A LIGHT IN THE GLOOM.
THE great bubble had burst at last. Those who blew it had worked
so hard, and had blown up such a bulky affair that they had really
forgotten that it was all wind and suds, a mere baseless fabric which
would burst and leave nothing behind it at the first resistance of
a solid substance. But so it was. The great Chartist conspiracy
had swelled and swelled, unmolested by Government, until, relying
upon its bulk, it sought to assert itself. Government stood firm,
and the bubble collapsed. The affair, however, had been of too
serious dimensions to be altogether passed over, and a few of the
most conspicuous among the Chartist leaders were taken, tried,
and condemned to transportation. At their trial they found, as
conspirators have almost always done, that there had been a traitor
in their midst, that the whole details of their intended movements
were as well known to the Government as to themselves. Who the
traitor was they did not discover. The evidence was ample without
calling him personally, but many and deep were the vows of vengeance
sworn against him should he ever be discovered. Among the condemned
was William Holl, who was sentenced to seven years' transportation.
Evan Holl learnt the news one afternoon when he had asked leave to
go down to Knightsbridge. He came back before the hour at which he
usually returned from his father's. Frank himself let him in.
“You are early, Evan.”
“Yes, sir.”
Frank noticed that the boy did not speak in his usual cheery tone.
“Anything the matter, lad?”
“Yes, sir; there is a terrible upset at home. Mother's crying, and
Aunt Bessy's crying fit to break her heart, and everything is upside
down.”
“That sounds bad, Evan; come into my room and tell me what is the
matter.”
Prescott was there, as was his custom in the evening, when Frank was
at home.
“Now, Evan, tell us all about it.”
“If you please, sir, Uncle Will has got transported.”
“Got transported, Evan! Why, what has your Uncle Will been doing?”
“Please, sir, he's been going and being a Chartist.”
“Oh, is the Holl who was tried to-day your uncle, Evan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Whew,” whistled Frank, “that is a bad business; how the deuce could
the man have made such a fool of himself?”
“Please, sir, I don't know,” Evan answered, taking Frank's
ejaculation as a direct question addressed to himself.
“No, I don't suppose you do, Evan, and I don't suppose he does
himself, which is more to the point. The question is, what is to be
done?”
There was silence for a moment, and then Evan said, hesitatingly,—
“You don't think you could get him off, sir, do you? It will break
Aunt Bessy's heart.”
“No, Evan, that is quite out of the question; your uncle is a fool,
and must pay for his folly. I could do nothing for him if I wished
it ever so much, and I am not sure that I do wish it at all. I have
neither patience with nor pity for these men. It is the wife I am
thinking of, as he ought to have been, before he ran his head against
a wall. Something might be done for her, though I don't plainly
see what. There, Evan, go off to bed, I will talk it over with Mr.
Prescott.”
The result of the talk was that the friends drove down the following
morning to Knightsbridge. Mrs. Holl—her honest face swollen and red
from crying—was, as usual, washing. Her sister-in-law sat by the
fire in an apathy of sorrow. She could cry no more, and, worn out
by her grief, looked the image of despondency. When the young men
entered she did not even look up or appear to notice their presence.
“Evan has been telling us, Mrs. Holl,” Frank began, “about this bad
affair of your husband's brother. Of course nothing can be done in
his case, but we came to ask what his wife intends to do.”
“Bless the poor creature,” Mrs. Holl said, “she ain't even thought
about it. She is grieving too much over that husband of hers. There,
I have no patience with him, though he be my John's brother. To think
what a tidy chap he were, and what a steady good workman, before he
took up with these Chartist goings-on.”
“Yes,” Bessy Holl said, speaking suddenly, and almost startling
her listeners, for she had appeared lost in her own thoughts, as
indeed she was, having probably but a vague idea of what was being
said; “yes, Bill was that; there was not his equal, I've heard say,
at planing and grooving, and moulding and tongueing. But there,”
and here she broke into a sort of hysterical laughter, “it's the
tongueing that's done it, and I knew it would all along. God forgive
me!” she again broke out after a pause, “I don't know what I am
talking about,” and then she began to cry quietly again, rocking
herself to and fro.
