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Volume Four – Chapter Six.
The Shadow across the Path
What to do? How to bear it? How far she – woman of purest thought – had sinned in participating as she had in Hallam’s crime?
It was as if the shock had blunted and confused her understanding, so that she could not think clearly or make out any plan for her future proceeding. And all the time she was haunted as by a great horror.
Now light would come, and she would seem to see her course clearly and wonder that she should have hesitated before. It was all so simple. Sir Gordon was there in Sydney, her oldest friend. He it was who had been the sufferer by her husband’s defalcations, and of course it was her duty to go straight to him and tell him all.
No sooner had she arrived at this than she shrank from the idea with horror. What could she have been thinking! To go to Sir Gordon was to denounce her husband as a criminal, and the result would be to send him back to the prison lines and the hideous convict life that had changed him from a man of refinement to a brutal sensualist, from whom in future she felt that she must shrink with horror.
Those last thoughts distracted her. Shrink with horror from him whom she had so dearly loved, from him whom she had believed a martyr to a terribly involved chain of evidence! It was too terrible!
But what was she to do? She could not lead this life of luxury, purchased by the money she had so innocently brought; that was certain. She and Julia must leave there at once. They could not stay.
She shivered as she thought of the difficulties that would rise up. For where were they? Out here, in this half-civilised place, penniless; and what defence had she to bring forward if Robert Hallam, her husband and master, said no, she should stay, and claimed her and her child as his?
There was light again. She could appeal to the governor, for Hallam had forfeited his social rights, and she would be free.
Down came the darkness and shut out that light, closing her in with a blackness so terrible that she shuddered.
It was impossible – impossible!
“He is my husband,” she moaned, “and were he ten times the sinner, I could not take a step that would injure the man I loved – the father of my child!”
Christie Bayle!
Yes; Christie Bayle, truest and most faithful of friends, who in the days of his boyish love had resigned himself to her wishes, and promised to be her brother through life.
How good he had been; and how she had in her agony of spirit reviled him, and called him her husband’s enemy! How his conduct seemed to stand out now, bright and shining! How full of patient self-denial! Brother, indeed, through all, while she had been – she knew it now, and shivered in her agony – so obstinately blind.
Christie Bayle would help her and protect Julia, whom he loved as if she were his child. He would – yes, she reiterated the thought with a strange feeling of joy – he would help her, as he had helped her before, in this time of anguish, and protect Julia from that man.
For now came, in all its solid horror, the reality of that which had only been cast, so far, as a shadow across her path.
This man, Crellock, who had seemed like Hallam’s evil genius from the first, but whom she saw now as her husband’s willing tool, had conceived a passion for her darling child. More – he was her husband’s chosen companion in pleasure and in guilt, and Hallam would – if he had not done so already – accept him.
“And I sit here bemoaning my suffering,” she cried passionately, “when such a blow is impending for my darling. Shame! shame! Am I ever to be so weak a woman, so mere a puppet in others’ hands? Heaven give me strength to be forgetful of self, and strong in defence of my child!”
She pressed back her hair from her brow, which became full of lines, and, resting her elbows upon her knees, her chin upon her hands, she sat there gazing as it were into the future, as she told herself that her own sufferings must be as nought, but that she must save Julia from such a fate.
Sir Gordon? Bayle? No! no! Only as a last resource. Not even then; they must be left. They had known the truth from the first – she saw it now – and in pity for her had borne all she had said, and helped her.
No! to ask their aid was to punish her husband. That could not be. She must act alone, weak woman as she was. She must be strong now, and she and Julia must leave this man at once. They must take some cottage or lodging in the town, and work for a living. That must be the first step.
Then came the black cloud again, to shut out the hope. Hallam would not allow them to go; and if they could steal away they were absolutely penniless.
She sat gazing before her, feeling as if old age had come suddenly to freeze her faculties and render her helpless; but, starting from her blank sense of misery, she forced herself to think.
What should she do? Julia should not be a convict’s wife; she felt that she would rather see her dead.
Once more a ray of hope – a thin, bright ray of light piercing the cloud of darkness ahead.
Lieutenant Eaton!
He loved her child, and it had seemed as if Julia cared for him, but in her maiden innocency she had always shrunk from anything more than a friendly show of attachment.
“But he is manly, and evidently devoted to her,” said Mrs Hallam in a low voice. “She would soon learn to love him.”
