very modest mansion there situated was the only establishment of which
Richard Devine was master. Mr. John Rex had expensive tastes. He neither
shot nor hunted, so he had no capital invested in Scotch moors or
Leicestershire hunting-boxes. But his stables were the wonder of London,
he owned almost a racing village near Doncaster, kept a yacht at Cowes,
and, in addition to a house in Paris, paid the rent of a villa at
Brompton. He belonged to several clubs of the faster sort, and might
have lived like a prince at any one of them had he been so minded; but
a constant and haunting fear of discovery--which three years of
unquestioned ease and unbridled riot had not dispelled--led him to
prefer the privacy of his own house, where he could choose his own
society. The house in Clarges Street was decorated in conformity with
the tastes of its owner. The pictures were pictures of horses, the books
were records of races, or novels purporting to describe sporting life.
Mr. Francis Wade, waiting, on the morning of the 20th April, for the
coming of his nephew, sighed as he thought of the cultured quiet of
North End House.
Mr. Richard appeared in his dressing-gown. Three years of good living
and hard drinking had deprived his figure of its athletic beauty. He
was past forty years of age, and the sudden cessation from severe bodily
toil to which in his active life as a convict and squatter he had been
accustomed, had increased Rex's natural proneness to fat, and instead
of being portly he had become gross. His cheeks were inflamed with the
frequent application of hot and rebellious liquors to his blood. His
hands were swollen, and not so steady as of yore. His whiskers were
streaked with unhealthy grey. His eyes, bright and black as ever, lurked
in a thicket of crow's feet. He had become prematurely bald--a sure
sign of mental or bodily excess. He spoke with assumed heartiness, in a
boisterous tone of affected ease.
“Ha, ha! My dear uncle, sit down. Delighted to see you. Have you
breakfasted?--of course you have. I was up rather late last night. Quite
sure you won't have anything. A glass of wine? No--then sit down and
tell me all the news of Hampstead.”
“Thank you, Richard,” said the old gentleman, a little stiffly, “but
I want some serious talk with you. What do you intend to do with the
property? This indecision worries me. Either relieve me of my trust, or
be guided by my advice.”
“Well, the fact is,” said Richard, with a very ugly look on his face,
“the fact is--and you may as well know it at once--I am much pushed for
money.”
“Pushed for money!” cried Mr. Wade, in horror. “Why, Purkiss said the
property was worth twenty thousand a year.”
“So it might have been--five years ago--but my horse-racing, and
betting, and other amusements, concerning which you need not too
curiously inquire, have reduced its value considerably.”
He spoke recklessly and roughly. It was evident that success had but
developed his ruffianism. His “dandyism” was only comparative. The
impulse of poverty and scheming which led him to affect the “gentleman”
having been removed, the natural brutality of his nature showed itself
quite freely. Mr. Francis Wade took a pinch of snuff with a sharp motion
of distaste. “I do not want to hear of your debaucheries,” he said; “our
name has been sufficiently disgraced in my hearing.”
“What is got over the devil's back goes under his belly,” replied Mr.
Richard, coarsely. “My old father got his money by dirtier ways than
these in which I spend it. As villainous an old scoundrel and skinflint
as ever poisoned a seaman, I'll go bail.”
Mr. Francis rose. “You need not revile your father, Richard--he left you
all.”
“Ay, but by pure accident. He didn't mean it. If he hadn't died in the
nick of time, that unhung murderous villain, Maurice Frere, would have
come in for it. By the way,” he added, with a change of tone, “do you
ever hear anything of Maurice?”
“I have not heard for some years,” said Mr. Wade. “He is something in
the Convict Department at Sydney, I think.” “Is he?” said Mr. Richard,
with a shiver. “Hope he'll stop there. Well, but about business. The
fact is, that--that I am thinking of selling everything.”
“Selling everything!”
“Yes. 'Pon my soul I am. The Hampstead place and all.”
“Sell North End House!” cried poor Mr. Wade, in bewilderment. “You'd
sell it? Why, the carvings by Grinling Gibbons are the finest in
England.”
“I can't help that,” laughed Mr. Richard, ringing the bell. “I want
cash, and cash I must have.--Breakfast, Smithers.--I'm going to travel.”
Francis Wade was breathless with astonishment. Educated and reared as he
had been, he would as soon have thought of proposing to sell St. Paul's
Cathedral as to sell the casket which held his treasures of art--his
coins, his coffee-cups, his pictures, and his “proofs before letters”.
“Surely, Richard, you are not in earnest?” he gasped.
“I am, indeed.”
“But--but who will buy it?”
“Plenty of people. I shall cut it up into building allotments. Besides,
they are talking of a suburban line, with a terminus at St. John's
Wood, which will cut the garden in half. You are quite sure you've
breakfasted? Then pardon me.”
“Richard, you are jesting with me! You will never let them do such a
thing!”
“I'm thinking of a trip to America,” said Mr. Richard, cracking an
egg. “I am sick of Europe. After all, what is the good of a man like
me pretending to belong to 'an old family', with 'a seat' and all that
humbug? Money is the thing now, my dear uncle. Hard cash! That's the
ticket for soup, you may depend.”
“Then what do you propose doing, sir?”
“To buy my mother's life interest as provided, realize upon the
property, and travel,” said Mr. Richard, helping himself to potted
grouse.
“You amaze me, Richard. You confound me. Of course you can
do as you please. But so sudden a determination. The old
house--vases--coins--pictures--scattered--I really--Well, it is your
property, of course--and--and--I wish you a very good morning!”
“I mean to do as I please,” soliloquized Rex, as he resumed his
breakfast. “Let him sell his rubbish by auction, and go and live abroad,
in Germany or Jerusalem if he likes, the farther the better for me. I'll
sell the property and make myself scarce. A trip to America will benefit
my health.”
A knock at the door made him start.
“Come in! Curse it, how nervous I'm getting. What's that? Letters? Give
them to me; and why the devil don't you put the brandy on the table,
Smithers?”
He drank some of the spirit greedily, and then began to open his
correspondence.
“Cussed brute,” said Mr. Smithers, outside the door. “He couldn't use
wuss langwidge if he was a dook, dam 'im!--Yessir,” he added, suddenly,
as a roar from his master recalled him.
“When did this come?” asked Mr. Richard, holding out a letter more than
usually disfigured with stampings.
“Lars night, sir. It's bin to 'Amstead, sir, and come down directed with
the h'others.” The angry glare of the black eyes induced him to add, “I
'ope there's nothink wrong, sir.”
