in a different light."

"As you will, father; I will do my best to follow you in all things, for whatever you may be in other respects, I have no reason to complain."

"Well, Clara, you know of course that thirteen years ago this very month, and on the 21st, whenever that may be, I was tried in England and found guilty of concealing or having concealed in my house a quantity of plate and other valuables belonging to one Mr Lurtonshaw, in whose employ as Estate Agent I had been for some eight years. My position with him was one of trust, and I have no doubt all who thought and believed me guilty felt no mercy for me whatever, as they concluded that I fully deserved all I got. But I thank God now as I did then, that I am innocent, and but the victim of one of the basest plots that ever was laid for man. I must not anticipate in relating the events, but proceed. The first I ever knew was one evening your mother and I had just finished tea, and you, then only four years old, had kissed me and gone to bed, when your poor mother rose to answer a knock at the front door. page 28She hurried back to tell me that Constable Brown, of the village of Crawford, Kent, wanted to see me. 'Wants to see me,' I answered, 'what does he want of me?' 'I cannot say,' she replied, and I arose and went into the front room.

"'Good evening, Grant,' said Constable Brown; 'I regret having a very unpleasant duty to perform, but you know some one must do it.'

"'Quite so,' I replied, never fearing for one instant that what he said had any ill omen for me; 'pray say what you have come about, do not mind me.'

"With this the Constable went again to the door and called his friend, who turned out to be a detective from London. When they both returned, Brown said: 'Now, Grant, we have a search warrant to look for some property that has gone astray from your employer's, so, if you will be advised by me, you will not put any obstacles in our way.'

"'I shall not,' I replied, 'for I know you will not find anything here that should not be.' With this they commenced their work. Your mother, Clara, was greatly troubled, declaring all the time that she knew there must be some villainy at work. I, never suspecting anything, told her to fear not, as they would soon satisfy themselves and go. We bad so far followed the constables round, and they now, having finished all on the floor we were on, asked me for the key of the coal-cellar and kitchen, which were both down-stairs. The kitchen communicated with the floor we were on by a flight of stone steps, and the coal-cellar was off the kitchen and always locked, and the key was usually hung up behind the kitchen door. We now descended the kitchen stair, and after searching it they asked for the key of the coal-cellar, which I at once went to get from behind the door, but to my surprise I found it gone.

"Brown now said, 'If you have it, Grant, you had better give it up, for we cannot leave without completing our search.'

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"I assured him I had not got it, and further that I knew not where it was; but I added, I suppose the servant girl, who is away on a short visit to her friends at the Castle, must have it with her.

"'Then,' said Brown, 'we had better break open the door.'

"'Don't do that,' I said, 'as we shall soon be able to get the key.' 'I cannot wait here,' said Brown, 'so here goes,' and, turning to the detective, he said, 'give us a lift.'

"I again (as I saw after very foolishly) asked him to wait; but they now seemed more determined than ever, for, with this, they at once tried to force the door.

"After trying several times, they then asked me to assist them, when I again asked them to wait and I would soon get the key.

"At this Brown said, 'Now, Grant, I can see you know what we want is here, and you are obstructing us; so if you do not at once lend us a hand, I shall use this in evidence against you.'

"I replied to this most indignantly, and told them if they thought so they had better prove it, and that I would not lend them any further assistance. With this I left the kitchen, and went up stairs, feeling in anything but an enviable frame of mind. I had been there but a few seconds when I heard your mother coming up stairs, and the others after her. They all managed to get to where I was in our bed-room about the same time.

"'They have found the things,' said your mother, and as she said so she sat down almost powerless, for of course she knew that something was wrong.

"Brown now said, 'Grant, I shall, much as I regret it, have to arrest you for having the stolen property in your possession, and I shall also have to search further to see if I can find anything more here.'

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"'Do what you please,' I replied, for I knew not what to say.