She ran over in her own mind all that had passed since the acquaintance on ship-board began. Eaton’s attentions, the pleasant hours Julia had seemed to spend in his company, the young officer’s manner – everything pointed to its being on his part more than the gallant attention of one of his stamp. Then there was the life here since they had landed. His occasional calls; his evident hesitancy. It was all so plain. He loved Julia dearly, but he was kept back from proposing for her by her connections.
“But he will ignore them for her sake,” she cried at last joyously. “He must be learning day by day how true and good she is. He will forget everything, and she will be saved.”
Mrs Hallam started up with the ray of hope cutting its way more and more brightly through the dark cloud ahead; and then her senses seemed to reel, a terrible fit of giddiness came over her as she tottered, caught at a chair, and then fell heavily upon the floor.
Volume Four – Chapter Seven.
“To the Better Way.”
When Mrs Hallam came to herself, she was in bed, where she had lain, talking incoherently at times, during the greater part of a week.
It was evening, and the sun was shining in at the open window, lighting up Julia’s dark hair as she sat with her face in the shadow, careworn and evidently suffering deeply.
Mrs Hallam lay for some time feeling restful and calm. The fevered dream was at an end, and she had slept long, to wake now with that pleasurable sensation upon her that is given to the sick when an attack is at an end, and nature is tenderly repairing the damages of the assault. She was lying there; Julia, her beloved child, was by her side. A veil was between her and the past, and there was nothing but the peaceful sensation of rest.
Then, as her eyes wandered slowly about the room and rested at last upon her child, her mind began to work; the mother’s quick instinct awoke, and she read trouble in Julia’s face. The memories that were slumbering came back, and she tried to rise in her bed but sank back.
“Mother!”
“My child! Tell me quickly: have I been ill?”
“Yes; very, very ill. But you are better now, dear mother. I am so lonely! Ah! at last, at last!”
Worn out and weak with constant watching, Julia threw herself sobbing by the bedside, but only to hurriedly dry her eyes and try to be calm.
She succeeded, and answered the questions that came fast; and as she replied, Mrs Hallam trembled, for she could see that Julia was keeping something back.
“Have I been delirious?” she said at last.
“Yes, dear; but last night you slept so peacefully, and all through to-day. There, let me call Thisbe.”
“No, not yet,” said Mrs Hallam, clinging to her child’s arm, as a great anxiety was longing to be satisfied. “Tell me, Julia, did I talk – talk of anything while I was like that?”
Julia nodded quickly, and the despairing look deepened in her eyes.
“Not – not of your father, my child?” panted the suffering woman.
“Yes, mother, dear mother,” sobbed Julia, with a passionate cry that she could not withhold, and she buried her face in the sick woman’s breast.
The sun sank lower, and Julia’s low sobs grew more rare, but she did not rise from her knees – she did not lift her tear-stained face, while clasped about her neck, and her fingers joined above the glossy head, as if in prayer, Mrs Hallam’s hands, thin and transparent from her illness, seemed bathed in the orange glow of the sweet, calm eve.
All was still and restful on the hill-slope above the beautiful Paramatta River, and from the window there was a scene of peace that seemed to hinder the possibility of trouble existing on this earth.
“Julia,” said Mrs Hallam at length; “have you thought of all this – since – since I have been lying here?”
“Yes, dear, till I could think no more.”
“It has come at last,” said Mrs Hallam, as she lay with closed eyes.
“It has come, dear?” said Julia, starting up, and gazing at her mother with dilating eyes.
“Yes, my child, our path. I could not see it before in the wild confusion of my thoughts, but I know our duty now. You will help me, dear?”
“Help you, mother? Oh, yes. What shall I do?”
Mrs Hallam did not answer for a few minutes, and then said softly:
“You know all, you say. It has come to you with as great a shock as to me; but I can see our duty now. Julia, he must love us dearly; we are his wife and child, and we must lead him back to the better way.”
Volume Four – Chapter Eight.
A Convict Rising
“Ah, Mr O’Hara,” said Bayle, holding out his hand, “I have not seen you for months. Why do you not give me a call?”
“Because I am a convict, sir,” said the young Irishman, paying no heed to the extended hand.
“Oh, yes; but that is past now,” said Bayle. “One doesn’t look upon you as one would upon a thief or a swindler, and even if you had been both these worthies, a man of my cloth comes to preach forgiveness, and is ready to hold out the right hand to every man who is sorry for the past.”
“But I am not sorry for the past, sir,” said O’Hara firmly.
“I’ve studied it all,” said Bayle quietly, “and the rising was a mistake.”
“Don’t talk about it, please, sir,” said O’Hara hotly. “You are an Englishman. You could not gaze upon that trouble, for which I was transported, from an Irishman’s point of view.”