“Nothing, you infernal ass and idiot,” burst out Mr. Richard, white with
rage, “except that I should have had this instantly. Can't you see it's
marked urgent? Can you read? Can you spell? There, that will do. No
lies. Get out!”
Left to himself again, Mr. Richard walked hurriedly up and down the
chamber, wiped his forehead, drank a tumbler of brandy, and finally sat
down and re-read the letter. It was short, but terribly to the purpose.
“THE GEORGE HOTEL, PLYMOUTH,” 17th April, 1846.
“MY DEAR JACK,--
“I have found you out, you see. Never mind how just at present. I know
all about your proceedings, and unless Mr. Richard Devine receives his
“wife” with due propriety, he'll find himself in the custody of the
police. Telegraph, dear, to Mrs. Richard Devine, at above address.
“Yours as ever, Jack,
“SARAH.
“To Richard Devine, Esq., “North End House, “Hampstead.”
The blow was unexpected and severe. It was hard, in the very high tide
and flush of assured success, to be thus plucked back into the old
bondage. Despite the affectionate tone of the letter, he knew the woman
with whom he had to deal. For some furious minutes he sat motionless,
gazing at the letter. He did not speak--men seldom do under such
circumstances--but his thoughts ran in this fashion: “Here is this
cursed woman again! Just as I was congratulating myself on my freedom.
How did she discover me? Small use asking that. What shall I do? I can
do nothing. It is absurd to run away, for I shall be caught. Besides,
I've no money. My account at Mastermann's is overdrawn two thousand
pounds. If I bolt at all, I must bolt at once--within twenty-four hours.
Rich as I am, I don't suppose I could raise more than five thousand
pounds in that time. These things take a day or two, say forty-eight
hours. In forty-eight hours I could raise twenty thousand pounds, but
forty-eight hours is too long. Curse the woman! I know her! How in the
fiend's name did she discover me? It's a bad job. However, she's not
inclined to be gratuitiously disagreeable. How lucky I never married
again! I had better make terms and trust to fortune. After all, she's
been a good friend to me.--Poor Sally!--I might have rotted on that
infernal Eaglehawk Neck if it hadn't been for her. She is not a bad
sort. Handsome woman, too. I may make it up with her. I shall have to
sell off and go away after all.--It might be worse.--I dare say the
property's worth three hundred thousand pounds. Not bad for a start in
America. And I may get rid of her yet. Yes. I must give in.--Oh, curse
her!--[ringing the bell]--Smithers!” [Smithers appears.] “A telegraph
form and a cab! Stay. Pack me a dressing-bag. I shall be away for a day
or so. [Sotto voce]--I'd better see her myself.--[ Aloud]--Bring me a
Bradshaw! [Sotto voce]--Damn the woman.”
CHAPTER VI. IN WHICH THE CHAPLAIN IS TAKEN ILL.
Though the house of the Commandant of Norfolk Island was comfortable and
well furnished, and though, of necessity, all that was most hideous in
the “discipline” of the place was hidden, the loathing with which Sylvia
had approached the last and most dreaded abiding place of the elaborate
convict system, under which it had been her misfortune to live, had not
decreased. The sights and sounds of pain and punishment surrounded her.
She could not look out of her windows without a shudder. She dreaded
each evening when her husband returned, lest he should blurt out some
new atrocity. She feared to ask him in the morning whither he was
going, lest he should thrill her with the announcement of some fresh
punishment.
“I wish, Maurice, we had never come here,” said she, piteously, when he
recounted to her the scene of the gaol-gang. “These unhappy men will do
you some frightful injury one of these days.”
“Stuff!” said her husband. “They've not the courage. I'd take the best
man among them, and dare him to touch me.”
“I cannot think how you like to witness so much misery and villainy. It
is 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 you
always to have it ready for me. Why don't you do as you are told? You
idle, 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 his
finger down the leaves, he commented on the list of offences to which he
would be called upon in the morning to mete out judgment.
“Meer-a-seek, having a pipe--the rascally Hindoo scoundrel!--Benjamin
Pellett, having fat in his possession. Miles Byrne, not walking fast
enough.--We must enliven Mr. Byrne. Thomas Twist, having a pipe and
striking a light. W. Barnes, not in place at muster; says he was
'washing himself'--I'll wash him! John Richards, missing muster and
insolence. John Gateby, insolence and insubordination. James Hopkins,
insolence and foul language. Rufus Dawes, gross insolence, refusing to
work.--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 himself
faster for--” She interrupted him. “Maurice, I wish you would not use
such language. You know I dislike it.” She spoke coldly and sadly,
as one who knows that remonstrance is vain, and is yet constrained to
remonstrate.
“Oh, dear! My Lady Proper! can't bear to hear her husband swear. How
refined we're getting!”
“There, I did not mean to annoy you,” said she, wearily. “Don't let us
quarrel, for goodness' sake.”
He went away noisily, and she sat looking at the carpet wearily. A noise
roused 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 to
dinner, of course.” (She rang the bell without waiting for a reply.)
“Mr. North dines here; place a chair for him. And have you brought me
the book? I have been looking for it.”
“Here it is,” said North, producing a volume of 'Monte Cristo'. She
seized the book with avidity, and, after running her eyes over the
pages, turned inquiringly to the fly-leaf.
“It belongs to my predecessor,” said North, as though in answer to her
thought. “He seems to have been a great reader of French. I have found
many French novels of his.”
“I thought clergymen never read French novels,” said Sylvia, with a
smile.
“There are French novels and French novels,” said North. “Stupid people
confound the good with the bad. I remember a worthy friend of mine in
Sydney who soundly abused me for reading 'Rabelais', and when I asked
him if he had read it, he said that he would sooner cut his hand off
than 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 of
the sailor being taught in prison by the priest, and sent back into the
world an accomplished gentleman, to work out his vengeance, is superb.”
“No, now--you are telling me,” laughed she; and then, with feminine
perversity, “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 of
avarice'--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 Dantès spared
her 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 to
break. 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, and
meeting those of the clergyman fixed upon her face, rose hurriedly, and
went to meet her returning husband.
“Come to dinner, of course!” said Frere, who, though he disliked the
clergyman, yet was glad of anybody who would help him to pass a cheerful
evening.
“I came to bring Mrs. Frere a book.”
“Ah! She reads too many books; she's always reading books. It is not a
good thing to be always poring over print, is it, North? You have some
influence with her; tell her so. Come, I am hungry.”
