For the Term of His Natural Life

by Marcus Andrew Hislop Clarke

  CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH THE CHAPLAIN IS TAKEN ILL.

  Though the house of the Commandant of Norfolk Island was comfortable andwell furnished, and though, of necessity, all that was most hideous inthe "discipline" of the place was hidden, the loathing with which Sylviahad approached the last and most dreaded abiding place of the elaborateconvict system, under which it had been her misfortune to live, had notdecreased. The sights and sounds of pain and punishment surrounded her.She could not look out of her windows without a shudder. She dreadedeach evening when her husband returned, lest he should blurt out somenew atrocity. She feared to ask him in the morning whither he wasgoing, lest he should thrill her with the announcement of some freshpunishment.

  "I wish, Maurice, we had never come here," said she, piteously, when herecounted to her the scene of the gaol-gang. "These unhappy men will doyou some frightful injury one of these days."

  "Stuff!" said her husband. "They've not the courage. I'd take the bestman among them, and dare him to touch me."

  "I cannot think how you like to witness so much misery and villainy. Itis horrible to think of."

  "Our tastes differ, my dear.--Jenkins! Confound you! Jenkins, I say."The convict-servant entered. "Where is the charge-book? I've told youalways to have it ready for me. Why don't you do as you are told? Youidle, lazy scoundrel! I suppose you were yarning in the cookhouse, or--"

  "If you please, sir."

  "Don't answer me, sir. Give me the book." Taking it and running hisfinger down the leaves, he commented on the list of offences to which hewould be called upon in the morning to mete out judgment.

  "Meer-a-seek, having a pipe--the rascally Hindoo scoundrel!--BenjaminPellett, having fat in his possession. Miles Byrne, not walking fastenough.--We must enliven Mr. Byrne. Thomas Twist, having a pipe andstriking a light. W. Barnes, not in place at muster; says he was'washing himself'--I'll wash him! John Richards, missing muster andinsolence. John Gateby, insolence and insubordination. James Hopkins,insolence and foul language. Rufus Dawes, gross insolence, refusing towork.--Ah! we must look after you. You are a parson's man now, are you?I'll break your spirit, my man, or I'll--Sylvia!"

  "Yes."

  "Your friend Dawes is doing credit to his bringing up."

  "What do you mean?"

  "That infernal villain and reprobate, Dawes. He is fitting himselffaster for--" She interrupted him. "Maurice, I wish you would not usesuch language. You know I dislike it." She spoke coldly and sadly,as one who knows that remonstrance is vain, and is yet constrained toremonstrate.

  "Oh, dear! My Lady Proper! can't bear to hear her husband swear. Howrefined we're getting!"

  "There, I did not mean to annoy you," said she, wearily. "Don't let usquarrel, for goodness' sake."

  He went away noisily, and she sat looking at the carpet wearily. A noiseroused her. She looked up and saw North. Her face beamed instantly. "Ah!Mr. North, I did not expect you. What brings you here? You'll stay todinner, of course." (She rang the bell without waiting for a reply.)"Mr. North dines here; place a chair for him. And have you brought methe book? I have been looking for it."

  "Here it is," said North, producing a volume of 'Monte Cristo'. Sheseized the book with avidity, and, after running her eyes over thepages, turned inquiringly to the fly-leaf.

  "It belongs to my predecessor," said North, as though in answer to herthought. "He seems to have been a great reader of French. I have foundmany French novels of his."

  "I thought clergymen never read French novels," said Sylvia, with asmile.

  "There are French novels and French novels," said North. "Stupid peopleconfound the good with the bad. I remember a worthy friend of mine inSydney who soundly abused me for reading 'Rabelais', and when I askedhim if he had read it, he said that he would sooner cut his hand offthan open it. Admirable judge of its merits!"

  "But is this really good? Papa told me it was rubbish."

  "It is a romance, but, in my opinion, a very fine one. The notion ofthe sailor being taught in prison by the priest, and sent back into theworld an accomplished gentleman, to work out his vengeance, is superb."

  "No, now--you are telling me," laughed she; and then, with feminineperversity, "Go on, what is the story?"