“Then we will not talk about it,” said Bayle; “but come, I am no enemy of your country.”
“I should say, sir, that you were never any man’s enemy but your own,” said O’Hara dryly.
Bayle smiled.
“There, shake hands,” he said. “How has the world been using you?”
“Better lately, sir. I am comfortable enough in the Government office, and now I am helping the commission that is investigating the prison affairs. And you, sir?”
“Oh, I am busy enough, and happy enough. Then it was you I caught sight of in the prison yard a month ago? I thought it was; but it gave me such a chill that I would not look.”
“Why, sir?”
“I was afraid that you had gone backwards, and were there again.”
O’Hara’s hard, care-lined face relaxed, and there was a pleasant smile on his countenance when he spoke again. “I heard about you, sir, in the lines.”
“Indeed!”
“The men talked a good deal about you.”
“Yes?” said Bayle good-humouredly. “I’m afraid they laugh at me and my notions.”
“They do,” said O’Hara thoughtfully. “Poor wretches! But you have made more impression and gained more influence, sir, than you think.”
“I wish I could feel so,” said Bayle with a sigh.
“If you will take my opinion, sir, you will feel so,” said O’Hara. “I’m glad I met you, sir, for I have been a great deal in the prison lately, and I can’t help thinking there is something wrong.”
“Something wrong?”
“Yes, sir. I believe the men are meditating a rising.”
“A rising? In Heaven’s name, what do they expect to do?”
“Obtain the mastery, sir, or seize upon a vessel or two, and escape to some other land.”
“But have you good reason for suspecting this?”
“No other reason than suspicion – the suspicion that comes from knowing their ways and habits. Such a rising took place when I was there years ago.”
“Well?”
“It was suppressed, and the poor wretches who were in it made their case worse, as they would now.”
“But the authorities must be warned.”
“They have been warned,” said O’Hara quietly. “I am not one of them now, and knowing what I do of the musket and bayonet and the lash, I lost no time in laying my suspicions before my superiors. Yes,” he said, “I was right, was I not?”
“Right? Unquestionably. Such men, until they have been proved, have no right to be free. Then that is the meaning of the extra sentries I have seen.”
“That is it, sir; but if the sentries were doubled again, I’m afraid the mistaken men would carry out their notions, unless some strong influence were brought to bear. Why don’t you try to get hold of the ringleaders, sir, and show them the madness of the attempt?”
“I will,” said Bayle quickly, and they parted; but they were not separated a hundred yards before there was a shout, and Bayle turned to see O’Hara running after him swiftly.
“What is it?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I have spoken too late, sir. I heard a shot out yonder, beyond that house where the new road is being made. A strong gang has been at work there for a fortnight past. Do you hear that?”
Two distant shots in quick succession were heard, and Christie Bayle turned pale, for the sounds came from beyond the house pointed out, and that house was Hallam’s.
“We had better go and give the alarm at the governor’s office.”
“No, no,” said Bayle. “We may be in time to help up here. Come quickly, man; run!”
It seemed madness to O’Hara; but there was a decision in Bayle’s order that did not seem to brook contradiction, and being a quick, lithe man, he ran step for step with his companion, as they made their way amongst the park-like growth of the hill-side in the direction of the spot whence the sounds had come.
Bayle had a very misty idea of what he meant to do, and once or twice the thought came that, after all, this might be only some one amusing himself with a gun after the beautifully-plumaged birds that were common enough in the neighbourhood then.
These ideas were quickly overthrown, for soon they could see the uniforms of the convict guard in the distance, and the gleam of a bayonet, followed by another shot, and some figures running down the side of one of the valleys leading to the shore.
It was now that Bayle realised his intentions, and they were to go to the help of those who were at Hallam’s house, in case it should be attacked.
As they came nearer, though, it was evident that the fight which was in progress was more to the right of the house, and becoming fiercer, for some half-dozen shots were fired in a volley from a ravine down amongst some trees, the hills being occupied by a swarm of men.
All at once three figures came out of the house on the slope, and as he advanced Bayle made out that they were Hallam, Crellock, and one who was unmistakable from his undress uniform.
When they came out it was evident that the latter was urging his companions to follow him; but they stopped back, and he dashed on, down into the ravine.
It was heavy running for Bayle, and the young officer was far ahead of him; but he hurried on, O’Hara keeping well up to his side, and together they saw him meet a couple of the retreating guard, who stopped at his command, faced round, and accompanied him, the three plunging down among the bushes and disappearing from the sight of Bayle and his companion.