He spoke with that affectation of jollity with which husbands of his
calibre veil their bad temper.
Sylvia had her defensive armour on in a twinkling. “Of course, you two
men will be against me. When did two men ever disagree upon the subject
of 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 Captain
Frere 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 suavity
at 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 Balzac
occurred to him. “Le grand écueil est le ridicule,” and his mind began
to sound all sorts of philosophical depths, not of the most clerical
character.
After dinner Maurice launched out into his usual topic--convict
discipline. It was pleasant for him to get a listener; for his wife,
cold and unsympathetic, tacitly declined to enter into his schemes for
the 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 these
things. Let us talk of something else.” When she adopted this method
of procedure, he had no alternative but to submit, for he was afraid of
her, after a fashion. In this ill-assorted match he was only apparently
the master. He was a physical tyrant. For him, a creature had but to be
weak to be an object of contempt; and his gross nature triumphed over
the 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 seven
years before, had been changed into a weary, suffering woman. The wife
is what her husband makes her, and his rude animalism had made her
the nervous invalid she was. Instead of love, he had awakened in her a
distaste which at times amounted to disgust. We have neither the skill
nor the boldness of that profound philosopher whose autopsy of the human
heart awoke North's contemplation, and we will not presume to set forth
in bare English the story of this marriage of the Minotaur. Let it
suffice to say that Sylvia liked her husband least when he loved her
most. In this repulsion lay her power over him. When the animal and
spiritual natures cross each other, the nobler triumphs in fact if not
in appearance. Maurice Frere, though his wife obeyed him, knew that he
was inferior to her, and was afraid of the statue he had created. She
was ice, but it was the artificial ice that chemists make in the midst
of 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 chatted
amicably. North said little, but drank a good deal. The wine, however,
rendered him silent, instead of talkative. He drank that he might forget
unpleasant memories, and drank without accomplishing his object. When
the pair proceeded to the room where Mrs. Frere awaited them, Frere was
boisterously good-humoured, North silently misanthropic.
“Sing something, Sylvia!” said Frere, with the ease of possession, as
one 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 than
anywhere else?”
“Mrs. Frere means that mirth is in a manner unsuited to these melancholy
surroundings,” 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 as
the one in Sydney, but it's comfortable enough.”
“You don't understand me, Maurice,” said Sylvia. “This place is very
gloomy to me. The thought of the unhappy men who are ironed and chained
all about us makes me miserable.”
“What stuff!” said Frere, now thoroughly roused. “The ruffians deserve
all they get and more. Why should you make yourself wretched about
them?”
“Poor men! How do we know the strength of their temptation, the
bitterness of their repentance?”
“Evil-doers earn their punishment,” says North, in a hard voice, and
taking up a book suddenly. “They must learn to bear it. No repentance
can 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 keep
these 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 might
have 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!” The
windows were thrown open, and the chaplain gradually recovered, as he
did in Burgess's parlour, at Port Arthur, seven years ago. “I am liable
to these attacks. A touch of heart disease, I think. I shall have to
rest for a day or so.” “Ah, take a spell,” said Frere; “you overwork
yourself.”
North, sitting, gasping and pale, smiles in a ghastly manner. “I--I
will. If I do not appear for a week, Mrs. Frere, you will know the
reason.”
“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 and
shame-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. Troke
said you'd left orders to be told at onst of the insubordination of
prisoners.”
“Quite right. Where is he?” “In the cells, I think, sir. They had a hard
fight to get him there, I am told, your honour.”
“Had they? Give my compliments to Mr. Troke, and tell him that I shall
have the pleasure of breaking Mr. Dawes's spirit to-morrow morning at
nine sharp.”
“Maurice,” said Sylvia, who had been listening to the conversation in
undisguised alarm, “do me a favour? Do not torment this man.”
“What makes you take a fancy to him?” asks her husband, with sudden
unnecessary fierceness.
“Because his is one of the names which have been from my childhood
synonymous with suffering and torture, because whatever wrong he may
have done, his life-long punishment must have in some degree atoned for
it.”
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 as
if he had made atonement?” said Frere coarsely, slapping the letter.
“He is a bad man, I know, but--” she passed her hand over her forehead
with the old troubled gesture--“he cannot have been always bad. I think
I 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 back
again 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, her
self-possession overthrown. “You have a heart to pity these suffering
creatures.”
But North, who seemed to have suddenly recalled his soul from some place
where it had been wandering, draws himself aside, and with dry lips
makes shift to say, “I cannot interfere with your husband, madam,” and
goes out almost rudely.
“You've made old North quite ill,” said Frere, when he by-and-by
returns, hoping by bluff ignoring of roughness on his own part to avoid
reproach from his wife. “He drank half a bottle of brandy to steady
his nerves before he went home, and swung out of the house like one
possessed.”
But Sylvia, occupied with her own thoughts, did not reply.
CHAPTER VII. BREAKING A MAN'S SPIRIT.
The insubordination of which Rufus Dawes had been guilty was, in
this instance, insignificant. It was the custom of the newly-fledged
constables of Captain Frere to enter the wards at night, armed with
cutlasses, tramping about, and making a great noise. Mindful of the
report of Pounce, they pulled the men roughly from their hammocks,
examined their persons for concealed tobacco, and compelled them to open
their mouths to see if any was inside. The men in Dawes's gang--to which
Mr. Troke had an especial objection--were often searched more than once
in a night, searched going to work, searched at meals, searched going
to prayers, searched coming out, and this in the roughest manner. Their
sleep broken, and what little self-respect they might yet presume to
retain harried out of them, the objects of this incessant persecution
were ready to turn upon and kill their tormentors.
The great aim of Troke was to catch Dawes tripping, but the leader of
the “Ring” was far too wary. In vain had Troke, eager to sustain his
reputation for sharpness, burst in upon the convict at all times and
seasons. He had found nothing. In vain had he laid traps for him; in
vain had he “planted” figs of tobacco, and attached long threads to
them, waited in a bush hard by, until the pluck at the end of his line
should give token that the fish had bitten. The experienced “old hand”
was too acute for him. Filled with disgust and ambition, he determined
upon an ingenious little trick. He was certain that Dawes possessed
tobacco; the thing was to find it upon him. Now, Rufus Dawes, holding
aloof, as was his custom, from the majority of his companions, had made
one friend--if so mindless and battered an old wreck could be called a
friend--Blind Mooney. Perhaps this oddly-assorted friendship was brought
about by two causes--one, that Mooney was the only man on the island who
knew more of the horrors of convictism than the leader of the Ring; the
other, that Mooney was blind, and, to a moody, sullen man, subject
to violent fits of passion and a constant suspicion of all his
fellow-creatures, a blind companion was more congenial than a sharp-eyed
one.
