Chapter XXX: Repentance and Amendment (2)

"Has your honour seen the nature of the offence for which she was transported, or ever heard of the motive which prompted it? I have brought testimony sufficient to corroborate my account of her. I have the letters of recommendation for good conduct during her voyage to this country. I have the highest character to give of her all the time she has been with Mrs. Palmer, and a particular instance of personal courage and self-devotion, in saving the lives of a whole family in the late dreadful flood. Her present situation is so highly respectable, and exhibits such an instance of moral and religious influence triumphant over the dangers of a degraded position, that, when I heard of it, I could not fail to lay it before your honour."

"And a most admirable advocate would you have made at the bar, Mr. Barry. You have pleaded this young woman's case with such fervour, that positively, but for your well-known character in the colony, I should suspect you had some private interest in obtaining her pardon. I do think, however, that the case is a very proper one for merciful consideration, and highly deserving of the exercise of that prerogative which the government at home has attached to my power; and I shall certainly grant a free pardon. But, without any intention of being too inquisitive, may I candidly tell you, that from the animated manner in which you have spoken of the virtues of this said female, I am induced to ask, why you have taken such a peculiarly personal interest in her favour?"

"I will honestly confess at once that I ask it upon the most self-interested grounds possible: I intend to offer her my hand."

The governor looked all astonishment. "What? Do I really hear it, or is it a dream? You, Mr. Barry, the highest, and wealthiest, and most prudent bachelor in the settlement, one who might return to England and be one of her wealthiest esquires; and here, enjoying more reputation, with less responsibility, than the governor--you about to form a matrimonial alliance with----"

The governor paused; he found his own eloquence carrying him too far; he considered the character of the man before him, knew the excellence of his principles and his heart, and dreaded to wound his generous soul; he changed his tone, but not the earnestness of his appeal.

"Have you well weighed this matter, Mr. Barry? Have you consulted with your friends around you? You are not the man to be caught by outward appearances, nor to be smitten by passing beauty without some qualities of domestic happiness, arising from temper, mind, character, and disposition. How long has this attachment been in existence?"

"From my youth, your honour: I have not yet seen her since that happy time when she was a free woman in my native land, enjoying that honest liberty which is the pride and glory of England's virtuous daughters of every station in the land. I was then in her own condition of life. We had both to earn our bread by the labour of our hands; we both respected each other: would I could say that we had both loved each other! I should not like to see her again until I can look upon her as a free woman, and it is in your power to make her that happy being, upon whom I may look, as I once did, with the warmest affection."

"I ask no more, Mr. Barry, I ask no more. You have been an enigma to many of us; it is now solved. It gives me real pleasure to oblige you, and in such a case as this the best feelings of my heart are abounding for your happiness. Her freedom is granted. To whom shall I commit the pardon?"

"Will you permit me to take it?"

"Most gladly."

The governor's secretary was immediately summoned, and the form of pardon duly signed, sealed, and delivered to the joyful hand of Mr. John Barry.

"And now," said the governor, "permit me to say that we shall at all times be happy to receive you at Sydney; and in any way in which you can find my countenance and support serviceable, I shall always be ready to give them."

A cordial shake of the hand was mutually exchanged, and Mr. Barry returned that day to Windsor Lodge one of the happiest, as far as hope and good deeds can make a man so, on this changing earth.

He had communicated his success to Mrs. Palmer before he left Sydney. The green hills of Hawkesbury never looked so bright in his eye before, his house never so pleasant.

His servants saw an evident change in his manner, from the anguish of mourning for the loss of a sister, to what they could not quite comprehend; a state of liveliness they had never before witnessed in him. Their master never appeared so interested about the house, the rooms, the garden, and the green lawn. He was most unusually moved; he gave orders for the preparation of his house to receive his brother-in-law's children, to the great amazement of his female domestics, who could not conceive how a bachelor would manage such a family.

He did not breathe a word of his intention to any of his domestics; but every one observed a great change in his behaviour, which all his habitual quietude could not entirely conceal.

He wandered down to his favourite spot upon the river, and indulged in a reverie of imaginary bliss, which, to say the truth, was more real with him than with many thousands who fancy themselves in love.