“The men will be very dangerous,” said O’Hara. “We shall find them armed with picks, spades, and hammers.”
“They will not hurt me,” panted Bayle, “and we may save bloodshed.”
“I don’t think they will hurt me,” said the young Irishman grimly. “Are you going on, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Then I will risk it, too.”
They were going forward all the time, hurrying down into the valley, and leaving Hallam’s house away to the left, with Hallam and Crellock watching the proceedings, they having a view from their commanding position of that which was hidden from Bayle and his friend.
As they ran on, though, they heard another shot or two, and a loud shouting, while a couple of hundred yards on ahead they could see four of the guard retreating along the slope, pursued by about a dozen of the convicts, another party coming towards them, a glimpse of a bayonet showing that others of the guard were being driven back towards Hallam’s house, while in another minute it was plain that Eaton had not been able to join forces with the men.
In fact the convicts had divided into two parties, and these, going in opposite directions, were driving their guards before them with furious shouts.
A little army of two pensioners, led by an officer armed with a cane, had but a poor chance of success against some five-and-twenty savage men, whose passions had been raised to volcanic point by seeing a couple of their number shot down at the beginning of the fray, when they had risen against the sergeant and eight men who had them in charge. Of these they had beaten down the sergeant and two of his men, and were apparently determined upon taking revenge upon those who had fired upon them, before trying to escape.
The bushes hindered the view, but at last Bayle came in full sight of Eaton and the two men just as a stone was hurled, hitting one of them in the chest, so that he went down as if shot. His companion turned to fly, but a furious shout from Eaton stopped him, and he faced the enemy again as the young officer reached over the fallen guard, took his musket, with its fixed bayonet, and stood his ground, to protect the poor fellow who was down.
It was only a matter of moments, and before Bayle could get up the convicts had made a rush, yelling furiously.
It was hard to see what took place; but as Bayle ran down the slope, his heart beating fast with apprehension, the man dropped, and Bayle had just time to strike one blow on the young officer’s behalf, as the convicts closed him in, and bore him back against the scarped face of the little ravine.
It was only one blow, but it was given with the full force of a strong arm and had the weight of a well-built man rushing down a steep slope to give it additional force.
The result was that the man Bayle struck, and another behind him, went rolling over – the former just as he had raised a spade to strike at Eaton’s defenceless head.
“You cowardly dogs!” roared Bayle, as, failing another weapon, he caught up a spade one of the convicts had let fall.
The attack was so sudden and unexpected that the men gave way, and stood glaring for a few moments, till one of their number shouted:
“It’s only the parson, boys. Down with ’em!”
But they did not come on, and, taking advantage of their hesitation, Bayle turned to Eaton.
“Quick!” he said, “get away from here.”
“No,” said the young officer hoarsely. “I can’t leave my men. Ah!”
He uttered a sharp cry, and sank down, for a piece of stone had been hurled at him with force enough to dislocate his shoulder, half stunning him with the violence of the blow.
As the young man fell the convicts uttered a yell of delight, all three of their adversaries being now hors de combat; but they were not satisfied, one of their number rushing forward to deliver a cowardly blow with the stone-hammer he bore.
Bayle did not realise for the moment that so brutal an act could be committed upon a fallen adversary, and he was so much off his guard that he only had time to make a snatch at the handle, and partly break the force of the blow, which fell on Eaton’s cap.
Then there was a quick struggle, and the convict staggered, tripped over a loose block of stone, and fell with a crash. There was an ominous murmur here, and the men stood hesitating, each disposed to make a rush and revenge the fall of his companion; but there was no leader to combine the force and lead them on, and, taking advantage of their hesitation, Bayle stooped down, lifted the insensible man, and strode away.
The convicts were taken by surprise at this act, and some were for fetching him back, but the remainder were for letting him go.
“Take the swaddy’s guns, lads, and let’s be off at once,” said one of the party, and the two muskets were seized, a convict presenting the bayonet of the piece he had secured at the breast of one of the fallen men, both of whom lay half-stunned and bleeding on the rough ground.
“Shall I, boys?” he said.
“No; hold hard,” cried a voice, and a member of the party who had been in pursuit of the other portion of the guard came up. “Tie them hand and foot, and leave them so as they can’t give warning. Who’s that going up the hill?”
“Parson and the orficer,” said one of the men.
“And who’s that running yonder?”
“That Irishman who was in with us – O’Hara.”
“Can any one shoot and bring him down? Give me a musket.”
He snatched the piece offered to him, took careful aim by resting the musket on the edge of the scarped bank, and fired.
There was the sharp report, the puff of white smoke,
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