Mooney was one of the “First Fleeters”. He had arrived in Sydney
fifty-seven years before, in the year 1789, and when he was transported
he was fourteen years old. He had been through the whole round of
servitude, had worked as a bondsman, had married, and been “up country”,
had been again sentenced, and was a sort of dismal patriarch of Norfolk
Island, having been there at its former settlement. He had no friends.
His wife was long since dead, and he stated, without contradiction,
that his master, having taken a fancy to her, had despatched the
uncomplaisant husband to imprisonment. Such cases were not uncommon.
One of the many ways in which Rufus Dawes had obtained the affection
of the old blind man was a gift of such fragments of tobacco as he had
himself from time to time secured. Troke knew this; and on the evening
in question hit upon an excellent plan. Admitting himself noiselessly
into the boat-shed, where the gang slept, he crept close to the sleeping
Dawes, and counterfeiting Mooney's mumbling utterance asked for “some
tobacco”. Rufus Dawes was but half awake, and on repeating his request,
Troke felt something put into his hand. He grasped Dawes's arm, and
struck a light. He had got his man this time. Dawes had conveyed to his
fancied friend a piece of tobacco almost as big as the top joint of his
little finger. One can understand the feelings of a man entrapped by
such base means. Rufus Dawes no sooner saw the hated face of Warder
Troke peering over his hammock, then he sprang out, and exerting to the
utmost his powerful muscles, knocked Mr. Troke fairly off his legs into
the arms of the in-coming constables. A desperate struggle took place,
at the end of which the convict, overpowered by numbers, was borne
senseless to the cells, gagged, and chained to the ring-bolt on the bare
flags. While in this condition he was savagely beaten by five or six
constables.
To this maimed and manacled rebel was the Commandant ushered by Troke
the next morning.
“Ha! ha! my man,” said the Commandant. “Here you are again, you see. How
do you like this sort of thing?”
Dawes, glaring, makes no answer.
“You shall have fifty lashes, my man,” said Frere. “We'll see how you
feel then!” The fifty were duly administered, and the Commandant called
the next day. The rebel was still mute.
“Give him fifty more, Mr. Troke. We'll see what he's made of.”
One hundred and twenty lashes were inflicted in the course of the
morning, but still the sullen convict refused to speak. He was then
treated to fourteen days' solitary confinement in one of the new cells.
On being brought out and confronted with his tormentor, he merely
laughed. For this he was sent back for another fourteen days; and still
remaining obdurate, was flogged again, and got fourteen days more.
Had the chaplain then visited him, he might have found him open to
consolation, but the chaplain--so it was stated--was sick. When brought
out at the conclusion of his third confinement, he was found to be in so
exhausted a condition that the doctor ordered him to hospital. As soon
as he was sufficiently recovered, Frere visited him, and finding his
“spirit” not yet “broken”, ordered that he should be put to grind maize.
Dawes declined to work. So they chained his hand to one arm of the
grindstone and placed another prisoner at the other arm. As the second
prisoner turned, the hand of Dawes of course revolved.
“You're not such a pebble as folks seemed to think,” grinned Frere,
pointing to the turning wheel.
Upon which the indomitable poor devil straightened his sorely-tried
muscles, and prevented the wheel from turning at all. Frere gave him
fifty more lashes, and sent him the next day to grind cayenne pepper.
This was a punishment more dreaded by the convicts than any other.
The pungent dust filled their eyes and lungs, causing them the most
excruciating torments. For a man with a raw back the work was one
continued agony. In four days Rufus Dawes, emaciated, blistered,
blinded, broke down.
“For God's sake, Captain Frere, kill me at once!” he said.
“No fear,” said the other, rejoiced at this proof of his power. “You've
given in; that's all I wanted. Troke, take him off to the hospital.”
When he was in hospital, North visited him.
“I would have come to see you before,” said the clergyman, “but I have
been very ill.”
In truth he looked so. He had had a fever, it seemed, and they had
shaved his beard, and cropped his hair. Dawes could see that the
haggard, wasted man had passed through some agony almost as great as his
own. The next day Frere visited him, complimented him on his courage,
and offered to make him a constable. Dawes turned his scarred back to
his torturer, and resolutely declined to answer.
“I am afraid you have made an enemy of the Commandant,” said North, the
next day. “Why not accept his offer?”
Dawes cast on him a glance of quiet scorn. “And betray my mates? I'm not
one of that sort.”
The clergyman spoke to him of hope, of release, of repentance, and
redemption. The prisoner laughed. “Who's to redeem me?” he said,
expressing his thoughts in phraseology that to ordinary folks might seem
blasphemous. “It would take a Christ to die again to save such as I.”
North spoke to him of immortality. “There is another life,” said he. “Do
not risk your chance of happiness in it. You have a future to live for,
man.”
“I hope not,” said the victim of the “system”. “I want to rest--to rest,
and never to be disturbed again.”
His “spirit” was broken enough by this time. Yet he had resolution
enough to refuse Frere's repeated offers. “I'll never 'jump' it,” he
said to North, “if they cut me in half first.”
North pityingly implored the stubborn mind to have mercy on the
lacerated body, but without effect. His own wayward heart gave him the
key to read the cipher of this man's life. “A noble nature ruined,” said
he to himself. “What is the secret of his history?”
Dawes, on his part, seeing how different from other black coats was this
priest--at once so ardent and so gloomy, so stern and so tender--began
to speculate on the cause of his monitor's sunken cheeks, fiery eyes,
and pre-occupied manner, to wonder what grief inspired those agonized
prayers, those eloquent and daring supplications, which were daily
poured out over his rude bed. So between these two--the priest and the
sinner--was a sort of sympathetic bond.
One day this bond was drawn so close as to tug at both their
heart-strings. The chaplain had a flower in his coat. Dawes eyed it with
hungry looks, and, as the clergyman was about to quit the room, said,
“Mr. North, will you give me that rosebud?” North paused irresolutely,
and finally, as if after a struggle with himself, took it carefully from
his button-hole, and placed it in the prisoner's brown, scarred hand. In
another instant Dawes, believing himself alone, pressed the gift to
his lips. North returned abruptly, and the eyes of the pair met. Dawes
flushed crimson, but North turned white as death. Neither spoke, but
each was drawn close to the other, since both had kissed the rosebud
plucked by Sylvia's fingers.
