Then we moved to the more commodious chamber, where I soothed her spirits with a cup of tea which is better far than wine or cordials for the refreshment of the mind. Presently she began to recover a little from her disappointment.
'It will be lonely at first,' she said, 'without a single friend, and I suppose that a transported convict—say that for me, Will—it hath a strange sound. It is like a slap in the face—a transported convict——'
'Nay, Jenny, do not say it.'
'I must. I say that though a transported convict must be despised, yet I shall have my girl here with me, and perhaps my Lord will prove right and I may come home again. Yet I do not think so. Will, there is one consolation. At last I shall get clean away from my own people. They used to congregate round the stage-door of the Theatre to congratulate their old friend on her success. The Orange-Girls were never tired of claiming old friendship. I married in order to get away from them, but Matthew never meant to keep his promise—I am tired, Will, of my own people. They have made me suffer too much. Henceforth let them go and hang without any help from me.'
'It is high time, Jenny.'
'The Act ends lamely, perhaps. It may be the last Act of the Play. The ship leaves the Quay. On the deck stands the heroine in white satin, waving her handkerchief. The people weep. The bo's'n blows his whistle. The sailors stamp about; the curtain falls. Will, if things are real—what am I to do when I get back—if I do get back? How am I to live?'
'Jenny,' I said seriously, 'I believe that one so good and so fearless, for whom daily prayers are offered, will be led by no will of her own, into some way of peace and happiness.'
'Think you so, good cousin? There spoke Alice. It is her language. She says that beyond the stars are eyes that can see and hands that can lead. Why, Will, for my people, the only hand that leads is the hand of hunger: the only hand that directs is the hand with the whip in it; as for eyes that see'—she shook her head sadly—'I wish there were,' she said. 'Perhaps there would then be some order in St. Giles's. And there would be some hope for the poor rogues. Oh! Will—the poor helpless, ignorant, miserable rogues—of whom I am one—a transported convict—a transported convict—how we suffer! how we die! And pass away and are forgotten! Will ... Will ... I go with a heavy heart—I go to meet my death. For never more shall I return. Where is the eye that sees? Oh! Will—where is the hand that leads?'