“I will tell you what I thought, Mrs. Holl. You see, when a convict
first goes out he is put to work upon the roads. After he has been
at that for some time, in proportion to the length of his sentence,
he is hired out to one of the farmers, and a year or two afterwards,
if his conduct continues good, he gets a ticket-of-leave, and does
as he pleases. Now, in the present case, as the sentence is only for
seven years, it is probable that your brother will not be kept more
than a year upon public work, and will then be hired to a farmer.
No disgrace will attach to him afterwards for having been a convict
for his political opinions, and he may yet live to make an honest
name and a fair position in Australia. Now, my idea is that his wife
should sail a year after him and join him there; it is probable that
she would find no difficulty in getting employment about the house
or dairy wherever he may be. Women are scarce there. The passage
money out is about twenty-five pounds, and say another ten pounds
for expenses out there until she is settled—thirty-five pounds.
Now, Mrs. Holl, I have plenty of money and I don't see that I can do
better with it than to lend this money to your sister-in-law. I am
a very unsettled man and do not know where I may be at the end of
some months, so I have handed over the money to Mr. Prescott here,
and at the end of a year, if Mrs. Holl is ready to start to join her
husband, he will give it to her.”
As he finished, Bessy Holl rose from her chair and tottered three
steps forward, and then fell upon her knees. Then she tried to
speak, but tears and sobs choked her, and she could only gasp out,
“God bless you! God bless you! to think, only a year—my William, my
William!” and she went off in violent hysterics.
The young men assisted Mrs. Holl to raise her, and to carry her into
the next room and lay her upon a bed, and then Frank said, “We had
better leave her to you, Mrs. Holl; she will soon be better.”
Mrs. Holl turned to him and took his hand, “Young gentleman,” she
said, solemnly, “the thought of that poor child's joyful cry will
ring in your ears and gladden your heart may be for many a year to
come. You will have your reward, as the good book says. I am a rough
woman, sir, and can no more thank you than that poor creature there,
but my prayers can do you no harm, and you will have them, sir. May
God in heaven bless you, sir, and make you a very happy man, as you
deserve to be!”
It was two days later that Sarah and Bessy Holl were shown into the
waiting-room of the prison where William Holl was confined. He was
to be taken to Portland, whence he was in a short time to be shipped
for Australia. It was a small room, and after they were ushered into
it they sat for nearly five minutes in silence before the door was
opened. Bessy was calm and composed now; her face was sad but no
longer hopeless; perhaps, indeed, if she could have read her own
heart she would have found that she was really happier than she had
been for months past. Her life, indeed, had lately been one long
anxiety and care. She had seen ruin gradually coming upon them; her
husband, from being one of the best of workmen and the most cheerful
of husbands, had become an idle, moody man; her home had been broken
up, and she herself had suffered the actual pangs of hunger. And
never for a moment had Bessy believed in her husband's schemes and
aspirations, but had all along had a prison, or perhaps a gallows,
before her eyes as the end which must sooner or later befall him.
Now all this weary strain of thought and care was over. Her husband
would, indeed, be separated from her for a year—but what was a year?
At the end of that time there was a future before them, a fresh home
in a new country, honest labour and contentment and happiness, and
William would yet again be the William she had loved and married.
Thoughts something like these were running in her mind, when the door
opened and her husband entered. He was already in convict attire, and
all Bessy's glad thoughts faded, and she gave a little cry as she
looked at his pale, haggard face. She tottered forward and fell half
fainting on his neck.
“My poor girl,” he said, softly, “my poor girl, and I have brought
you to this; this is the end of all my hopes and plans.”
Sarah Holl went to the barred window and looked out into the narrow
court. She so pitied Bessy, and was so out of all patience, as she
said herself, with her husband that she could not bring herself to
speak kindly to him. Yet, for Bessy's sake, she would not embitter
their last meeting. So she looked steadily out of the window, and
stood there alternating between anger and pity, now longing to turn
round and upbraid William Holl for his madness and folly, now crying
quietly to herself in relenting sorrow.