CHAPTER VIII. EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV. JAMES NORTH.
October 21st.--I am safe for another six months if I am careful, for my
last bout lasted longer than I expected. I suppose one of these days I
shall have a paroxysm that will kill me. I shall not regret it.
I wonder if this familiar of mine--I begin to detest the
expression--will accuse me of endeavouring to make a case for myself
if I say that I believe my madness to be a disease? I do believe it.
I honestly can no more help getting drunk than a lunatic can help
screaming and gibbering. It would be different with me, perhaps, were
I a contented man, happily married, with children about me, and family
cares to distract me. But as I am--a lonely, gloomy being, debarred from
love, devoured by spleen, and tortured with repressed desires--I become
a living torment to myself. I think of happier men, with fair wives
and clinging children, of men who are loved and who love, of Frere for
instance--and a hideous wild beast seems to stir within me, a monster,
whose cravings cannot be satisfied, can only be drowned in stupefying
brandy.
Penitent and shattered, I vow to lead a new life; to forswear spirits,
to drink nothing but water. Indeed, the sight and smell of brandy make
me ill. All goes well for some weeks, when I grow nervous, discontented,
moody. I smoke, and am soothed. But moderation is not to be thought of;
little by little I increase the dose of tobacco. Five pipes a day become
six or seven. Then I count up to ten and twelve, then drop to three or
four, then mount to eleven at a leap; then lose count altogether. Much
smoking excites the brain. I feel clear, bright, gay. My tongue is
parched in the morning, however, and I use liquor to literally “moisten
my clay”. I drink wine or beer in moderation, and all goes well. My
limbs regain their suppleness, my hands their coolness, my brain its
placidity. I begin to feel that I have a will. I am confident, calm,
and hopeful. To this condition succeeds one of the most frightful
melancholy. I remain plunged, for an hour together, in a stupor of
despair. The earth, air, sea, all appear barren, colourless. Life is a
burden. I long to sleep, and sleeping struggle to awake, because of the
awful dreams which flap about me in the darkness. At night I cry, “Would
to God it were morning!” In the morning, “Would to God it were evening!”
I loathe myself, and all around me. I am nerveless, passionless, bowed
down with a burden like the burden of Saul. I know well what will
restore me to life and ease--restore me, but to cast me back again into
a deeper fit of despair. I drink. One glass--my blood is warmed, my
heart leaps, my hand no longer shakes. Three glasses--I rise with hope
in my soul, the evil spirit flies from me. I continue--pleasing images
flock to my brain, the fields break into flower, the birds into song,
the sea gleams sapphire, the warm heaven laughs. Great God! what man
could withstand a temptation like this?
By an effort, I shake off the desire to drink deeper, and fix my
thoughts on my duties, on my books, on the wretched prisoners. I succeed
perhaps for a time; but my blood, heated by the wine which is at once my
poison and my life, boils in my veins. I drink again, and dream. I feel
all the animal within me stirring. In the day my thoughts wander to all
monstrous imaginings. The most familiar objects suggest to me loathsome
thoughts. Obscene and filthy images surround me. My nature seems
changed. By day I feel myself a wolf in sheep's clothing; a man
possessed by a devil, who is ready at any moment to break out and tear
him to pieces. At night I become a satyr. While in this torment I at
once hate and fear myself. One fair face is ever before me, gleaming
through my hot dreams like a flying moon in the sultry midnight of a
tropic storm. I dare not trust myself in the presence of those whom
I love and respect, lest my wild thoughts should find vent in wilder
words. I lose my humanity. I am a beast. Out of this depth there is but
one way of escape. Downwards. I must drench the monster I have awakened
until he sleeps again. I drink and become oblivious. In these last
paroxysms there is nothing for me but brandy. I shut myself up alone and
pour down my gullet huge draughts of spirit. It mounts to my brain. I am
a man again! and as I regain my manhood, I topple over--dead drunk.
But the awakening! Let me not paint it. The delirium, the fever, the
self-loathing, the prostration, the despair. I view in the looking-glass
a haggard face, with red eyes. I look down upon shaking hands, flaccid
muscles, and shrunken limbs. I speculate if I shall ever be one of those
grotesque and melancholy beings, with bleared eyes and running noses,
swollen bellies and shrunken legs! Ugh!--it is too likely.
October 22nd.--Have spent the day with Mrs. Frere. She is evidently
eager to leave the place--as eager as I am. Frere rejoices in his
murderous power, and laughs at her expostulations. I suppose men get
tired of their wives. In my present frame of mind I am at a loss to
understand how a man could refuse a wife anything.
I do not think she can possibly care for him. I am not a selfish
sentimentalist, as are the majority of seducers. I would take no woman
away from a husband for mere liking. Yet I think there are cases in
which a man who loved would be justified in making a woman happy at the
risk of his own--soul, I suppose.
Making her happy! Ay, that's the point. Would she be happy? There are
few men who can endure to be “cut”, slighted, pointed at, and women
suffer more than men in these regards. I, a grizzled man of forty, am
not such an arrant ass as to suppose that a year of guilty delirium
can compensate to a gently-nurtured woman for the loss of that social
dignity which constitutes her best happiness. I am not such an idiot as
to forget that there may come a time when the woman I love may cease to
love me, and having no tie of self-respect, social position, or family
duty, to bind her, may inflict upon her seducer that agony which he has
taught her to inflict upon her husband. Apart from the question of the
sin of breaking the seventh commandment, I doubt if the worst husband
and the most unhappy home are not better, in this social condition
of ours, than the most devoted lover. A strange subject this for a
clergyman to speculate upon! If this diary should ever fall into the
hands of a real God-fearing, honest booby, who never was tempted to sin
by finding that at middle-age he loved the wife of another, how he would
condemn me! And rightly, of course.
November 4th.--In one of the turnkey's rooms in the new gaol is to be
seen an article of harness, which at first creates surprise to the mind
of the beholder, who considers what animal of the brute creation exists
of so diminutive a size as to admit of its use. On inquiry, it will be
found to be a bridle, perfect in head-band, throat-lash, etc., for a
human being. There is attached to this bridle a round piece of cross
wood, of almost four inches in length, and one and a half in diameter.
This again, is secured to a broad strap of leather to cross the mouth.
