Sylvia had become the wife of Maurice Frere. The wedding created
excitement in the convict settlement, for Maurice Frere, though
oppressed by the secret shame at open matrimony which affects men of his
character, could not in decency--seeing how “good a thing for him” was
this wealthy alliance--demand unceremonious nuptials. So, after the
fashion of the town--there being no “continent” or “Scotland” adjacent
as a hiding place for bridal blushes--the alliance was entered into with
due pomp of ball and supper; bride and bridegroom departing through the
golden afternoon to the nearest of Major Vickers's stations. Thence it
had been arranged they should return after a fortnight, and take ship
for Sydney.
Major Vickers, affectionate though he was to the man whom he believed
to be the saviour of his child, had no notion of allowing him to live
on Sylvia's fortune. He had settled his daughter's portion--ten thousand
pounds--upon herself and children, and had informed Frere that he
expected him to live upon an income of his own earning. After many
consultations between the pair, it had been arranged that a civil
appointment in Sydney would best suit the bridegroom, who was to sell
out of the service. This notion was Frere's own. He never cared for
military duty, and had, moreover, private debts to no inconsiderable
amount. By selling his commission he would be enabled at once to pay
these debts, and render himself eligible for any well-paid post under
the Colonial Government that the interest of his father-in-law, and his
own reputation as a convict disciplinarian, might procure. Vickers would
fain have kept his daughter with him, but he unselfishly acquiesced in
the scheme, admitting that Frere's plea as to the comforts she would
derive from the society to be found in Sydney was a valid one.
“You can come over and see us when we get settled, papa,” said Sylvia,
with a young matron's pride of place, “and we can come and see you.
Hobart Town is very pretty, but I want to see the world.”
“You should go to London, Poppet,” said Maurice, “that's the place.
Isn't it, sir?”
“Oh, London!” cries Sylvia, clapping her hands. “And Westminster Abbey,
and the Tower, and St. James's Palace, and Hyde Park, and Fleet-street!
'Sir,' said Dr. Johnson, 'let us take a walk down Fleet-street.' Do you
remember, in Mr. Croker's book, Maurice? No, you don't I know, because
you only looked at the pictures, and then read Pierce Egan's account of
the Topping Fight between Bob Gaynor and Ned Neal, or some such person.”
“Little girls should be seen and not heard,” said Maurice, between a
laugh and a blush. “You have no business to read my books.”
“Why not?” she asked, with a gaiety which already seemed a little
strained; “husband and wife should have no secrets from each other,
sir. Besides, I want you to read my books. I am going to read Shelley to
you.”
“Don't, my dear,” said Maurice simply. “I can't understand him.”
This little scene took place at the dinner-table of Frere's cottage, in
New Town, to which Major Vickers had been invited, in order that future
plans might be discussed.
“I don't want to go to Port Arthur,” said the bride, later in the
evening. “Maurice, there can be no necessity to go there.”
“Well,” said Maurice. “I want to have a look at the place. I ought to be
familiar with all phases of convict discipline, you know.”
“There is likely to be a report ordered upon the death of a prisoner,”
said Vickers. “The chaplain, a fussy but well-meaning person, has been
memorializing about it. You may as well do it as anybody else, Maurice.”
“Ay. And save the expenses of the trip,” said Maurice.
“But it is so melancholy,” cried Sylvia.
“The most delightful place in the island, my dear. I was there for a few
days once, and I really was charmed.”
It was remarkable--so Vickers thought--how each of these newly-mated
ones had caught something of the other's manner of speech. Sylvia was
less choice in her mode of utterance; Frere more so. He caught himself
wondering which of the two methods both would finally adopt.
“But those dogs, and sharks, and things. Oh, Maurice, haven't we had
enough of convicts?”
“Enough! Why, I'm going to make my living out of 'em,” said Maurice,
with his most natural manner.
Sylvia sighed.
