by Mayne Reid
stillundecided as to how I should act.
All at once I remembered, that the woman, with whom Martha had gone intopartnership, was a Mrs Green. I remembered, too, hearing Mrs Greensay, that she had resided in Sydney for several years. Some one,therefore, should know her; and, if she could be found, it was naturalto infer, that I should learn something of Martha.
While sauntering along the street, into which I had entered, my eye fellupon a little shop, which bore the sign of a milliner over the window.That should be the place for me to commence my inquiries. I entered theshop, where I saw standing behind a counter the worst-looking woman Ihad ever beheld. She was not ugly, from having a positively hideousface, or ill-formed features; but rather from the spirit that gaveexpression to both. It was a combination of wicked passions--comprisingself-esteem, insolence, avarice, and everything that makes human naturedespicable. The woman was dressed in a style that seemed to say:"vanity for sale."
I asked her, if she could give me any intelligence of a Mrs Green, whoformerly kept a milliner's shop in the next street.
A disgusting grin suddenly spread over the features of the woman, as shepromptly replied, "Yes; Mrs Green was chased out of Sydney over a yearago. She thought to smash my business; but she got smashed herself."
"Can you tell me where she is to be found?" I inquired.
"Yes. She saw it wasn't no use to try to carry on business against me;and she's hooked it to Melbourne."
"There was a young woman with her, named Martha Stone," I continued,"can you tell me where _she_ is?"
"Yes. She's another beauty. I am not at all astonished at young meninquirin' for _her_. Don't think I am, mister. I've kept that ladyfrom starving for the last six months; and I'm about tired of it, I cantell you. This is a nice world we live in, sure enough. What might yoube wantin' with Miss Stone?"
"I wish to know where she is to be found--nothing more," I answered.
"Certainly. You wish to know where she is! Of course you do. Whynot?" said the disgusting creature, in a tone, and with a significantleer, that I have ever since been vainly endeavouring to forget. "Whatright have you to think, that I should know where any such a personlives?" continued the woman. "I wish you to understand, sir, that _I ama lady_."
I should certainly never have thought it, without being told; but, notthe least grateful for the information, I answered:
"You say, that you know where Miss Stone is to be found. I am herbrother, and wish to find her."
"Oh! that's it, is it?" retorted the woman with a look of evidentdisappointment. Then, turning round, and forcing her neck someway up anarrow staircase, she screamed out, "Susan! Susan!"
Soon after, a very young girl--apparently half-starved--made herappearance at the bottom of the stairs.
"Susan," said the only woman I ever hated at first sight, "tell thisman, where Miss Stone lives."
There was something not so bad in the creature after all; and I began tofancy, I had been wronging her.
"Please, sir," said Susan, pointing with outstretched arm towards one ofthe sides of the shop, "go up this street, till you come to the baker'sshop; then turn round this way, and go on till you pass the public-housewith the picture of the horse on it; then turn that way, and go on tillyou come to where the house was burnt down; cross the street there, andgo on to the house where they sell lollies; go by that, and at theturning beyond go this way until you come to the house with the greenwindow blinds--"
"That will do," I exclaimed. "I don't want to lose my senses, as wellas my sister. Can you tell me, Susan, the name of the street, and thenumber of the house, in which Miss Stone resides?"
"No, sir, thank you," answered Susan.
"Can you go there--if this lady will give you leave?"
"Yes, sir, if you please," said the girl, glancing timidly at hermistress.
I thought the mistress would refuse; and even hoped she would. Anxiousas I was to find my sister, I did not like to receive even so slight afavour from one whom I had hated with so very little exertion.
The woman, contrary to my expectations, consented to the child's goingout to show me the way; and I am so uncharitable as to believe, that herconsent was given with the hope that, in finding my sister, I shouldmeet with some chagrin!
I followed Susan through the streets, until we came to a dirty, wretchedsuburb of the city, where the girl pointed out a house, and told me toknock at the door.
Giving the poor little slavey half-a-crown, I sent her away; and, thenext minute, my sister was sobbing in my arms.
Everything in the room proclaimed her to be in the greatest poverty.Strange that I did not regret it; but, on the contrary, was gratified bythe appearance of her destitution! It was proof that she was stillvirtuous and honest. Moreover, I fancied she would now be the morewilling to accept the protection, I had come to offer her. She wasunder the impression, that I had just returned from England. When Iundeceived her on this point, she seemed much grieved, that I had beenso long in the colonies, without letting her know it.
I soon learnt from her the simple story of her life, since our lastparting. At the time she had joined Mrs Green in business, the latterwas deeply in debt; and, in about three months after, all the stock inthe little shop was sold off to meet Mrs Green's liabilities. Theirbusiness was broken up; and Mrs Green had gone to Melbourne--as herrival had stated. Martha had obtained employment in two or threemilliner's establishments in the city; and, as she blushingly told me,had good reasons for leaving them all.
She was now making a sort of livelihood, by working for anyone whochanced to have sewing to give her; and was obtaining occasional, butill paid employment, from the lady who had assisted me in finding her.
"Oh, Rowland!" said Martha, "that woman is the worst that ever lived.She never lets me have a piece of sewing, at a price that will allow memore than bread and water, and yet I have been obliged to take it fromher, because I cannot get enough sewing elsewhere. I often work fromsix o'clock in the morning till ten at night--when I can get anything todo; and yet I've often been very, very hungry. I'm sure it is as badhere, as the stories I've heard about poor sempstresses in London. Ah,brother! Good girls are not wanted in this place. People seem only tocare for those who are bad; and while they have everything they wish,girls like me must live as you see I've been doing. Oh, Rowland! is itnot a cruel world?"
I was much gratified at hearing my sister talk in this manner: for eachword was evidence, that she had been leading an honourable life; and,moreover, her despondency led me to believe: that she would no longeroppose my projects, as she had previously done.
It was all for the best, that she had not done as I wished her two yearsbefore. Had she then consented to returning with me to England, Ishould have gone thither--notwithstanding my disappointment aboutLenore. By doing so, I should have missed meeting my brother--besides Ishould have lost the opportunity of making above fifteen hundredpounds--which I had gathered on the gold-fields of Victoria.
Volume Three, Chapter XX.
MY SISTER STILL OBSTINATE.
I had been some little time in my sister's company, before telling herof my intentions regarding her. I had allowed her to indulge in suchconjectures about my designs, as the circumstances might suggest.
"I am very glad, Rowland," said she, "that you have made up your mind tostay in the colonies. I hope you will live in Sydney. Oh! we would beso happy! You have come to stay here, have you not? Say yes, brother;and make me happy! Say you will not leave me any more?"
"I do not wish to leave you, dear sister," said I; "and I hope that youhave now learnt a lesson, that will make you willing to accept the offerI am going to make you. I have come, Martha, to take you with me toMelbourne."
"What reason can you have, for wishing me to go to Melbourne? It cannotbe a better place than Sydney?"
"Are you still unwilling to leave Sydney?" I asked, with a painfulpresentiment, that I was once more to be baulked in my design of makingmy poor sist
er happy.
"Brother," she replied, "I am not willing to go to Melbourne. I don'twish to leave Sydney--at least, not yet."
"Would you not like to see your brother William?" I asked.
"What! William! dear little Willie! Have you heard of him, Rowland?Do you know where he is?"
"Yes. He is in Melbourne; and very anxious to see you. I have come totake you to him. Will you go?"
"I must see William--my long-lost brother William! I must see him. Howcame you to find him, Rowland? Tell me all about it. Why did he notcome here along with you?"
"We met by mere chance--on the diggings of Victoria; and, hearing mecalled Rowland, he asked my other name. We then