The “little gathering” of which Major Vickers had spoken to Mr. Meekin, had grown into something larger than he had anticipated. Instead of a quiet dinner at which his own household, his daughter’s betrothed, and the stranger clergyman only should be present, the Major found himself entangled with Mesdames Protherick and Jellicoe, Mr. McNab of the garrison, and Mr. Pounce of the civil list. His quiet Christmas dinner had grown into an evening party.

The conversation was on the usual topic.

“Heard anything about that fellow Dawes?” asked Mr. Pounce.

“Not yet,” says Frere, sulkily, “but he won’t be out long. I’ve got a dozen men up the mountain.”

“I suppose it is not easy for a prisoner to make good his escape?” says Meekin.

“Oh, he needn’t be caught,” says Frere, “if that’s what you mean; but he’ll starve instead. The bushranging days are over now, and it’s a precious poor look-out for any man to live upon luck in the bush.”

“Indeed, yes,” says Mr. Pounce, lapping his soup. “This island seems specially adapted by Providence for a convict settlement; for with an admirable climate, it carries little indigenous vegetation which will support human life.”

“Wull,” said McNab to Sylvia, “I don’t think Prauvidence had any thocht o’ caunveect deesiplin whun He created the cauleny o’ Van Deemen’s Lan’.”

“Neither do I,” said Sylvia.

“I don’t know,” says Mrs. Protherick. “Poor Protherick used often to say that it seemed as if some Almighty Hand had planned the Penal Settlements round the coast, the country is so delightfully barren.”

“Ay, Port Arthur couldn’t have been better if it had been made on purpose,” says Frere; “and all up the coast from Tenby to St. Helen’s there isn’t a scrap for human being to make a meal on. The West Coast is worse. By George, sir, in the old days, I remember —”

“By the way,” says Meekin, “I’ve got something to show you. Rex’s confession. I brought it down on purpose.”

“Rex’s confession!”

“His account of his adventures after he left Macquarie Harbour. I am going to send it to the Bishop.”

“Oh, I should like to see it,” said Sylvia, with heightened colour. “The story of these unhappy men has a personal interest for me.”

“A forbidden subject, Poppet.”

“No, papa, not altogether forbidden; for it does not affect me now as it used to do. You must let me read it, Mr. Meekin.”

“A pack of lies, I expect,” said Frere, with a scowl. “That scoundrel Rex couldn’t tell the truth to save his life.”

“You misjudge him, Captain Frere,” said Meekin. “All the prisoners are not hardened in iniquity like Rufus Dawes. Rex is, I believe, truly penitent, and has written a most touching letter to his father.”

“A letter!” said Vickers. “You know that, by the King’s — no, the Queen’s Regulations, no letters are allowed to be sent to the friends of prisoners without first passing through the hands of the authorities.”

“I am aware of that, Major, and for that reason have brought it with me, that you may read it for yourself. It seems to me to breathe a spirit of true piety.”

“Let’s have a look at it,” said Frere.

“Here it is,” returned Meekin, producing a packet; “and when the cloth is removed, I will ask permission of the ladies to read it aloud. It is most interesting.”

A glance of surprise passed between the ladies Protherick and Jellicoe. The idea of a convict’s letter proving interesting! Mr. Meekin was new to the ways of the place.

Frere, turning the packet between his finger, read the address:–

John Rex, sen., Care of Mr. Blicks, 38, Bishopsgate Street Within, London.

“Why can’t he write to his father direct?” said he. “Who’s Blick?”

“A worthy merchant, I am told, in whose counting-house the fortunate Rex passed his younger days. He had a tolerable education, as you are aware.”

“Educated prisoners are always the worst,” said Vickers. “James, some more wine. We don’t drink toasts here, but as this is Christmas Eve, ‘Her Majesty the Queen’!”

“Hear, hear, hear!” says Maurice. “‘Her Majesty the Queen’!”

Having drunk this loyal toast with due fervour, Vickers proposed, “His Excellency Sir John Franklin”, which toast was likewise duly honoured.

“Here’s a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you, sir,” said Frere, with the letter still in his hand. “God bless us all.”

