On leaving the house, my soul was stirred by conflicting emotions. I
was wild with disappointment, sorrow and indignation.
It was wrong to part with my poor sister in such fashion; and my
conscience told me so, before I had proceeded two hundred yards along
the street. I should at least have given her some money, to relieve her
from the extreme necessity which she was evidently in.
A moment's reflection, as I stopped in the street, told me it was my
duty to do this, if nothing more.
I thought of sending her a few pounds after getting back to the hotel.
Then succeeded the reflection, that to do so would be more trouble, than
to turn back, and give it to her myself. This thought decided me to
return to the house, and see her once more. I retraced my steps; and
again knocked at the door.
For some moments there was no answer; and I knocked again. I waited for
nearly two minutes; and still there was no sign of my summons being
answered.
I was on the point of bursting in the door, when it was opened by a man,
whose huge frame almost filled the entrance from jamb to jamb. It was
the Elephant! The truth instantly flashed upon my mind. It was for
_him_ my sister had been waiting! She--was the sempstress for whom he
had been toiling--the young girl spoken of in his story--she, whom he
had said, he was going to return and marry!
Martha had flung herself into a chair; and appeared insensible.
I cannot remember that either Olliphant or I spoke on seeing one
another. Each was too much surprised at meeting the other. And yet
neither of us thought, there was anything strange in the circumstance.
Let those, who can, explain the singularity of our sentiments at that
encounter. I cannot, and therefore shall not make the attempt. The
attention of both of us was soon called to Martha, who had recovered
consciousness.
"I thank God!" she cried out addressing me, "I thank God, Rowland, you
have returned. You see, he has come back!" she continued, placing her
hand on the broad shoulder of `the Elephant.' "I knew he would. I told
you he was certain to come; and that it was not possible for him to
deceive me. This is my brother, Alex," she added, turning to Olliphant.
"He wanted me to leave you; but don't blame him: for he did not know
you, as I did. I've seen hard times, Alex; but the joy of this moment
more than repays me for all."
It was some time before Olliphant and I had an opportunity of
communicating with each other: for Martha seemed determined that no one
should have anything to say but herself.
"What fools we have been!" exclaimed Olliphant, as soon as his
sweetheart gave him a chance of speaking. "Had you told me that your
name was Stone, and that you had a sister in Sydney, how much more
pleasure we should have had in one another's society! You have nearly
missed finding your brother; and either you or I have nearly lost your
sister by keeping your name a secret. I know that for a man to talk to
others of his family affairs is not strict etiquette; but the rules of
that are often made by those who are only respected because they are
unknown; or rather, because nothing concerning them can be told to their
credit."
"You and I have been friends," continued the Elephant, still addressing
his discourse to me. "Why should we have cared for etiquette? We ought
to have acted independently of its requirements. Depend upon it, that
open-hearted candour is ever preferable to secrecy."
I assured Olliphant, that I was convinced of the truth of this doctrine
by late events; and that it was also my belief, an honest man has very
little on his mind that need be concealed from his acquaintances.
The scene that followed was one of unalloyed happiness. It ended in the
determination--that we should all three at once proceed to Melbourne;
and that Olliphant and Martha should be married at the same time that my
brother was to be united to Miss Morell.
It was ludicrous to witness the change, that had suddenly taken place in
the sentiments of Martha. She no longer offered the slightest objection
to leaving Sydney; but on the contrary, declared herself delighted at
the prospect of going to Melbourne--a place, she said, she had been long
desirous of seeing!
During the evening, the little slavey, Sarah, came over from the
milliner's shop, with a bundle of sewing materials--which Martha was
required to make up immediately.
"Tell your mistress," said Martha, "that I cannot afford to do any more
work for her: for she does not pay me enough for it. Tell her, that I
hope she will not be much disappointed; but that I really cannot sew any
more for her. Will you tell her that?"
"Yes, thank you!" said Sarah, "but I don't think she'll be much
disappointed: for she said she did not think you would do any more work
now; and she only sent it to see."
We had enough to talk about that evening. Olliphant had been acquainted
with our poor mother; and expressed much regret that she had died so
unhappily.
We all had explanations to make; and Olliphant and I listened with equal
interest to a long recital of my sister's struggle to maintain herself,
and to an explanation of her sorrow at being unable to comply with my
request, when I had entreated her to leave Sydney.
This confession was as pleasant to me as to the Elephant; but perhaps
still pleasanter was it for him to hear that, during his long absence,
she had never felt a doubt about his returning, and that such a
suspicion had never remained for an instant in her mind.
As events had turned out, I could not regret that my sister had been,
what I had too rashly termed foolish; and that her faith in Olliphant's
promise had remained unshaken under such strong temptations, as those to
which she had been subjected.
She had proved herself worthy of a good husband; and there was no one,
whom I should have preferred seeing her united to, before the man, for
whom she had so long and patiently waited.
Volume Three, Chapter XXII.