In the wood there is a small hole, and, when used, the wood is inserted
in the mouth, the small hole being the only breathing space. This being
secured with the various straps and buckles, a more complete bridle
could not be well imagined.
I was in the gaol last evening at eight o'clock. I had been to see Rufus
Dawes, and returning, paused for a moment to speak to Hailey. Gimblett,
who robbed Mr. Vane of two hundred pounds, was present, he was at
that time a turnkey, holding a third-class pass, and in receipt of
two shillings per diem. Everything was quite still. I could not help
remarking how quiet the gaol was, when Gimblett said, “There's someone
speaking. I know who that is.” And forthwith took from its pegs one of
the bridles just described, and a pair of handcuffs.
I followed him to one of the cells, which he opened, and therein was
a man lying on his straw mat, undressed, and to all appearance fast
asleep. Gimblett ordered him to get up and dress himself. He did so,
and came into the yard, where Gimblett inserted the iron-wood gag in his
mouth. The sound produced by his breathing through it (which appeared
to be done with great difficulty) resembled a low, indistinct whistle.
Gimblett led him to the lamp-post in the yard, and I saw that the victim
of his wanton tyranny was the poor blind wretch Mooney. Gimblett placed
him with his back against the lamp-post, and his arms being taken round,
were secured by handcuffs round the post. I was told that the old man
was to remain in this condition for three hours. I went at once to the
Commandant. He invited me into his drawing-room--an invitation which
I had the good sense to refuse--but refused to listen to any plea for
mercy. “The old impostor is always making his blindness an excuse for
disobedience,” said he.--And this is her husband.
CHAPTER IX. THE LONGEST STRAW.
Rufus Dawes hearing, when “on the chain” the next day, of the wanton
torture of his friend, uttered no threat of vengeance, but groaned only.
“I am not so strong as I was,” said he, as if in apology for his lack of
spirit. “They have unnerved me.” And he looked sadly down at his gaunt
frame and trembling hands.
“I can't stand it no longer,” said Mooney, grimly. “I've spoken to
Bland, and he's of my mind. You know what we resolved to do. Let's do
it.”
Rufus Dawes stared at the sightless orbs turned inquiringly to his own.
The fingers of his hand, thrust into his bosom, felt a token which lay
there. A shudder thrilled him. “No, no. Not now,” he said.
“You're not afeard, man?” asked Mooney, stretching out his hand in the
direction of the voice. “You're not going to shirk?” The other avoided
the touch, and shrank away, still staring. “You ain't going to back out
after you swored it, Dawes? You're not that sort. Dawes, speak, man!”
“Is Bland willing?” asked Dawes, looking round, as if to seek some
method of escape from the glare of those unspeculative eyes.
“Ay, and ready. They flogged him again yesterday.”
“Leave it till to-morrow,” said Dawes, at length.
“No; let's have it over,” urged the old man, with a strange eagerness.
“I'm tired o' this.”
Rufus Dawes cast a wistful glance towards the wall behind which lay the
house of the Commandant. “Leave it till to-morrow,” he repeated, with
his hand still in his breast.
They had been so occupied in their conversation that neither had
observed the approach of their common enemy. “What are you hiding
there?” cried Frere, seizing Dawes by the wrist. “More tobacco, you
dog?” The hand of the convict, thus suddenly plucked from his bosom,
opened involuntarily, and a withered rose fell to the earth. Frere at
once, indignant and astonished, picked it up. “Hallo! What the devil's
this? You've not been robbing my garden for a nosegay, Jack?” The
Commandant was wont to call all convicts “Jack” in his moments of
facetiousness. It was a little humorous way he had.
Rufus Dawes uttered one dismal cry, and then stood trembling and cowed.
His companions, hearing the exclamation of rage and grief that burst
from him, looked to see him snatch back the flower or perform some act
of violence. Perhaps such was his intention, but he did not execute
it. One would have thought that there was some charm about this rose so
strangely cherished, for he stood gazing at it, as it twirled between
Captain Frere's strong fingers, as though it fascinated him. “You're a
pretty man to want a rose for your buttonhole! Are you going out with
your sweetheart next Sunday, Mr. Dawes?” The gang laughed. “How did you
get this?” Dawes was silent. “You'd better tell me.” No answer. “Troke,
let us see if we can't find Mr. Dawes's tongue. Pull off your shirt, my
man. I expect that's the way to your heart--eh, boys?”
At this elegant allusion to the lash, the gang laughed again, and looked
at each other astonished. It seemed possible that the leader of the
“Ring” was going to turn milksop. Such, indeed, appeared to be the
case, for Dawes, trembling and pale, cried, “Don't flog me again, sir!
I picked it up in the yard. It fell out of your coat one day.” Frere
smiled with an inward satisfaction at the result of his spirit-breaking.
The explanation was probably the correct one. He was in the habit of
wearing flowers in his coat and it was impossible that the convict
should have obtained one by any other means. Had it been a fig of
tobacco now, the astute Commandant knew plenty of men who would have
brought it into the prison. But who would risk a flogging for so useless
a thing as a flower? “You'd better not pick up any more, Jack,” he said.
“We don't grow flowers for your amusement.” And contemptuously flinging
the rose over the wall, he strode away.
The gang, left to itself for a moment, bestowed their attention upon
Dawes. Large tears were silently rolling down his face, and he stood
staring at the wall as one in a dream. The gang curled their lips. One
fellow, more charitable than the rest, tapped his forehead and
winked. “He's going cranky,” said this good-natured man, who could not
understand what a sane prisoner had to do with flowers. Dawes recovered
himself, and the contemptuous glances of his companions seemed to bring
back the colour to his cheeks.
“We'll do it to-night,” whispered he to Mooney, and Mooney smiled with
pleasure.
Since the “tobacco trick”, Mooney and Dawes had been placed in the new
prison, together with a man named Bland, who had already twice failed
to kill himself. When old Mooney, fresh from the torture of the
gag-and-bridle, lamented his hard case, Bland proposed that the three
should put in practice a scheme in which two at least must succeed. The
scheme was a desperate one, and attempted only in the last extremity.
It was the custom of the Ring, however, to swear each of its members
to carry out to the best of his ability this last invention of the
convict-disciplined mind should two other members crave his assistance.
The scheme--like all great ideas--was simplicity itself.
That evening, when the cell-door was securely locked, and the absence
of a visiting gaoler might be counted upon for an hour at least, Bland
produced a straw, and held it out to his companions. Dawes took it, and
tearing it into unequal lengths, handed the fragments to Mooney.
