‘Why,’ said my uncle, passing his cup for more tea, ‘I can only tell you what I have read. The convicts are lent out as servants to persons in want of labour on their farms, houses, shops, and so on; some of them are sent up country to make roads. I don’t know whether they are paid for their work. They are well fed. It commonly ends in their setting up in business for themselves; and ninety-nine out of every hundred felons, after they have been out in the colonies for a few years, wouldn’t come home—to stay at home, I mean—on any account whatever. If I were a poor man, I should not at all object to being transported.’
‘Don’t say such things!’ exclaimed my aunt.
‘I shall follow Tom wherever he is sent,’ said I, pushing my chair from the table.
‘What! To Norfolk Island, for instance? What would you do there?’ said my uncle. ‘Far better wait in this country, my dear, until Captain Butler returns. They’ll be giving him a ticket-of-leave before long. He’s bound to behave himself well.’
I stepped to the window and looked out. There had been a note of coldness in my uncle’s pronunciation of the words, ‘Captain Butler.’ I had also caught a startled look, which was nearly horror, in my aunt when I said that I would follow my sweetheart wherever he was sent. I turned presently and said:
‘When shall I be able to see Tom?’
‘Once only every three months, I am afraid,’ answered my uncle. ‘The rules vary with the prisons, but I think you will find that letters and visits are allowed once every three months only. I’ll inquire.’
‘Shall we hear if he is sent to another place?’
‘We shall always be able to learn where he is.’
He was growing tired of my questions and left the table, having finished his breakfast.