Margaret arrived at Sydney on the day following the receipt of Mrs. Palmer's letter. She was a little excited at the tone of that epistle, but much surprised at being received in a manner to which she had never been accustomed. Margaret saw in a moment, from Mrs. Palmer's manner, that she had something to communicate of a very different kind to what she had before mentioned, and at once said--

"I perceive, my dear lady, that you have something to say to me which concerns me more than you wish to let me see it does, and yet you cannot conceal it. You need not be afraid to tell me; good or bad, I am prepared for it, but suspense is the most painful."

"The news I have to tell you then is good; to be at once declared--it is your free pardon!"

"This is news indeed, my dearest lady; almost too good news--it comes so unlooked for; forgive my tears." Margaret wept for joy.

"Shall I again see dear old England? shall I again see my dear friends, my mistress, my uncle, aunt, and family? Oh! how shall I ever repay your kindness? Oh! what can I say to you for your goodness? On my knees, I thank God, my good friend, and say, God be praised for His mercies, and bless you, the instrument thereof!"

"You may thank God; but you must not bless me, Margaret, for I am only the bearer of the news. I have not even got the pardon in my possession; but I have seen it. It is signed by the governor, and I know that you are free."

"Oh! thanks, dear lady, thanks!--but is it not to Mr. Palmer that I am indebted? You must have had something to do with it."

"Nothing farther than the giving you a just character to the governor by the hand of a gentleman, who has interceded with him, and has pleaded your cause successfully."

"Who is the gentleman? Do I know him?"

"Yes, you may know him when you see him. He read the account of your saving the family of the Laceys in the flood; he listened with attention to your former history: he does not live in Sydney, but at Windsor, on the Hawkesbury; yet, from his interest with the governor, he obtained your pardon."

"Bless the dear gentleman! How shall I ever be grateful enough to him? But you say I know him?"

"I say I think you will. I know you did once know him, but you have not seen him for many years."

"Who can it be, dear lady? You do not mean my brother Charles?"

"No."

"Who then can it be? Not my former master, or any of his family?"

"No, Margaret; I must be plainer with you. Do you remember a young man of the name of Barry?"

"John Barry! Yes, I do. What of him? He went to Canada."

"No, he did not. He came to this country, has lived in it many years, and has prospered greatly. He is in the confidence of the governor. He accidentally discovered you were in the country. He it was--yes, he it was--who went that very hour to the governor, and I have no doubt asked it as a personal favour to himself that you should be pardoned. What say you to such a man?"

"All that I can say is to bless him with a most grateful heart. Oh! dear lady, he saved my life once, and now he gives me liberty! He was a good young man; too good for such as me to think upon, though he once would have had me think more of him. I had forgotten all but his kindness, which I never can forget; and now it overwhelms me with astonishment. Is he married, and settled in this country?"

"He is settled, but not married. He has been a prosperous man, and is as benevolent as he is rich; but he never married, at which we have all wondered."

This declaration made Margaret blush; a deep crimson flush passed over her cheeks, and was succeeded by extreme paleness. Her heart heaved convulsively, a faintness and dizziness came upon her, and she would really have fallen had she not been supported by the kind attentions of her benefactress.

"He has kept his word! Oh, Mrs. Palmer! I never thought to see him again. I mistook the country he left me for. I have often thought of his goodness to me in former days. I am now indebted to him for double life!"

"Margaret, what if I tell you that for you only has he kept himself single?"

"There was a time when he might and did think of me; but that time must be gone by."

"I tell you, he loves you still."

"Impossible! Oh, if he does!--but it is impossible! Madam, this is all a dream!"

"It is a dream, Margaret, from which you will shortly awake, as he is in the house at this moment to present himself with the governor's pardon!"

"Dear lady, pray be present with me; I know not how to meet him!"

The door just then opened, and in came Mr. Barry, with the governor's pardon in his hand. He approached Margaret, as she clung to Mrs. Palmer, agitated beyond measure. She regarded him with more solemn feelings than she did the judge who condemned her twice to death. She dropped upon her knees, and hid her face before her deliverer. He lifted her up and seated her, and, in the language of gentleness and tenderness, addressed her thus:--

"Margaret, I have brought you a free pardon from the governor. Need I remind you that God has mercifully sent me before you in this instance to be your friend? To Him I know you will give all the thanks and praises of a grateful heart."

