by Mayne Reid
recognised one another.Little Willie--as you call him--is now a tall, fine-looking young man.Next week he is going to be married to a beautiful girl. I have come totake you to the wedding. Will you go, Martha?"
"I don't know. I must see brother William. What shall I do? Whatshall I do? I cannot leave Sydney."
"Martha," said I, "I am your brother; and am willing to assist you inany manner possible. I am older than you; and we have no parents. Ihave the right to some authority over you; and now demand the reason,why you are not willing to go with me to Melbourne?"
My sister remained silent.
"Give me a straightforward answer," I cried in a tone that partook ofcommand. "Tell me why you will not go?"
"Oh, brother!--because--because I am waiting here for some one--one whohas promised--to return to me."
"A man, of course?"
"Yes, yes--a man--a true man, Rowland."
"Where has he gone; and how long is it, since you have seen him?" Iasked, unable to conceal my indignant sorrow.
"He went to the diggings in Victoria, a little more than two years ago.Before going, he told me to wait, until he should come back; and then hewould marry me."
"Martha! is it possible that this is your only reason for not going withme?"
"It is--my only one--I cannot go. _I must wait for him_!"
"Then you are as foolish, as our poor mother was in waiting for MrLeary. The man who promised to return and marry you, has probablyforgotten both his promise and you, long before this. Very likely hehas married some other. I thought you had more sense, than to believeevery idle word spoken by idle tongues. The man for whom you are makingyourself miserable, would laugh at your simplicity, if he only knew ofit. He has probably forgotten your name. Cease to think of him, dearsister; and make both yourself, and your brothers, happy!"
"Do not call me a fool, Rowland--do not think me one! I know I shouldbe, if I was waiting for any common man; but the one I love is not acommon man. He promised to return; and unless he dies, I am sure hewill keep his word. I know it would be folly to have trusted most menas I've done him; but he's not like others. I shall yet be happy. Towait for him is but my duty; do not urge me to neglect it."
"Oh, Martha! our poor mother thought about Mr Leary, just as you doabout this man. She thought him true to her--the best husband in theworld! You may be as much mistaken as she was. I advise you to thinkno more of him, but go with me. Look around you! See the wretchedstate in which you are living! Leave it for a happy home, with thosewho will truly love you."
"Do not talk to me so, Rowland, or you will drive me mad. I wish to gowith you, and wish to see William; but I cannot, and must not leaveSydney!"
It was evident to me, that my sister was afflicted with the samedelusion, that had enslaved our mother even unto death; and, with muchregret, I became conscious of the folly of trying to induce her to actin a rational manner. I saw that common sense, reason, persuasion, orthreats, would all be alike unavailing to obtain compliance with mywishes. The little I had seen of her sex, had impressed me with thebelief that no woman ever exhibited such blind faith and full confidencein a man worthy of the least regard; and I was willing to stake myexistence, that my sister's lover was a fellow of no principle--some lowblackguard of a similar stamp to the late Mr Leary. I could notsuppose him to be quite so bad as Leary: for that to me would haveappeared impossible.
I was greatly chagrined to think my kind intentions towards Marthashould be thwarted by her folly. I was even angry. Perhaps it wasunmanly in me to be so. My sister was unfortunate. No doubt she hadbeen deluded; and could not help her misfortune. She was more an objectfor pity than anger; but I was angry, and could not restrain myself fromshowing it. Conscious of my upright and disinterested regard for her, Icould not help thinking it ungrateful of her, thus to oppose my designsfor her welfare.
"Martha," said I, "I ask you once more to go with me. By doing so, youwill fulfil a sister's duty as well as seek your own welfare. Reject myoffer now, and it will never be made again: for we shall part for ever,I will leave you to the misery, you seem not only to desire, butdeserve."
"Rowland! Rowland!" exclaimed she, throwing her arms around my neck, "Icannot part from you thus. Do not leave me. You must not--you mustnot!"