  "Only that of an unjustly imprisoned man, who, escaping by a marvel,and becoming rich--as Dr. Johnson says, 'beyond the dreams ofavarice'--devotes his life and fortune to revenge himself."

  "And does he?"

  "He does, upon all his enemies save one."

  "And he--?" "She--was the wife of his greatest enemy, and Dantes sparedher because he loved her."

  Sylvia turned away her head. "It seems interesting enough," said she,coldly.

  There was an awkward silence for a moment, which each seemed afraid tobreak. North bit his lips, as though regretting what he had said. Mrs.Frere beat her foot on the floor, and at length, raising her eyes, andmeeting those of the clergyman fixed upon her face, rose hurriedly, andwent to meet her returning husband.

  "Come to dinner, of course!" said Frere, who, though he disliked theclergyman, yet was glad of anybody who would help him to pass a cheerfulevening.

  "I came to bring Mrs. Frere a book."

  "Ah! She reads too many books; she's always reading books. It is not agood thing to be always poring over print, is it, North? You have someinfluence with her; tell her so. Come, I am hungry."

  He spoke with that affectation of jollity with which husbands of hiscalibre veil their bad temper.

  Sylvia had her defensive armour on in a twinkling. "Of course, you twomen will be against me. When did two men ever disagree upon the subjectof wifely duties? However, I shall read in spite of you. Do you know,Mr. North, that when I married I made a special agreement with CaptainFrere that I was not to be asked to sew on buttons for him?"

  "Indeed!" said North, not understanding this change of humour.

  "And she never has from that hour," said Frere, recovering his suavityat the sight of food. "I never have a shirt fit to put on. Upon my word,there are a dozen in the drawer now."

  North perused his plate uncomfortably. A saying of omniscient Balzacoccurred to him. "Le grand ecueil est le ridicule," and his mind beganto sound all sorts of philosophical depths, not of the most clericalcharacter.

  After dinner Maurice launched out into his usual topic--convictdiscipline. It was pleasant for him to get a listener; for his wife,cold and unsympathetic, tacitly declined to enter into his schemes forthe subduing of the refractory villains. "You insisted on coming here,"she would say. "I did not wish to come. I don't like to talk of thesethings. Let us talk of something else." When she adopted this methodof procedure, he had no alternative but to submit, for he was afraid ofher, after a fashion. In this ill-assorted match he was only apparentlythe master. He was a physical tyrant. For him, a creature had but to beweak to be an object of contempt; and his gross nature triumphed overthe finer one of his wife. Love had long since died out of their life.The young, impulsive, delicate girl, who had given herself to him sevenyears before, had been changed into a weary, suffering woman. The wifeis what her husband makes her, and his rude animalism had made herthe nervous invalid she was. Instead of love, he had awakened in her adistaste which at times amounted to disgust. We have neither the skillnor the boldness of that profound philosopher whose autopsy of the humanheart awoke North's contemplation, and we will not presume to set forthin bare English the story of this marriage of the Minotaur. Let itsuffice to say that Sylvia liked her husband least when he loved hermost. In this repulsion lay her power over him. When the animal andspiritual natures cross each other, the nobler triumphs in fact if notin appearance. Maurice Frere, though his wife obeyed him, knew that hewas inferior to her, and was afraid of the statue he had created. Shewas ice, but it was the artificial ice that chemists make in the midstof a furnace. Her coldness was at once her strength and her weakness.When she chilled him, she commanded him.

  Unwitting of the thoughts that possessed his guest, Frere chattedamicably. North said lit
tle, but drank a good deal. The wine, however,rendered him silent, instead of talkative. He drank that he might forgetunpleasant memories, and drank without accomplishing his object. Whenthe pair proceeded to the room where Mrs. Frere awaited them, Frere wasboisterously good-humoured, North silently misanthropic.

  "Sing something, Sylvia!" said Frere, with the ease of possession, asone who should say to a living musical-box, "Play something."

  "Oh, Mr. North doesn't care for music, and I'm not inclined to sing.Singing seems out of place here."

  "Nonsense," said Frere. "Why should it be more out of place here thananywhere else?"

  "Mrs. Frere means that mirth is in a manner unsuited to these melancholysurroundings," said North, out of his keener sense.