"To Him I do first, sir; and to you, as his instrument, in the next place. I am afraid to look upon you, and I am unworthy to be looked upon by you. I am a----"

"You need not tell me, Margaret, what you have been. I know all. Think not of what you were, but what you are. You are no longer a convict; you are no longer under the ban of disgrace; you are no longer under the sentence of the offended laws of man; you are now a free subject; and if your fellow-creatures do not all forgive you, they cannot themselves hope for forgiveness. You are at liberty to settle wherever you please."

"Oh! dear sir; and to you I owe all this! What will they say to you in England, when I again embrace my dear friends there, and bless you for the liberty thus granted me?"

"Margaret, hear me again. Remember, when I last saw you, I told you then what I dreaded, if you refused to come out to this country with me. How true those fears were, you can now judge. You made a choice then which gave me anguish to be surpassed only by the present moment. You speak now of returning to England. You have got your pardon, and are at liberty so to do. It may seem ungenerous to me, at such a moment, to urge your stay; but hear now my opinion and advice, and give them the weight only of your calm judgement. If you return to England, take my word for it you will not be happy. You will never be as happy as you may be here. I speak this with feelings as much alive to your interest now as they were when I last parted with you. I will suppose you returned. Your own good heart makes you imagine that every one would be as glad to see you there as you would truly be to see them. Your own heart deceives you. I have known those who so bitterly lamented their return to England, that they have come again to settle in this country, and have offended those friends who would have respected them had they remained here. When at a distance they felt much for them; but when they came near to them, the pride of society made them ashamed of those who had been convicts. It may be that some would be glad to see you; your good mistress, your uncle and aunt: but circumstances might prevent their being able to do you any great service. Your former mistress has a large family, your uncle the same; you have no independence to live upon there. The eye of envy would be upon you if you had wealth, and detraction would be busy with your name. People would talk of your sins, but would never value you for your integrity. You would probably soon wish yourself in this country again, where your rising character would be looked upon with respect, and all the past be forgiven, and in time forgotten. Here you would have an established character: there you would always be thought to have a dubious one. Besides all this, you are here prospering. You can have the great gratification of relieving the necessities of your aged relatives, and of obliging your best friends. You would, believe me, be looked upon by them with far greater respect and esteem than if you were nearer to them. Think, Margaret, of what I now state, and divest yourself of that too great idea of happiness in England. You are at liberty to go; but you will enjoy far greater liberty if you stay in this country."

"What you say, sir, may be true in some respects; but I think I should die happy if I once more saw my dear friends and relatives."

"God forbid that I should not approve your feeling! I, too, have a father, and mother, and brothers in England, but I hear from them continually, and they rejoice in my welfare. I love them dearly as they do me. Two sisters have come out to me, and both have married and settled in the country. One I have lost, who has left a husband and seven children to lament her loss. I have strong ties, you see, in these young people, to bind me to this country, for they look up to me as they do to their father. But they are without female protection."

"If, my dear sir, I can be of any service to you or them for a term of years, I shall feel it part of the happiness of that freedom you have obtained for me to abide as long in this land. But I own that I still feel that I should like to return one day to England. I am very grateful for all your goodness, and shall ever bless you for the interest you have taken in one so unworthy your favour."

"Margaret, I am deeply interested in these children. They have lost their mother, my sister. Their aunt, now resident in the colony, has ten children of her own, and it would not be fair that she should take seven more into her house. The young man, now left a widower, is in such a delicate state of health, and so disconsolate for the loss of his wife, that I do not think he will be long amongst us. These circumstances made me come to my good friend Mrs. Palmer for assistance and advice. Guess, then, my astonishment to hear you recommended to me: you, above all people in the world, whose presence I could have wished for, whose gentleness I know, and who, if you will, can make both myself and all these children happy."

"My dear sir, I stand in a very different position with regard to yourself to what I formerly did. I do not forget that to your protecting arm I owe the rescue of my life from the violence of one in whom my misplaced confidence became my ruin and his own death. I never can forget that to you I am a second time indebted for liberty, and that which will sweeten the remainder of my days: the consciousness of being restored, a pardoned penitent, to virtuous society. But I cannot forget that I am still but little better than a slave: I am scarcely yet free. I am not, as I was when you first offered me your hand and heart, upon an equality with yourself. How then can you ask me to become your wife, when there is such a disparity as must ever make me feel your slave? No, generous and good man! I told you formerly that if Laud were dead I might then find it in my heart to listen to your claims; but I never thought that I should be in a situation so much beneath you as I am, so very different to that which I once occupied."