“The longest is the one,” said the blind man. “Come on, boys, and dip in
the lucky-bag!”
It was evident that lots were to be drawn to determine to whom fortune
would grant freedom. The men drew in silence, and then Bland and
Dawes looked at each other. The prize had been left in the bag.
Mooney--fortunate old fellow--retained the longest straw. Bland's hand
shook as he compared notes with his companion. There was a moment's
pause, during which the blank eyeballs of the blind man fiercely
searched the gloom, as if in that awful moment they could penetrate it.
“I hold the shortest,” said Dawes to Bland. “'Tis you that must do it.”
“I'm glad of that,” said Mooney.
Bland, seemingly terrified at the danger which fate had decreed that
he should run, tore the fatal lot into fragments with an oath, and
sat gnawing his knuckles in excess of abject terror. Mooney stretched
himself out upon his plank-bed. “Come on, mate,” he said. Bland extended
a shaking hand, and caught Rufus Dawes by the sleeve.
“You have more nerve than I. You do it.”
“No, no,” said Dawes, almost as pale as his companion. “I've run my
chance fairly. 'Twas your own proposal.” The coward who, confident in
his own luck, would seem to have fallen into the pit he had dug for
others, sat rocking himself to and fro, holding his head in his hands.
“By Heaven, I can't do it,” he whispered, lifting a white, wet face.
“What are you waiting for?” said fortunate Mooney. “Come on, I'm ready.”
“I--I--thought you might like to--to--pray a bit,” said Bland.
The notion seemed to sober the senses of the old man, exalted too
fiercely by his good fortune.
“Ay!” he said. “Pray! A good thought!” and he knelt down; and
shutting his blind eyes--'twas as though he was dazzled by some strong
light--unseen by his comrades, moved his lips silently. The silence was
at last broken by the footsteps of the warder in the corridor. Bland
hailed it as a reprieve from whatever act of daring he dreaded. “We must
wait until he goes,” he whispered eagerly. “He might look in.”
Dawes nodded, and Mooney, whose quick ear apprised him very exactly of
the position of the approaching gaoler, rose from his knees radiant. The
sour face of Gimblett appeared at the trap cell-door.
“All right?” he asked, somewhat--so the three thought--less sourly than
usual.
“All right,” was the reply, and Mooney added, “Good-night, Mr.
Gimblett.”
“I wonder what is making the old man so cheerful,” thought Gimblett, as
he got into the next corridor.
The sound of his echoing footsteps had scarcely died away, when upon the
ears of the two less fortunate casters of lots fell the dull sound of
rending woollen. The lucky man was tearing a strip from his blanket. “I
think this will do,” said he, pulling it between his hands to test its
strength. “I am an old man.” It was possible that he debated concerning
the descent of some abyss into which the strip of blanket was to lower
him. “Here, Bland, catch hold. Where are ye?--don't be faint-hearted,
man. It won't take ye long.”
It was quite dark now in the cell, but as Bland advanced his face was
like a white mask floating upon the darkness, it was so ghastly pale.
Dawes pressed his lucky comrade's hand, and withdrew to the farthest
corner. Bland and Mooney were for a few moments occupied with the
rope--doubtless preparing for escape by means of it. The silence
was broken only by the convulsive jangling of Bland's irons--he was
shuddering violently. At last Mooney spoke again, in strangely soft and
subdued tones.
“Dawes, lad, do you think there is a Heaven?”
“I know there is a Hell,” said Dawes, without turning his face.
“Ay, and a Heaven, lad. I think I shall go there. You will, old chap,
for you've been good to me--God bless you, you've been very good to me.”
* * * * *
When Troke came in the morning he saw what had occurred at a glance, and
hastened to remove the corpse of the strangled Mooney.
“We drew lots,” said Rufus Dawes, pointing to Bland, who crouched in the
corner farthest from his victim, “and it fell upon him to do it. I'm the
witness.”
“They'll hang you for all that,” said Troke.
“I hope so,” said Rufus Dawes.
The scheme of escape hit upon by the convict intellect was simply this.
Three men being together, lots were drawn to determine whom should be
murdered. The drawer of the longest straw was the “lucky” man. He was
killed. The drawer of the next longest straw was the murderer. He was
hanged. The unlucky one was the witness. He had, of course, an excellent
chance of being hung also, but his doom was not so certain, and he
therefore looked upon himself as unfortunate.
CHAPTER X. A MEETING.
John Rex found the “George” disagreeably prepared for his august
arrival. Obsequious waiters took his dressing-bag and overcoat, the
landlord himself welcomed him at the door. Two naval gentlemen came
out of the coffee-room to stare at him. “Have you any more luggage,
Mr. Devine?” asked the landlord, as he flung open the door of the best
drawing-room. It was awkwardly evident that his wife had no notion of
suffering him to hide his borrowed light under a bushel.
A supper-table laid for two people gleamed bright from the cheeriest
corner. A fire crackled beneath the marble mantelshelf. The latest
evening paper lay upon a chair; and, brushing it carelessly with her
costly dress, the woman he had so basely deserted came smiling to meet
him.
“Well, Mr. Richard Devine,” said she, “you did not expect to see me
again, did you?”
Although, on his journey down, he had composed an elaborate speech
wherewith to greet her, this unnatural civility dumbfounded him. “Sarah!
I never meant to--”
“Hush, my dear Richard--it must be Richard now, I suppose. This is not
the time for explanations. Besides, the waiter might hear you. Let us
have some supper; you must be hungry, I am sure.” He advanced to the
table mechanically. “But how fat you are!” she continued. “Too good
living, I suppose. You were not so fat at Port Ar---Oh, I forgot, my
dear! Come and sit down. That's right. I have told them all that I am
your wife, for whom you have sent. They regard me with some interest and
respect in consequence. Don't spoil their good opinion of me.”
He was about to utter an imprecation, but she stopped him by a glance.
“No bad language, John, or I shall ring for a constable. Let us
understand one another, my dear. You may be a very great man to other
people, but to me you are merely my runaway husband--an escaped convict.
If you don't eat your supper civilly, I shall send for the police.”
“Sarah!” he burst out, “I never meant to desert you. Upon my word. It is
all a mistake. Let me explain.”
“There is no need for explanations yet, Jack--I mean Richard. Have your
supper. Ah! I know what you want.”
She poured out half a tumbler of brandy, and gave it to him. He took the
glass from her hand, drank the contents, and then, as though warmed by
the spirit, laughed. “What a woman you are, Sarah. I have been a great
brute, I confess.”
