"Society in Hobart Town, in this year of grace 1838, is, my dear lord,composed of very curious elements." So ran a passage in the sparklingletter which the Rev. Mr. Meekin, newly-appointed chaplain, andseven-days' resident in Van Diemen's Land, was carrying to the postoffice, for the delectation of his patron in England. As the reverendgentleman tripped daintily down the summer street that lay between theblue river and the purple mountain, he cast his mild eyes hither andthither upon human nature, and the sentence he had just penned recurredto him with pleasurable appositeness. Elbowed by well-dressed officersof garrison, bowing sweetly to well-dressed ladies, shrinking fromill-dressed, ill-odoured ticket-of-leave men, or hastening across astreet to avoid being run down by the hand-carts that, driven by littlegangs of grey-clothed convicts, rattled and jangled at him unexpectedlyfrom behind corners, he certainly felt that the society through which hemoved was composed of curious elements. Now passed, with haughty nose inthe air, a newly-imported government official, relaxing for an instanthis rigidity of demeanour to smile languidly at the chaplain whomGovernor Sir John Franklin delighted to honour; now swaggered, withcoarse defiance of gentility and patronage, a wealthy ex-prisoner, grownfat on the profits of rum. The population that was abroad on that sunnyDecember afternoon had certainly an incongruous appearance to a dapperclergyman lately arrived from London, and missing, for the first timein his sleek, easy-going life, those social screens which in Londoncivilization decorously conceal the frailties and vices of human nature.Clad in glossy black, of the most fashionable clerical cut, with dandyboots, and gloves of lightest lavender--a white silk overcoat hintingthat its wearer was not wholly free from sensitiveness to sun andheat--the Reverend Meekin tripped daintily to the post office, anddeposited his letter. Two ladies met him as he turned.
"Mr. Meekin!"
Mr. Meekin's elegant hat was raised from his intellectual brow andhovered in the air, like some courteous black bird, for an instant."Mrs. Jellicoe! Mrs. Protherick! My dear leddies, this is an unexpectedpleasure! And where, pray, are you going on this lovely afternoon? Tostay in the house is positively sinful. Ah! what a climate--butthe Trail of the Serpent, my dear Mrs. Protherick--the Trail of theSerpent--" and he sighed.
"It must be a great trial to you to come to the colony," said Mrs.Jellicoe, sympathizing with the sigh.
Meekin smiled, as a gentlemanly martyr might have smiled. "The Lord'swork, dear leddies--the Lord's work. I am but a poor labourer in thevineyard, toiling through the heat and burden of the day." The aspectof him, with his faultless tie, his airy coat, his natty boots, and hisself-satisfied Christian smile, was so unlike a poor labourer toilingthrough the heat and burden of the day, that good Mrs. Jellicoe, thewife of an orthodox Comptroller of Convicts' Stores, felt a horriblethrill of momentary heresy. "I would rather have remained in England,"continued Mr. Meekin, smoothing one lavender finger with the tip ofanother, and arching his elegant eyebrows in mild deprecation of anypraise of his self-denial, "but I felt it my duty not to refuse theoffer made me through the kindness of his lordship. Here is a field,leddies--a field for the Christian pastor. They appeal to me, leddies,these lambs of our Church--these lost and outcast lambs of our Church."
Mrs. Jellicoe shook her gay bonnet ribbons at Mr. Meekin, with a heartysmile. "You don't know our convicts," she said (from the tone ofher jolly voice it might have been "our cattle"). "They are horriblecreatures. And as for servants--my goodness, I have a fresh one everyweek. When you have been here a little longer, you will know thembetter, Mr. Meekin."
"They are quite unbearable at times." said Mrs. Protherick, the widowof a Superintendent of Convicts' Barracks, with a stately indignationmantling in her sallow cheeks. "I am ordinarily the most patientcreature breathing, but I do confess that the stupid vicious wretchesthat one gets are enough to put a saint out of temper." "We have allour crosses, dear leddies--all our crosses," said the Rev. Mr. Meekinpiously. "Heaven send us strength to bear them! Good-morning."
"Why, you are going our way," said Mrs. Jellicoe. "We can walktogether."
"Delighted! I am going to call on Major Vickers."
"And I live within a stone's throw," returned Mrs. Protherick.
"What a charming little creature she is, isn't she?"
"Who?" asked Mr. Meekin, as they walked.
"Sylvia. You don't know her! Oh, a dear little thing."
"I have only met Major Vickers at Government House," said Meekin.
"I haven't yet had the pleasure of seeing his daughter."
"A sad thing," said Mrs. Jellicoe. "Quite a romance, if it was not sosad, you know. His wife, poor Mrs. Vickers."
"Indeed! What of her?" asked Meekin, bestowing a condescending bow on apasser-by. "Is she an invalid?"
"She is dead, poor soul," returned jolly Mrs. Jellicoe, with a fat sigh."You don't mean to say you haven't heard the story, Mr. Meekin?"
"My dear leddies, I have only been in Hobart Town a week, and I have notheard the story."
"It's about the mutiny, you know, the mutiny at Macquarie Harbour.The prisoners took the ship, and put Mrs. Vickers and Sylvia ashoresomewhere. Captain Frere was with them, too. The poor things had adreadful time, and nearly died. Captain Frere made a boat at last, andthey were picked up by a ship. Poor Mrs. Vickers only lived a fewhours, and little Sylvia--she was only twelve years old then--was quitelight-headed. They thought she wouldn't recover."
"How dreadful! And has she recovered?"
"Oh, yes, she's quite strong now, but her memory's gone."
"Her memory?"
"Yes," struck in Mrs. Protherick, eager to have a share in thestorytelling. "She doesn't remember anything about the three or fourweeks they were ashore--at least, not distinctly."
"It's a great mercy!" interrupted Mrs. Jellicoe, determined to keep thepost of honour. "Who wants her to remember these horrors? From CaptainFrere's account, it was positively awful!"
"You don't say so!" said Mr. Meekin, dabbing his nose with a daintyhandkerchief.
"A 'bolter'--that's what we call an escaped prisoner, Mr.Meekin--happened to be left behind, and he found them out, and insistedon sharing the provisions--the wretch! Captain Frere was obliged towatch him constantly for fear he should murder them. Even in the boat hetried to run them out to sea and escape. He was one of the worst menin the Harbour, they say; but you should hear Captain Frere tell thestory."
"And where is he now?" asked Mr. Meekin, with interest.
"Captain Frere?"
"No, the prisoner."
"Oh, goodness, I don't know--at Port Arthur, I think. I know that he wastried for bolting, and would have been hanged but for Captain Frere'sexertions."
"Dear, dear! a strange story, indeed," said Mr. Meekin. "And so theyoung lady doesn't know anything about it?" "Only what she has beentold, of course, poor dear. She's engaged to Captain Frere."
"Really! To the man who saved her. How charming--quite a romance!"
"Isn't it? Everybody says so. And Captain Frere's so much older than sheis."
"But her girlish love clings to her heroic protector," said Meekin,mildly poetical. "Remarkable and beautiful. Quite the--hem!--the ivyand the oak, dear leddies. Ah, in our fallen nature, what sweet spots--Ithink this is the gate."
For the Term of His Natural Life Page 31