“Listen to me, Clarence!” exclaimed his aunt, rising from the sofa and advancing towards him: “it is so easy to reproach—but not so easy to admit of extenuation for guilt. As God is my judge, my penitence in Newgate was sincere—my contrition unfeigned! I even longed for the hour of my departure to arrive, that I might for ever quit a country where I had played so vile a part, and to some extent retrieve my character in a penal colony. But when I set foot on board the convict-ship, I found myself thrown into the depths of a very sink of immorality,—plunged into an infernal stew of profligacy, from which escape was impossible. I threw myself on my knees before the surgeon, and implored him to remove me from that dreadful assemblage of fiends in female shape: he laughed at me, and bade me return to my place. Then my companions abused and ill-treated me for having dared to complain;—and the babe which I bore in my arms was made the subject of the bitterest taunts and most cutting gibes. I had named her Perdita—as you well know—that her lost and hopeless condition, through the infamy of her mother, might ever be retained fresh in my memory, and that the necessity of toiling hard and honourably for her might be impressed on my soul even by the warning nature of that very name. But, oh! those wretches, with whom I was forced to associate, levelled the most cruel jeers and jests against me on account of that innocent babe; because she was born in Newgate! And nothing is so galling—nothing so terribly afflicting—nothing so poignantly cutting, as to insult a woman through the medium of her illegitimate, helpless babe! My God! what bitter tears I shed on board that convict-ship,—tears which seemed to sear my very countenance as they fell, so scalding were they! Then the frightful scenes which were enacted in our cabin,—the quarrelling that took place, the imprecations that accompanied even the simplest remark, the obscene tales that were told,—oh! it was horrible, horrible. I struggled against the contamination as mortal being never struggled before:—but it was like a combat between a drowning person and the fury of a whelming torrent,—a vain, ineffectual, and useless fight, in which I felt myself to be completely powerless;—until, in despair, I resigned myself to the flood that was whirling me along in its triumphant course;—and I found relief even in drinking of that feculent, fœtid stream from which there was no escape. Yes—thus was I drawn down into the whirlpool of immoralities and profligacies on the brink of which the law placed me:—and if my vows of contrition—my asseverations of penitence proved so many delusions, you must blame the system to which I was subjected—and not myself.”
“And do you mean, then, to inform me that you endeavoured to be moral, reserved, pious, and tranquil on board the convict-ship—but that it was impossible to avoid being dragged into the common abyss of depravity?” demanded Clarence, now speaking in a mild and even compassionate tone.
“Most solemnly do I swear that such is the fact!” exclaimed his aunt, with an emphasis which spoke volumes in favour of her sincerity.
“Then are you to be pitied, poor woman,” said Clarence; “and the Government of that day most bear all the blame of your relapse and subsequent depravity. But where is your daughter Perdita?”
“She is in the neighbourhood—waiting for me,” was the answer. “I did not choose to bring her beneath your roof. Indeed, naught save necessity—necessity the most stern—should have led me hither.”
“The accounts which I received from a correspondent at Sydney, spoke, alas! most unfavourably of your daughter,” observed Clarence. “My God! could you not at least have saved her from entering the paths that lead to perdition?”
“Behold, now, how ready you are to blame me!” cried his aunt, in a voice expressive of vexation. “I was allotted as a servant to a free-settler in the penal colony; and the man made me his mistress. There was no compliance on my part in the first instance: ’twas absolute compulsion. Then I yielded to my fate, seeing that it was useless to contend against it. I had to work hard all day; and the moment Perdita was able to run alone, she played in the streets with the other poor children of Sydney. I could not prevent it—do all I would to endeavour to keep her in doors. Well, at last I obtained a ticket of leave, and tried to earn a livelihood by the toil of my own hands. But to do this, I was compelled to be out all day;—and then, where was Perdita? Where was she?” almost screamed the woman, becoming much excited: “why—lost—as her name implies;—not lost as you lose an object and can find it no more,—but lost morally—irretrievably lost! ’Tis true that I imparted to her as much knowledge as I myself possessed or had leisure to instil into her—and that to do this I deprived myself of my natural rest. But how could I teach her virtue?—how could I read the Bible with her? My story was known throughout the colony;—and Perdita learnt before even she had intelligence to understand the meaning of the facts, that she was a bastard—born in Newgate, the great criminal prison of London—and that her mother was every thing infamous and vile! My God! circumstances would not allow me to nurture her in moral ways, even if I had possessed the inclination: but by the time she was old enough to learn, I had myself become as deeply steeped in profligacy as any other woman in the colony. Can you wonder, then, that she soon fell into the ways of vice? Beautiful as she was—and is—she soon attracted notice;—and your fine English officers—the gentlemen sent out to protect the colony,—they were the authors of her ruin—and they encouraged her in a career of infamy. Oh! Clarence, it is a frightful thing for me to stand before you—you, who are my own nephew—and have to make such horrible revelations: but you reproach me for my own wickedness—you would seek to represent me as the cause of my daughter’s wickedness—and I am forced to explain to you the appalling nature of the influences acting upon us, and the circumstances surrounding us. Now—now, I could weep in humiliation;—but an hour hence, I shall be obdurate and hardened as ever. The world has made me so.”
“And now what do you propose to do?” enquired Clarence. “It is impossible for me even to advise you in the frightful position in which you are placed, and since you have acted so completely in opposition to my counsel by returning to England. Pecuniary assistance—that I can afford you to a limited amount——”
“Give me fifty guineas, Clarence—and you shall never see me more,” interrupted his aunt.
“I will spare you a hundred,” answered the generous-hearted young man; and quitting the room, he returned in a few minutes, bringing the money in a bag. “Here,” he said,—“take that, my poor aunt—and may God make it prosper in your hands. But, oh! suffer not your daughter to continue in the ways of vice and depravity: remember that she possesses an immortal soul—and that there is another world in which an account must be given for the conduct pursued in this.”