“Play something, darling,” said her father; and so the girl, sitting
down to the piano, trilled and warbled in her pure young voice, until
the Port Arthur question floated itself away upon waves of melody,
and was heard of no more for that time. But upon pursuing the subject,
Sylvia found her husband firm. He wanted to go, and he would go. Having
once assured himself that it was advantageous to him to do a certain
thing, the native obstinacy of the animal urged him to do it despite all
opposition from others, and Sylvia, having had her first “cry” over the
question of the visit, gave up the point. This was the first difference
of their short married life, and she hastened to condone it. In the
sunshine of Love and Marriage--for Maurice at first really loved her;
and love, curbing the worst part of him, brought to him, as it brings
to all of us, that gentleness and abnegation of self which is the only
token and assurance of a love aught but animal--Sylvia's fears and
doubts melted away, as the mists melt in the beams of morning. A young
girl, with passionate fancy, with honest and noble aspiration, but with
the dark shadow of her early mental sickness brooding upon her childlike
nature, Marriage made her a woman, by developing in her a woman's trust
and pride in the man to whom she had voluntarily given herself. Yet
by-and-by out of this sentiment arose a new and strange source of
anxiety. Having accepted her position as a wife, and put away from her
all doubts as to her own capacity for loving the man to whom she had
allied herself, she began to be haunted by a dread lest he might do
something which would lessen the affection she bore him. On one or two
occasions she had been forced to confess that her husband was more of
an egotist than she cared to think. He demanded of her no great
sacrifices--had he done so she would have found, in making them,
the pleasure that women of her nature always find in such
self-mortification--but he now and then intruded on her that disregard
for the feeling of others which was part of his character. He was fond
of her--almost too passionately fond, for her staider liking--but he was
unused to thwart his own will in anything, least of all in those seeming
trifles, for the consideration of which true selfishness bethinks
itself. Did she want to read when he wanted to walk, he good-humouredly
put aside her book, with an assumption that a walk with him must, of
necessity, be the most pleasing thing in the world. Did she want to
walk when he wanted to rest, he laughingly set up his laziness as an
all-sufficient plea for her remaining within doors. He was at no pains
to conceal his weariness when she read her favourite books to him. If
he felt sleepy when she sang or played, he slept without apology. If
she talked about a subject in which he took no interest, he turned the
conversation remorselessly. He would not have wittingly offended her,
but it seemed to him natural to yawn when he was weary, to sleep when
he was fatigued, and to talk only about those subjects which interested
him. Had anybody told him that he was selfish, he would have been
astonished. Thus it came about that Sylvia one day discovered that she
led two lives--one in the body, and one in the spirit--and that with
her spiritual existence her husband had no share. This discovery alarmed
her, but then she smiled at it. “As if Maurice could be expected to take
interest in all my silly fancies,” said she; and, despite a harassing
thought that these same fancies were not foolish, but were the best and
brightest portion of her, she succeeded in overcoming her uneasiness.
“A man's thoughts are different from a woman's,” she said; “he has his
business and his worldly cares, of which a woman knows nothing. I must
comfort him, and not worry him with my follies.”
As for Maurice, he grew sometimes rather troubled in his mind. He could
not understand his wife. Her nature was an enigma to him; her mind was
a puzzle which would not be pieced together with the rectangular
correctness of ordinary life. He had known her from a child, had loved
her from a child, and had committed a mean and cruel crime to obtain
her; but having got her, he was no nearer to the mystery of her than
before. She was all his own, he thought. Her golden hair was for his
fingers, her lips were for his caress, her eyes looked love upon him
alone. Yet there were times when her lips were cold to his kisses, and
her eyes looked disdainfully upon his coarser passion. He would catch
her musing when he spoke to her, much as she would catch him sleeping
when she read to him--but she awoke with a start and a blush at her
forgetfulness, which he never did. He was not a man to brood over these
things; and, after some reflective pipes and ineffectual rubbings of his
head, he “gave it up”. How was it possible, indeed, for him to solve the
mental enigma when the woman herself was to him a physical riddle? It
was extraordinary that the child he had seen growing up by his side day
by day should be a young woman with little secrets, now to be revealed
to him for the first time. He found that she had a mole on her neck, and
remembered that he had noticed it when she was a child. Then it was a
thing of no moment, now it was a marvellous discovery. He was in daily
wonderment at the treasure he had obtained. He marvelled at her feminine
devices of dress and adornment. Her dainty garments seemed to him
perfumed with the odour of sanctity.
The fact was that the patron of Sarah Purfoy had not met with many
virtuous women, and had but just discovered what a dainty morsel Modesty
was.