  "Melancholy surroundings!" cried Frere, staring in turn at the piano,the ottomans, and the looking-glass. "Well, the house isn't as good asthe one in Sydney, but it's comfortable enough."

  "You don't understand me, Maurice," said Sylvia. "This place is verygloomy to me. The thought of the unhappy men who are ironed and chainedall about us makes me miserable."

  "What stuff!" said Frere, now thoroughly roused. "The ruffians deserveall they get and more. Why should you make yourself wretched aboutthem?"

  "Poor men! How do we know the strength of their temptation, thebitterness of their repentance?"

  "Evil-doers earn their punishment," says North, in a hard voice, andtaking up a book suddenly. "They must learn to bear it. No repentancecan undo their sin."

  "But surely there is mercy for the worst of evil-doers," urged Sylvia,gently.

  North seemed disinclined or unable to reply, and nodded only.

  "Mercy!" cried Frere. "I am not here to be merciful; I am here to keepthese scoundrels in order, and by the Lord that made me, I'll do it!"

  "Maurice, do not talk like that. Think how slight an accident mighthave made any one of us like one of these men. What is the matter, Mr.North?"

  Mr. North has suddenly turned pale.

  "Nothing," returned the clergyman, gasping--"a sudden faintness!" Thewindows were thrown open, and the chaplain gradually recovered, as hedid in Burgess's parlour, at Port Arthur, seven years ago. "I am liableto these attacks. A touch of heart disease, I think. I shall have torest for a day or so." "Ah, take a spell," said Frere; "you overworkyourself."

  North, sitting, gasping and pale, smiles in a ghastly manner. "I--Iwill. If I do not appear for a week, Mrs. Frere, you will know thereason."

  "A week! Surely it will not last so long as that!" exclaims Sylvia.

  The ambiguous "it" appears to annoy him, for he flushes painfully,replying, "Sometimes longer. It is, a--um--uncertain," in a confused andshame-faced manner, and is luckily relieved by the entry of Jenkins.

  "A message from Mr. Troke, sir."

  "Troke! What's the matter now?"

  "Dawes, sir, 's been violent and assaulted Mr. Troke. Mr. Trokesaid you'd left orders to be told at onst of the insubordination ofprisoners."

  "Quite right. Where is he?" "In the cells, I think, sir. They had a hardfight to get him there, I am told, your honour."

  "Had they? Give my compliments to Mr. Troke, and tell him that I shallhave the pleasure of breaking Mr. Dawes's spirit to-morrow morning atnine sharp."

  "Maurice," said Sylvia, who had been listening to the conversation inundisguised alarm, "do me a favour? Do not torment this man."

  "What makes you take a fancy to him?" asks her husband, with suddenunnecessary fierceness.

  "Because his is one of the names which have been from my childhoodsynonymous with suffering and torture, because whatever wrong he mayhave done, his life-long punishment must have in some degree atoned forit."

  She spoke with an eager pity in her face that transfigured it. North,devouring her with his glance, saw tears in her eyes. "Does this look asif he had made atonement?" said Frere coarsely, slapping the letter.

  "He is a bad man, I know, but--" she passed her hand over her foreheadwith the old troubled gesture--"he cannot have been always bad. I thinkI have heard some good of him somewhere."

  "Nonsense," said Frere, rising decisively. "Your fancies mislead you.Let me hear you no more. The man is rebellious, and must be lashed backagain to his duty. Come, North, we'll have a nip before you start."

  "Mr. North, will not you plead for me?" suddenly cried poor Sylvia, herself-possession overthrown. "You have a heart to pity these sufferingcreatures."

  But North, who seemed to have suddenly recalled his soul from some placewhere it had been wandering, draws himself aside, and with dry lipsmakes shift to say, "I cannot interfere with your husband, madam," andgoes out almost rudely.

  "You've made old North quite ill," said Frere, when he by-and-byreturns, hoping by bluff ignoring of roughness on his own part to avoidreproach from his wife. "He drank half a bottle of brandy to steadyhis nerves before he went home, and swung out of the house like onepossessed."

  But Sylvia, occupied with her own thoughts, did not reply.

  CHAPTER VII. BREAKING A MAN'S SPIRIT.