The Return of the Gypsy (70 page)

“I feel it might be, now that you know,” she said. “It’s like a great weight being lifted from my mind.”

I felt immensely gratified, and a great tenderness swept over me and with it a desire to protect Helena.

I took the first opportunity of talking to my mother. I told her that I had something very important to say and that I wanted to talk to her alone.

We found a spot on deck. The sea had turned choppy and we were alone there. We sat down on a bench and I burst out: “Helena is going to have a baby.”

I had rarely seen her so startled.

“A baby!” she echoed.

“Yes. She thought she and John were going to be married, you see.”

“Oh yes. I see.”

“What shall we do?”

My mother was silent for a while. Then she said: “Poor girl. No wonder she’s been looking as though she would like to jump overboard.”

“She did actually mention that.”

“For Heaven’s sake, watch her. She could be hysterical. Then goodness knows what would happen.”

“I want to reassure her. I’ve told her we’ll look after her.”

My mother nodded. “It’s a good thing we are going to Australia. That’ll help a lot. No one will know her there and we’ll manage it. When?”

“She thinks April.”

“I see. Well, that gives us time.”

“But what are we going to do?”

“There is nothing we can do here … only reassure her. We’ve got to make her see that it is not such an unusual situation and she is by no means the first girl to whom it has happened. … Then we’ll decide what we’re going to do when we get to Sydney. She should take care of herself now. I’m glad she is in with you. Just reassure her. Don’t let her get overwhelmed by a sense of guilt. I’ll speak to your father. He’ll know what to do when we get there. We’ll arrange it all. As I say, it is a good thing we are not at home. That could have been decidedly more difficult. I daresay they have midwives and doctors in Sydney. Lots of children must be getting born out there. We’ll see to it all. Don’t let her worry. That’s the great thing.”

“I think she is glad not to be at home.”

“Amaryllis would have helped all she could.”

“She wouldn’t want her father to know.”

“He’s in no position to condemn anyone,” said my mother shortly.

“I shall tell her you know and that you have said you will help. What will happen when we take the baby home with us?”

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes. Let’s get her out of that suicidal mood and make her see that what has happened to her is not all that unusual and above all that she is with her family and we are going to help.”

“Oh thank you. I knew you’d make it seem better.”

She smiled at me and pressed my hand; and we went on talking about it for a long time. My father came and found us.

“I wondered where you were,” he said. “What is this? The women getting together for a little peace and quiet?”

My mother looked at me and said: “I’ve just heard a startling piece of news.”

“Oh?” He looked from her to me and she went on:

“Helena is going to have a baby.”

“Good God!” he cried. Then: “John Milward?”

I nodded.

“He’ll have to marry her.”

“She won’t hear of his being told.”

“Though,” went on my father, “how we’d get him out here I can’t imagine.”

“This must be treated with the utmost tact, Jake.”

“Is that an indication that I should keep out of it?”

“No, no!” I cried. “We very much want you in it. Mama thinks it will be fairly easy until we get the baby. What then … when we have to take it home to England?”

“We could invent a marriage which was fruitful in a short time, and a husband who came to an untimely end.”

“You’re going too fast, Jake,” said my mother. “Let’s get Helena in the right frame of mind. Let’s not think so far ahead as that. Annora is being so helpful with her.”

“I am going to tell her that you know and understand,” I said, “and that you don’t think she is wicked or anything like that. I’ll tell her that Papa says it often happens and there is nothing for her to be ashamed of because she loved John and he loved her; and it was only due to his proud family that it turned out like this.”

“You’re putting words into my mouth.”

“But you do feel that. You’re not condemning Helena.”

“Heaven forbid.”

“I’ll tell her that. I’m going to see her now. She’ll be lying on her bunk as she almost always is. I am glad we all know. Now we can do something about it.”

I went back to the cabin. As I thought, she was there lying on her bunk.

I said: “Come down, Helena, where I can see you. I’ve told my parents. My father says it happens to lots of people and it isn’t going to be so very difficult. They know exactly what we shall have to do.”

She had climbed down and stood facing me.

I went to her and put my arms round her. She clung to me and again that desire to protect her swept over me.

Now that we knew, Helena was a little brighter. She had lost that desperately frightened look. She was often sick and felt ill but some of the despair had gone. I think that from then on she started to think about the baby and, in spite of everything, that could not fail to bring her some joy.

She was probably meant to be a mother; and I think that if she could have married John and settled down to bringing up a big family she would have found perfect happiness.

She did spend quite a lot of time lying on her bunk. Pregnancy was not easy with her but I think the mental anguish had been greater than physical discomfort.

I spent a good deal of time with Matthew Hume; we were becoming good friends. Jacco got on very well with Jim Prevost. Jacco would, in due course, join my father in the management of Cador and he was already learning something about the estate and that meant he had a knowledge of what was going on in some of the farms.

Jim Prevost would talk of little but the land he was going to acquire and therefore he and Jacco had a good deal in common.

Matthew Hume interested me because of that earnestness of his. He was a man with a purpose, and very unusual, for although he was ambitious to a great degree to succeed in what he was doing, it was rare to find such an ambition which was not self-centered.

He had brought one or two books with him and the subject of all of them was prisons. He could hold forth eloquently. He had seen the inside of Newgate once when he had gone there with Frances to visit one of the people she had been looking after and who, she believed, had been wrongfully accused.