William Holl placed his wife in a chair and then knelt down beside
her.
“Oh Bessy, Bessy! what can I say, how can I ask you to forgive me? I
have destroyed your life, Bessy, and yet I would have given mine to
make you happy. When I think, Bessy, how happy we were, how bright
and gay you were only a year ago and see what I have brought you to,
I could die, Bessy—oh! how gladly—if I could recall the past and
have never seen you. I see now how right you were, and how mad I
have been—how miserably mad—to think that all the idle hands who
were willing to spend their time in talking and drinking, and making
speeches, were patriots ready to die for the cause of freedom. I have
been a fool, Bessy, but, oh, that I could have my punishment alone!
Why must I drag you down to misery too? Even had things been as I
thought them, what right had I to devote myself, as I thought, to my
country, and to sacrifice my wife? Oh, Bessy! you may forgive me, but
I never can forgive myself.”
Bessy, up to this time, had not spoken a word. Sometimes she had
tried to stop her husband, but her own sobs had prevented her.
“I do forgive you with all my heart, William. You did what you
thought was right; you never meant to make me unhappy, you never
thought——” and here she broke down again.
“No, Bessy,” he said, sadly, “I never did think, but I ought to have
thought. I was a dreamer, and I wilfully blinded myself. I have not
even the satisfaction of knowing that I was ignorant. I knew you
suffered, I knew you wanted bread, but I went on. Oh Bessy, Bessy!
I have gone all wrong, but it is hard upon you. I was born to be a
blight and a curse to you.”
“No, no, William!” the wife broke out; “no, no, not that.”
“Yes, Bessy, it is so. I know my brother and his wife are good
people. They will take care of you, dear. I shall never see you
again. Hear me out, darling. I only hope that it will not be for
long. I am not strong, and I do not think I shall last many months. I
hope not, I pray to God not. It is all I can do for you now, Bessy;
to die and set you free. But you will think of me kindly, dear: think
of me as I used to be before I went mad, as the William who courted
you long ago. Will you promise me this, Bessy?”
Bessy was crying too much to speak.
“Oh! William,” she sobbed out at last; “you must not talk so, you
will kill me. We are going to be happy yet. Yes, yes,” she said, as
he shook his head in sad denial; “you don't know, you have not heard
what I have to tell you. I am coming out to you, dear. In a little
time, they tell me, they will let you out of prison to work with a
farmer, and in a year I am to start to you; only a year, William,
think of that. Mr. Maynard, God bless him, has given me the money,
and in a year after you get out I shall be by your side. Think of
it, William. And he said, too, there was no disgrace in being sent
out for politics, and that some day you would get on and be well
thought of again. Yes, it is all true, William, I am only come to say
good-bye for a year.”
William Holl had listened at first with incredulity, then with a
flash of joyful hope, and then with the deep silent thankfulness of
conviction. Then he got up and held his wife to his heart.
“Yes, yes, I feel it is true,” he said; “my own Bessy, once again
my own, we shall be happy yet.” Then again releasing her, he said
solemnly: “Let us kneel down, Bessy, and thank God together, and
let us pray Him to bless the man who has thus, in the time of our
misery, given us new life and hope.” Bessy knelt in silence beside
her husband, and in a voice broken by deep emotion he went on: “Thou
merciful God, I thank thee that in our hour of misery Thou has had
mercy upon us. Grant us a re-union in the land to which I go; and
enable me, by a life of earnest toil, to atone for my error here,
and to console my wife for the grief I have caused her. And, O God,
bless, I pray thee, our benefactor, and shower blessings and mercies
upon him, as he has blessed and been merciful to us, Amen.”
And the sobbing women repeated “Amen” after him.
The remaining quarter of an hour of the time allotted for the visit
was spent in discussing arrangements, and in drawing happy pictures
of the future, and when the turnkey opened the door and said that
time was up, they parted with tears indeed, but with hearts full of
anticipation of re-union and a happy future.