"Will you go with me?" I asked, too much excited to listen patiently toher entreaties.
"Rowland, do not ask me! May heaven help me; I cannot go!"
"Then, farewell!" I cried, "farewell for ever!" and as I uttered theparting speech, I tore myself from her embrace, and hurried half franticout of the room.
Volume Three, Chapter XXI.
MY SISTER'S SWEETHEART.
On leaving the house, my soul was stirred by conflicting emotions. Iwas wild with disappointment, sorrow and indignation.
It was wrong to part with my poor sister in such fashion; and myconscience told me so, before I had proceeded two hundred yards alongthe street. I should at least have given her some money, to relieve herfrom the extreme necessity which she was evidently in.
A moment's reflection, as I stopped in the street, told me it was myduty to do this, if nothing more.
I thought of sending her a few pounds after getting back to the hotel.Then succeeded the reflection, that to do so would be more trouble, thanto turn back, and give it to her myself. This thought decided me toreturn to the house, and see her once more. I retraced my steps; andagain knocked at the door.
For some moments there was no answer; and I knocked again. I waited fornearly two minutes; and still there was no sign of my summons beinganswered.
I was on the point of bursting in the door, when it was opened by a man,whose huge frame almost filled the entrance from jamb to jamb. It wasthe Elephant! The truth instantly flashed upon my mind. It was for_him_ my sister had been waiting! She--was the sempstress for whom hehad been toiling--the young girl spoken of in his story--she, whom hehad said, he was going to return and marry!
Martha had flung herself into a chair; and appeared insensible.
I cannot remember that either Olliphant or I spoke on seeing oneanother. Each was too much surprised at meeting the other. And yetneither of us thought, there was anything strange in the circumstance.Let those, who can, explain the singularity of our sentiments at thatencounter. I cannot, and therefore shall not make the attempt. Theattention of both of us was soon called to Martha, who had recoveredconsciousness.
"I thank God!" she cried out addressing me, "I thank God, Rowland, youhave returned. You see, he has come back!" she continued, placing herhand on the broad shoulder of `the Elephant.' "I knew he would. I toldyou he was certain to come; and that it was not possible for him todeceive me. This is my brother, Alex," she added, turning to Olliphant."He wanted me to leave you; but don't blame him: for he did not knowyou, as I did. I've seen hard times, Alex; but the joy of this momentmore than repays me for all."
It was some time before Olliphant and I had an opportunity ofcommunicating with each other: for Martha seemed determined that no oneshould have anything to say but herself.
"What fools we have been!" exclaimed Olliphant, as soon as hissweetheart gave him a chance of speaking. "Had you told me that yourname was Stone, and that you had a sister in Sydney, how much morepleasure we should have had in one another's society! You have nearlymissed finding your brother; and either you or I have nearly lost yoursister by keeping your name a secret. I know that for a man to talk toothers of his family affairs is not strict etiquette; but the rules ofthat are often made by those who are only respected because they areunknown; or rather, because nothing concerning them can be told to theircredit."
"You and I have been friends," continued the Elephant, still addressinghis discourse to me. "Why should we have cared for etiquette? We oughtto have acted independently of its requirements. Depend upon it, thatopen-hearted candour is ever preferable to secrecy."
I assured Olliphant, that I was convinced of the truth of this doctrineby la
te events; and that it was also my belief, an honest man has verylittle on his mind that need be concealed from his acquaintances.
The scene that followed was one of unalloyed happiness. It ended in thedetermination--that we should all three at once proceed to Melbourne;and that Olliphant and Martha should be married at the same time that mybrother was to be united to Miss Morell.
It was ludicrous to witness the change, that had suddenly taken place inthe sentiments of Martha. She no longer offered the slightest objectionto leaving Sydney; but on the contrary, declared herself delighted atthe prospect of going to Melbourne--a place, she said, she had been longdesirous of seeing!
During the evening, the little slavey, Sarah, came over from themilliner's shop, with a bundle of sewing