"They now commenced again to look about the room, and the first thing they found was a key lying on the dressing-table. The London detective asked me what door it belonged to. I looked, and to my horror saw that it was the key of the coal cellar we had been looking for. 'It is,' I replied, 'the key we have been looking for.'"

"'Oh, oh,' said they both in a breath. 'I shall go and try it,' said the London man, which he did, soon returning, saying it was the key of the cellar.

"I was now taken to the station-house, and of course the rest, which you know, soon followed, as the circumstantial evidence was so strong. There did not, I could see, remain a doubt as to my guilt, and I alone, as I thought then, knew how innocent I was. My master came once to see me, stating his regret at my folly, having the comfortable home I had. I, of course, declared my innocence, and begged of him to believe me; but I could see my words had no effect upon him. In due course I was found guilty, and sentenced to be transported for life. Your poor mother managed to be at the court on the day of the trial, and when I received my sentence she was so overcome that she fainted, and of course was insensible to what followed. The judge, in passing sentence, gave me a terrible reckoning up, and told me that I might consider myself fortunate that I did not suffer for my crime with my life, for the law allowed such a crime could be so punished, but that in consideration of the jury recommending me to mercy (for some unaccountable reason, as he could see no extenuating circumstances in the case); but he had taken their recommendation into consideration, and trusted it would in my after life be a warning to me. I was allowed to see your poor mother once more before I was removed, and I shall never forget that interview, for she, poor darling, (here Grant nearly broke down) certainly seemed afraid page 31to leave me lest some new harm should befal me. She at last was fairly pushed away from the room where she saw me, but not before she had promised me most solemnly that she would ere long manage by some means or other to join me. I arrived here after a most miserable passage, and by the same ship came the father of John Hobart. He is dead now, so I do not wish to say much of him; but nothing that I or any other person could say would be to his credit, for he was one of the most heartless scoundrels I ever met. He was always in trouble, and he liked to get others into trouble too. On the voyage he tried to incite the other convicts to rebel, mutiny, take possession of the ship, murder all the officers and crew, and sail for some other port and commence operations as pirates. He found he could not get any one to join him. There were two other poor fellows, who I am inclined to think were unjustly there, tried to dissuade him from such an attempt; in fact talked so much against his project to the others that I think to that fact alone is due his non-success. Against these two he laid information to the officers, and swore that they, and they alone, were the instigators of the plot. However, he luckily found no support in his evidence, so the case fell through, or the unfortunate fellows would in all probability have suffered death. This is the kind of man the father was; and, from what I will tell you later on, you will, I think, conclude that the son is no better. But before I come to his part of the story I will finish my own. Your mother managed after the first eighteen months of my time had expired to get a passage out here, but so far was she debilitated that she only lived to finish the year, as she landed on the third day of December and died on the first day of January. From her I learnt to know how I had been made the victim of a plot; but as we had no substantial evidence to corroborate our own knowledge of the villainy of another, I had to submit to my lot. I know it must be painful for you to hear the facts, but still I think, Clara, you should know them, for it will give you an idea of the villainy some men will be guilty of to gain their end. Your mother was the daughter of page 32a fairly well-to-do tenant farmer, and before my marriage with her she had proposals made to her by my employer, Mr Lurtonshaw. These proposals she rejected with scorn, as would every honest girl; but he, thinking his position exalted, thought she would look upon them differently. However, to be brief, she would not listen any more to his temptings, and threatened to tell her father the nature of his proposals if he did not desist. About this time I had taken service under him as his agent, and as he was possessed of considerable property my position was envied by many. I was allowed the very house where I removed from to come here, and was also allowed other little pickings, which made my position comfortable enough. I at first kept a servant, who acted as housekeeper for me, and shortly after I had lived there I met and became attached to your mother, and we were looked upon by the villagers as engaged, and in fact such was in reality the case. No sooner did this come to the ears of my employer, than he again made overtures to her, and this time when she rejected him he became so passionately jealous that he even proposed marriage; but this she, as before, declined, telling him she was engaged to be married to me, and that she intended to fulfil her engagement. He then became furious, and swore that should she ever marry me she would live to regret it. His threats were unheeded, and in due course we became man and wife. Shortly after this he decided to visit other parts of the world, and for nearly three years we neither saw nor heard anything of him. I knew nothing of what I have told you until after, for your mother always feared to inform me, lest I might do something that I should live to regret. After his return (you were then a child of one year) he, it seems, made proposals again to your mother, of course of an improper nature, and when she threatened to tell me of his conduct he declared he would ruin both of us if she did. Things went on in this way for some time—he, whenever chance offered, renewing his suit, and at last it would appear that he decided on taking other steps, for the next event that happened was my arrest. Now so great was his villainy that even while I was page 33lying in prison awaiting my trial, he again urged his suit, and further promised that if your mother would consent that he would not appear against me. But neither threats nor entreaties prevailed with her, and he evidently then came to the conclusion that it would be different when I was away. After my removal from the country, he offered her the position of housekeeper, and in fact tried to attain his ends, but to no purpose; and at last, as I tell you, your unfortunate and broken-hearted mother arrived at the port of Hobart Town in such a weak state that she only lived to tell me what I have just narrated to you. I have told you this, Clara, not for any motives of self-aggrandisement, but simply to let you know that by all the rights we hold most sacred, you are of better parents than he of whom we have just been speaking. And now I will tell you, Clara, of John Hobart."

