Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/517

506 “Never mind,  pass  on; I’m  Harmless  as  yourself.”

I glanced at  the  muzzle  of  a gun  which  peered through an  aperture  in  the  trunk,  and,  doubted  its accordance with  peaceable  intentions.

“Who are  you?” I again  demanded.

An answer  in  person  was  given; a man  jumped out from  the  hollow  and  stood  beside  me.

“Don’t let  me  see  you!” I cried  out; “don’t put it  in  my  power  to  witness  against  you.”

“Look at  me,  I am  no  absconder,”  he  replied.

I looked and  saw  a tall,  grotesque  figure,  which I immediately recognised  as  belonging  to  an  old man of  Hobarton  who  gained  his  living  by  shooting small  game  in  the  neighbourhood. He doffed his opossum  fur-cap,  and  bowed  respectfully when his  eyes  met  mine. I could not  help laughing, so  ridiculous  had  been  my  former  fears. He seemed  hurt; for,  bending  on  his  gun,  he said:

“Ah, it’s  no  laughing  matter  that  brings  me here! Bessie’s my  game  to-night, — poor,  fond, young crayture,  to  leave  her  father’s  house,  all  for a cross word,  which  he  has  the  right  of  nayture  to speak  to  her.”

He reminded  me  of  King  Lear; his  long  white hair blew  about  on  his  head,  as  the  red  feather had done  from  the  top  of  the  trunk,  and  for  some moments he  was  too  absorbed  in  grief  to  speak, and when  he  did,  it  was  in  short,  broken  sentences, as though  all  the  world  should  know  his  Bessie. I gathered that  she  had  left  him  a few  days  ago, and that  his  suspicions  led  him  to  watch  for  her from this  spot.

“That bit  of  a kerchief,”  said  he,  “I stuck  out from the  pole,  for  if  she  passed  she’d  know  it  was mine, and  meant  for  peace,  and  there  was  a word tied up  in  it  begging  her  to  come  back.”

He drew  the  kerchief  across  his  eyes,  and  in  it I acknowledged  the  former  feather. Then, wrapping it  around  his  throat,  as  if  preparing  to  settle for the  night,  he  bade  me  leave  him. This I objected  to  do,  and  told  him  he  was  tempting Providence by  exposing  himself  to  the  damp  of the  bush.

“Rheumatics take  the  damp!” he  said. Then, fixing a searching  eye  on  me,  he  added: — “Have you ever  lost  a child? Then I have,  and  by worse  than  death. Leave me,  and  the  only  favour I beg is,  don’t  notice  me  when  you  meet  me  in town.”

“But how  about  poor  Bessie? I must hear  if you  find  her.”

“Ay, ay!”  he  nodded,  and  coiled  himself back into  his  tree  ere  I could  offer  further  opposition.

A few days  after  I saw  him  in  Argyle  Street, but forbore  to  remark  him. With my  face  set steadily in  front,  I was  about  to  pass  by,  when  he made  a full  stop  before  me,  took  off  his  fur  cap, and waited  bareheaded  till  I should  speak.

“Is she  found?”

He seemed  delighted  that  I pounced  on  the subject without  preface. It convinced  him  that Bessie was  the  all  in  all  engrossing  occupation  of other  thoughts  than  his.

“She’s heard  of,  and  I know  her  whereabouts. I’d rather  have  seen  her  dragged  dead  out  of  the river! A dead child  ain’t  half  the  pain  of  a living  one  gone  astray. A dead child  can't  come back if  she’d  fain,  therefore  a living  one  that won’t is  worse!”

A sentiment to  which  I could  not  say  nay,  for the testimony  of  ages  is  in  its  favour.

“Ah! I’m not  so  much  a stranger  in  the colony,” he  went  on  to  lament,  “as  not  to  know where these  things  end; and  if  once  the  government brown  gets  upon  my  Bess,  she’ll  be  none  the better for  it,  and  there’s  them  as  will  gladly  make her worse,  out  of  spite  that  she’s  free  to  what they are. I tell you,  sir,  there  ain’t  been  no  blot on our  family  for  six  generations  back,  and  at home,  for  all  that  I’m  poor  to  the  back-bone,  my word’s  as  good  as  a bond. If my  hands  are seared, it’s  with  work,  and  not  with  dirty  actions! And my  children  was  all  counted  fortunes  in themselves; now  I’m  come  out  here  with  the  last just to  break  my  heart  over  her!”

His breast  heaved,  and  what  more  he  would  say was lost  in  a smothered  sob. To turn  him  to  a more  cheerful  view  of  the  case,  I said:

“Well, but  we  must  look  to  the  brighter  side, it may  not  be  so  bad  after  all.”

“Not so  bad! Let the  worst  come  to  the worst, or  the  best  to  the  best,  ain’t  she  forgotten her Catechism  and  her  Bible? When I was young, I was  taught  to  honour  my  father  and mother. But, I tell  you  what  it  is,  sir,”  he lowered  his  voice,  and  spoke  confidentially, “come what  may,  I don’t  blame  the  girl  too much, for  the  sin  lies  at  our  door. We’d no business,  my  missus  and  me,  to  leave  England  in our  old  age — ’twas  pride  from  beginning  to  end. First, I could  not  trust  the  God  that  made  me  to provide  for  me  when  I got  old; then,  I wanted  to see  Bessie  a lady. They told  me  that,  out  here, her bonny  face  would  get  her  a rich  husband,  and now it’s  more  like—” He  broke  short,  and  then said:— “Perhaps you’ll  step  in  and  see  missus, she’s in  a world  of  trouble,  and  it  tells  hard  upon her, poor  soul!”

We had  all  this  while  been  walking,  and  when we had  gone  a little  further  we  came  to  one  of those  hut-looking  buildings  still  to  be  seen here and  there  in  Hobarton. The door  of this  hut  was  locked,  and  Munro  had  the  key  in his  pocket. Seeing my  surprise,  he  remarked: —

“’Twas by  her  own  wish. The neighbours come twitting  of  her  with  their  pity,  so  says missus to  me,  'Lock  me  in,  John,  and  then  I can’t  open  to  none  of  ’em.’”

We entered  a wretched  little  room,  exhibiting every token  of  poverty  and  dejection. It looked like a bereaved  house,  for  there  was  neither  sign of a recent  fire  nor  of  a mid-day  meal,  though  it was  past  noon. All this  my  eye  apprehended  at a glance,  while  my  attention  riveted  itself  on  an old  woman  who  sat  with  her  head  buried  in  her arms, which  rested  on  an  open  Bible  lying  before her on  a small  table.

“Missus,” said  her  husband. But she  answered not; she was  in  a dead  sleep,  sleeping  the  heavy sleep of  sorrow. “Poor soul,”  whispered  Munro, “I left her  fretting  over  that  text — 'The  way  of transgressors  is  hard.’  'Oh,  John!’  says  she  to me,  'will  Bessie’s  case  ever  come  to  that?’  'God