CHAPTER IX.

JOHN REX'S LETTER HOME.

HE "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

VOL. II.

I 2

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.”

soup.

Indeed, yes," says Mr. Pounce, lapping his "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."

66

Wull," said McNab to Sylvia, “I don't think Prauvidence had any thocht o' caunveect deeciplin 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.

it to the Bishop."

I am going to send

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

"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.

:

a packet "and when the cloth is removed, I will ask the 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 fingers, read the address:

John Rex, sen.,

Care of Mr. Blick,

38, Bishopsgate Street Within,

London.

Why can't he write to his father direct ?" "Who's Blick?"

said he.

"A worthy merchant, I am told, in whose counting-house the unfortunate Rex passed

his younger days. He had a tolerable education, as you are aware.”

"Educated prisoners are always the worst," Isaid 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:

"Hobart Town, Dec. 27th, 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."