"Father," said Clara, "what became of Mr Lurtonshaw? Surely he does not live to enjoy health and happiness, and you are to suffer on here till God alone knows when."

"No, Clara, no; he did not live on to exult over my down-fall, for scarcely had your mother landed here when we received news that some ten days after she left home he was thrown from his horse when out hunting, and was picked up quite dead, the fall having broken his neck."

"Oh, father, what a sin it seems that he was not allowed to live to repent, and clear you of this awful charge, for I suppose there are no others living who are ever likely to do so."

"Not so far as I know, but of course I am ignorant who were implicated."

"Father," said Clara, rising and crossing over to him, and placing both her hands upon his neck, "how you have suffered, and I, too, with the rest of the world, have always concluded you were guilty. Oh, father, say you forgive me, for how much do I feel that I require forgiveness."

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"My child, you are forgiven before you ask, if any forgiveness is needed; but such is not the case. You could never think otherwise than that I was guilty, for you had none to tell you, nor have I spoken of my suspicions to anybody, for I always deemed it best to wait patiently, and if at any time good news should arrive, it will be all the more acceptable."

"And mother, too," sobbed Clara, "oh, how terribly were you treated for your truth and honesty; but it is only another illustration of the sinful ways of this world."

"Do not cry, my child," said Matthew, "there may be many better days in store for you."

"I wish not, father, for happy days. Why should I ever deem myself worthy of them when you and mother have suffered so much. Oh, how I wish I had been old enough to bear part of the punishment. No, father, I am willing to do and suffer now for you, for why should I too not take my share."

"Clara, my girl, you are young, and must not talk about suffering. It is to be hoped you may have all happiness, for we have had enough of the other for all."

"Father, from this day, believe me, I shall never shrink from aught I can do to save you trouble or pain. Have you not suffered for others, and have I not been guilty of a great sin in believing you as guilty as others did, without asking you."

"Enough, Clara; I must now pass on to the more important part of my story. There is some more to relate which to me is worse than anything that I have told you so far."

"Then, father, I would ask of you one more act of generosity. Will you allow me until to-morrow evening before you say more, for I feel that I have heard enough for one day?"

"As you will, my child, it shall wait. One day can make little or no difference."

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Little did Matthew Grant know how much trouble this trifling delay would cause to her who was dearer to him than life itself. But it is beyond the power of man to see into futurity, or Grant would never have agreed to the request of his daughter. To slightly alter the words of the greatest of authors—there is a tide in the affairs of man, which if not taken at the flood, leads him to the very devil.