"And do you think, Margaret, that I can ever forget that I was a fellow-servant with you at the Priory Farm, upon the banks of the Orwell? It was then I first made known to you the state of that heart which, as I told you long ago, would never change towards you. You say that our conditions are so very dissimilar: I see no great difference in them; certainly no greater than when you lived at the cottage on the heath and I was the miller's son. You are independent now. Your good friend, Mrs. Palmer, has made you so, and will permit me to say, that you have already an independence in this country far greater than ever you could enjoy in England."

Margaret looked at Mrs. Palmer. That good woman at once confessed that all the rent that Margaret had paid for the years she had been in the farm was now placed in the Sydney bank, to her account, and quite at her disposal. She added, that she had made over the estate she occupied at Richmond Hill to her for ever.

What could Margaret now say? She found herself on the one hand made free, through the intercession of a man who loved her, and on the other she was made independent for life by a lady who had only known her in her captivity, but who had respected and esteemed her. That lady now thought it time to speak out.

"Margaret, do not think that I have given you anything more than what you are strictly entitled to. Remember that, from a sense of justice towards me, you refused the hand of a man who probably would have settled all the estate upon you. But you chose to think yourself unworthy of my kindness had you accepted his offer. You acted with great discretion; and in settling this small portion upon you, I was guided by a sense of justice and gratitude, which made me anxious to discharge a just debt, and I do not consider that I have even given you as much as I ought to have done."

"Indeed, you have, dear lady, and you have bound me to you for ever. Have I, indeed, such dear friends in this country? Then do I feel it my duty to remain in it, and I will learn to sigh no longer after that place where I had so long hoped to live and die. You give me, however, more credit for refusing the hand of Mr. Poinder than I deserve: I never could have married a man who, in such an imperious manner, gave me to understand his will. No; I was his servant, but not his slave. And any woman who would obey the nod of a tyrant, to become his wife, could never expect to enjoy any self-estimation afterwards. He told me his intention of making me his wife in such an absolute way that I quite as absolutely rejected him. I deserve no credit for this."

"Margaret," said Mr. Barry, "understand the offer I now make you. If you are not totally indifferent to all mankind, and can accept the offer of one whose earliest affections you commanded, then know that those affections are as honest, and true, and faithful to you this day, as they were when I first addressed you. Think me not so ungenerous as ever to appeal to any sense of gratitude on your part. You cannot conceive what unspeakable pleasure I have always thought it to serve you in any way I might. You cannot tell how dead I have been to every hope but that of being enabled to do good to others. This has been my purest solace under your loss, Margaret; and if in daily remembrance of you I have done thus much, what will not your presence always urge me to perform?

"I sought a servant, a confidential kind of friend, to govern my brother's household: I little thought that I should find the only person I ever could or would make my wife. I offer you, then, myself and all my possessions. I am willing to make over all I have, upon the contract that you become the aunt of those dear children, and I know you too well ever to doubt your kindness to them.

"As to your respectability, I have already declared to the governor my full intention of offering you this hand. He has promised to recognize you as my wife. Your friend here will not like you the less because you are so nearly allied to me; and I will answer for all my relatives and friends. None will ever scorn you, all will respect you, I will love you. Say, then, will you live my respected wife at Windsor Lodge, or will you still live alone at Richmond Hill?"

"It is you must choose," replied Margaret; "I cannot refuse. I never can doubt you. I will endeavour to fulfil the station of a mother in that of an aunt; and if my heart does not deceive me, I shall do my duty as an honest wife."

After this explanation, it is needless, perhaps, to add that Margaret Catchpole changed her name, and became the much-respected and beloved wife of John Barry, Esq., of Windsor, by the Green Hills of Hawkesbury.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 11: The specimens in question may be seen distinguished by a label attached to them with the following words:--

"MANURA SUPERBA.
"LYRA, OR BOTANY BAY PHEASANT.

"These beautiful birds were sent to the late Mrs. Cobbold, of the Cliff, by Margaret Catchpole, a female servant, who stole a coach-horse from the late John Cobbold, Esq., and rode it up to London in one night. She was in the act of selling the horse when she was taken. She was in man's apparel. She was tried at Bury in 1797, and received sentence of death, which sentence, owing to the entreaties of the prosecutor, was changed to seven years' transportation; but breaking out of gaol, she was afterwards transported for life.

"Presented to this Museum by R. K. Cobbold, Esq."]