“Amen!” says Meekin piously. “Let us hope He will; and now, leddies, the letter. I will read you the Confession afterwards.” Opening the packet with the satisfaction of a Gospel vineyard labourer who sees his first vine sprouting, the good creature began to read aloud:

“‘Hobart Town, “‘December 27, 1838. “‘My Dear Father,— Through all the chances, changes, and vicissitudes of my chequered life, I never had a task so painful to my mangled feelings as the present one, of addressing you from this doleful spot — my sea-girt prison, on the beach of which I stand a monument of destruction, driven by the adverse winds of fate to the confines of black despair, and into the vortex of galling misery.’”

“Poetical!” said Frere.

“‘I am just like a gigantic tree of the forest which has stood many a wintry blast, and stormy tempest, but now, alas! I am become a withered trunk, with all my greenest and tenderest branches lopped off. Though fast attaining middle age, I am not filling an envied and honoured post with credit and respect. No — I shall be soon wearing the garb of degradation, and the badge and brand of infamy at P.A., which is, being interpreted, Port Arthur, the ‘Villain’s Home’.”

“Poor fellow!” said Sylvia.

“Touching, is it not?” assented Meekin, continuing —

“‘I am, with heartrending sorrow and anguish of soul, ranged and mingled with the Outcasts of Society. My present circumstances and pictures you will find well and truly drawn in the 102nd Psalm, commencing with the 4th verse to the 12th inclusive, which, my dear father, I request you will read attentively before you proceed any further.’”

“Hullo!” said Frere, pulling out his pocket-book, “what’s that? Read those numbers again.” Mr. Meekin complied, and Frere grinned. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll show you something in that letter directly.”

“‘Oh, my dear father, avoid, I beg of you, the reading of profane books. Let your mind dwell upon holy things, and assiduously study to grow in grace. Psalm lxxiii 2. Yet I have hope even in this, my desolate condition. Psalm xxxv 18. “For the Lord our God is merciful, and inclineth His ear unto pity”.’ ”

“Blasphemous dog!” said Vickers. “You don’t believe all that, Meekin, do you?” The parson reproved him gently. “Wait a moment, sir, until I have finished.”

“‘Party spirit runs very high, even in prison in Van Diemen’s Land. I am sorry to say that a licentious press invariably evinces a very great degree of contumely, while the authorities are held in respect by all well-disposed persons, though it is often endeavoured by some to bring on them the hatred and contempt of prisoners. But I am glad to tell you that all their efforts are without avail; but, nevertheless, do not read in any colonial newspaper. There is so much scurrility and vituperation in their productions.’”

“That’s for your benefit, Frere,” said Vickers, with a smile. “You remember what was said about your presence at the race meetings?”

“Of course,” said Frere. “Artful scoundrel! Go on, Mr. Meekin, pray.”

“‘I am aware that you will hear accounts of cruelty and tyranny, said, by the malicious and the evil-minded haters of the Government and Government officials, to have been inflicted by gaolers on convicts. To be candid, this is not the dreadful place it has been represented to be by vindictive writers. Severe flogging and heavy chaining is sometimes used, no doubt, but only in rare cases; and nominal punishments are marked out by law for slight breaches of discipline. So far as I have an opportunity of judging, the lash is never bestowed unless merited.’”

“As far as he is concerned, I don’t doubt it!” said Frere, cracking a walnut.

“‘The texts of Scripture quoted by our chaplain have comforted me much, and I have much to be grateful for; for after the rash attempt I made to secure my freedom, I have reason to be thankful for the mercy shown to me. Death — dreadful death of soul and body — would have been my portion; but, by the mercy of Omnipotence, I have been spared to repentance — John iii. I have now come to bitterness. The chaplain, a pious gentleman, says it never really pays to steal. “Lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt.” Honesty is the best policy, I am convinced, and I would not for ￡1,000 repeat my evil courses — Psalm xxxviii 14. When I think of the happy days I once passed with good Mr. Blicks, in the old house in Blue Anchor Yard, and reflect that since that happy time I have recklessly plunged in sin, and stolen goods and watches, studs, rings, and jewellery, become, indeed, a common thief, I tremble with remorse, and fly to prayer — Psalm v. Oh what sinners we are! Let me hope that now I, by God’s blessing placed beyond temptation, will live safely, and that some day I even may, by the will of the Lord Jesus, find mercy for my sins. Some kind of madness has method in it, but madness of sin holds us without escape. Such is, dear father, then, my hope and trust for my remaining life here — Psalm c 74. I owe my bodily well-being to Captain Maurice Frere, who was good enough to speak of my conduct in reference to the Osprey, when, with Shiers, Bar............