“Frances is wonderful,” he said. “So strong. She could force her way in anywhere. She has a way with her. Oh what a place, Annora. Dark high stone walls without windows. It’s opposite the Old Bailey at the west end of Newgate Street. I shudder every time I see it. Do you know there was a prison there in the thirteenth century? Imagine all the people who must have been locked up there. The suffering, the misery that has gone on in that spot! It’s not the original building standing there of course. It was burned down during the great fire of London. This one was built over a hundred years after that in 1780. You’ve heard about the Gordon Riots? Well, it was almost destroyed then by fire and lots of the prisoners were let out. People don’t care about prisoners. They put them away to be rid of them. They are a nuisance. A child steals a loaf of bread because he is hungry and he goes to the same place as a murderer. It’s all wrong. People don’t care enough. That great lady, Mrs. Elizabeth Fry, worked hard for them. I am privileged to have met her.”

“Did she come to Frances’s Mission?”

“No. I wrote to her. I told her of my interest in prisons and prisoners and she invited me to call on her. I went to see her in her house at Plashet. It was a great experience. I talked to her of Frances and the work she is doing. She was so interested. She is no longer young, alas, but she has devoted her life to reform. She spoke heartrendingly of a visit she had paid to Newgate more than twenty years ago. She said she would never forget the sight. There were women there … three hundred of them with their children … some who had never been brought before a court of justice. They had no bedding. They slept on the floor. Their rags scarcely covered them. She could do little then but take them clothes, and this she did. She called on her friends to help. She worked for these people. She has given her life to this cause. She formed a society for the improvement of female prisoners. Goodness flowed from her. She has had a school and a manufactory set up in Newgate. Not only did she confine her efforts to Newgate but she has visited prisons all over the country and even in the Continent. Annora, I want to do something like that with my life.”

“Frances feels that too.”

“Frances is different from Mrs. Fry. Mrs. Fry is gentle. Frances is without sentiment, almost cynical. Frances is angry with society.”

“She gets things done. That is what matters.”

“Oh yes, I greatly admire Frances.”

“I think my cousin Peterkin Lansdon is impressed by Frances’s work, too.”

“You feel like that when you go to her Mission. You feel there is something there worthwhile. It’s a good thing to devote your life to such a cause … like Mrs. Fry. I think of her often. And there is so much more which needs to be done. Transportation, for instance. I think that is a very cruel way of treating men and women.”

I told him the story of Digory.

“Seven years for stealing a pheasant! Torn from his home, from his family, for such an offence … and a boy, a young boy!”

“He had no home and family. He was by no means innocent. He was a thief and I believe always had been. I often wonder whether he would have changed if he had had the chance.”

“Perhaps you will see him when you get to Australia.”

“My father thinks that very unlikely. He says he could have been sent anywhere in Australia.”

“I shall be travelling all over Australia. I want to get first-hand accounts from prisoners. Why they were accused. What the journey out was like. What happened to them when they arrived.”

“My father, of course, told you something of his experiences. He was fortunate. He was allotted to a man who was just, even though he demanded a great deal from his workers. My father became a friend of his. And my father has some land over there which he has kept for years.”

“I know. His is a most interesting story. His was, of course, a rather special case.”

“Yes. He always says it would have been the gallows for him had it not been for my mother, who forced my grandfather to save him from that fate.”

“Well, before I die I want to see transportation abolished. I want to see our prisons changed. When I have my information and my book is finished and published I want it to be widely read. I want it to awaken people’s consciences. I want a bill brought in to change the law.”

“You are very determined, Matthew.”

“The way to get something done is to make up your mind you are going to do it.”

“You are so … selfless.”

“It is easy for me to be. Quite a number of people have to work to keep themselves and that has to be their first consideration. I am fortunate in having inherited an income which keeps me adequately if not in comfort. I can devote all my time to what I really want to do and don’t have to be bothered with that tiresome business of earning a living.”

“It’s a great help.”

“I thank God for it.”

“I am so glad you are here,” I said.

As we approached the Cape we encountered storms. Our ship seemed to have become frail—vulnerable to rough winds and high seas. There were times when it was impossible to stand upright. Helena wanted nothing but to lie in her bunk but Jacco and I went on deck for we found the fresh air good for the queasiness which I think we all felt to some extent.

We clung to the rail and watched the angry water pounding against the ship’s side. I think we were both wondering whether our flimsy craft could continue to take such a battering.

The crew were all at their posts and had little time for us. Jacco and I cautiously made our way to one of the benches which was slightly sheltered from the shrieking wind.

“I wonder what it’s like to be thrown into the sea,” said Jacco.

“We’d not have a chance.”

“They say your whole life flashes before your eyes.”

“I should have imagined one would have been thinking about the present rather than the past,” I commented wryly. “Trying to keep afloat would take up all your energies, mental and physical.”

“The Chief Engineer said this morning that he had seen worse storms. But perhaps we haven’t seen the end of this.”

“How cheerful you are!”

“Mrs. Prevost is laid low and I don’t think her husband feels very well either. Where is Helena?”

“In her bunk. I wonder if she is very frightened. Perhaps I ought to go down and see.”

“Mind how you go.”

“I shall take the utmost care.”

I went to the cabin. “Helena,” I called. “I think the storm is abating. How do you feel?”

There was no answer.

“Helena,” I said again.

I looked up. She was not there.

I was amazed. She must have gone up on deck and she had said she felt very unwell that morning and the movement of the ship greatly upset her.

I looked into the cupboard where our clothes hung very closely together as the space was so limited.

Her raincoat and boots were missing.

So she must have gone on deck.

I felt a thrill of fear run through me. She would have to walk so carefully up there. And what was her intention?

I went on deck. There was no sign of her. Jacco was not there either.

“Helena!” I cried. My voice was lost in the howling of the wind. “Helena, where are you?”

I clung to the rail and looked down with horror at the swirling waters.

Yesterday when the sea had been rough I had said, “I hope the ship can stand up to the weather. It seems a little frail.” And she had replied: “If it didn’t that would be an answer to everything for me, wouldn’t it?”

Even that she could have had such a thought disturbed me.

Now that conversation came back to me and with it a fearful apprehension.