“You have been an ungrateful villain,” said she, with sudden passion, “a
hardened, selfish villain.”
“But, Sarah--”
“Don't touch me!” “'Pon my word, you are a fine creature, and I was a
fool to leave you.” The compliment seemed to soothe her, for her tone
changed somewhat. “It was a wicked, cruel act, Jack. You whom I saved
from death--whom I nursed--whom I enriched. It was the act of a coward.”
“I admit it. It was.” “You admit it. Have you no shame then? Have you no
pity for me for what I have suffered all these years?”
“I don't suppose you cared much.”
“Don't you? You never thought about me at all. I have cared this much,
John Rex--bah! the door is shut close enough--that I have spent a
fortune in hunting you down; and now I have found you, I will make you
suffer in your turn.”
He laughed again, but uneasily. “How did you discover me?”
With a readiness which showed that she had already prepared an answer to
the question, she unlocked a writing-case, which was on the side table,
and took from it a newspaper. “By one of those strange accidents which
are the ruin of men like you. Among the papers sent to the overseer from
his English friends was this one.”
She held out an illustrated journal--a Sunday organ of sporting
opinion--and pointed to a portrait engraved on the centre page. It
represented a broad-shouldered, bearded man, dressed in the fashion
affected by turfites and lovers of horse-flesh, standing beside a
pedestal on which were piled a variety of racing cups and trophies. John
Rex read underneath this work of art the name,
MR. RICHARD DEVINE, THE LEVIATHAN OF THE TURF.
“And you recognized me?”
“The portrait was sufficiently like you to induce me to make inquiries,
and when I found that Mr. Richard Devine had suddenly returned from a
mysterious absence of fourteen years, I set to work in earnest. I have
spent a deal of money, Jack, but I've got you!”
“You have been clever in finding me out; I give you credit for that.”
“There is not a single act of your life, John Rex, that I do not know,”
she continued, with heat. “I have traced you from the day you stole out
of my house until now. I know your continental trips, your journeyings
here and there in search of a lost clue. I pieced together the puzzle,
as you have done, and I know that, by some foul fortune, you have stolen
the secret of a dead man to ruin an innocent and virtuous family.”
“Hullo! hullo!” said John Rex. “Since when have you learnt to talk of
virtue?”
“It is well to taunt, but you have got to the end of your tether now,
Jack. I have communicated with the woman whose son's fortune you have
stolen. I expect to hear from Lady Devine in a day or so.”
“Well--and when you hear?”
“I shall give back the fortune at the price of her silence!”
“Ho! ho! Will you?”
“Yes; and if my husband does not come back and live with me quietly, I
shall call the police.”
John Rex sprang up. “Who will believe you, idiot?” he cried. “I'll have
you sent to gaol as an impostor.”
“You forget, my dear,” she returned, playing coquettishly with her
rings, and glancing sideways as she spoke, “that you have already
acknowledged me as your wife before the landlord and the servants. It
is too late for that sort of thing. Oh, my dear Jack, you think you are
very clever, but I am as clever as you.”
Smothering a curse, he sat down beside her. “Listen, Sarah. What is the
use of fighting like a couple of children. I am rich--”
“So am I.” “Well, so much the better. We will join our riches together.
I admit that I was a fool and a cur to leave you; but I played for a
great stake. The name of Richard Devine was worth nearly half a million
in money. It is mine. I won it. Share it with me! Sarah, you and I
defied the world years ago. Don't let us quarrel now. I was ungrateful.
Forget it. We know by this time that we are not either of us angels.
We started in life together--do you remember, Sally, when I met you
first?--determined to make money. We have succeeded. Why then set to
work to destroy each other? You are handsomer than ever, I have not lost
my wits. Is there any need for you to tell the world that I am a runaway
convict, and that you are--well, no, of course there is no need. Kiss
and be friends, Sarah. I would have escaped you if I could, I admit. You
have found me out. I accept the position. You claim me as your husband.
You say you are Mrs. Richard Devine. Very well, I admit it. You have all
your life wanted to be a great lady. Now is your chance!” Much as she
had cause to hate him, well as she knew his treacherous and ungrateful
character, little as she had reason to trust him, her strange and
distempered affection for the scoundrel came upon her again with
gathering strength. As she sat beside him, listening to the familiar
tones of the voice she had learned to love, greedily drinking in the
promise of a future fidelity which she was well aware was made but to
be broken, her memory recalled the past days of trust and happiness,
and her woman's fancy once more invested the selfish villain she had
reclaimed with those attributes which had enchained her wilful and
wayward affections. The unselfish devotion which had marked her conduct
to the swindler and convict was, indeed, her one redeeming virtue; and
perhaps she felt dimly--poor woman--that it were better for her to cling
to that, if she lost all the world beside. Her wish for vengeance melted
under the influence of these thoughts. The bitterness of despised
love, the shame and anger of desertion, ingratitude, and betrayal, all
vanished. The tears of a sweet forgiveness trembled in her eyes, the
unreasoning love of her sex--faithful to nought but love, and faithful
to love in death--shook in her voice. She took his coward hand and
kissed it, pardoning all his baseness with the sole reproach, “Oh, John,
John, you might have trusted me after all?”
John Rex had conquered, and he smiled as he embraced her. “I wish I
had,” said he; “it would have saved me many regrets; but never mind. Sit
down; now we will have supper.”
“Your preference has one drawback, Sarah,” he said, when the meal was
concluded, and the two sat down to consider their immediate course of
action, “it doubles the chance of detection.”
“How so?”
“People have accepted me without inquiry, but I am afraid not without
dislike. Mr. Francis Wade, my uncle, never liked me; and I fear I have
not played my cards well with Lady Devine. When they find I have a
mysterious wife their dislike will become suspicion. Is it likely that I
should have been married all these years and not have informed them?”
“Very unlikely,” returned Sarah calmly, “and that is just the reason why
you have not been married all these years. Really,” she added, with
a laugh, “the male intellect is very dull. You have already told ten
thousand lies about this affair, and yet you don't see your way to tell
one more.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, my dear Richard, you surely cannot have forgotten that you married
me last year on the Continent? By the way, it was last year that you
were there, was it not? I am the daughter of a poor clergyman of the
Church of England; name--anything you please--and you met me--where
shall we say? Baden, Aix, Brussels? Cross the Alps, if you like, dear,
and say Rome.” John Rex put his hand to his head. “Of course--I am
stupid,” said he. “I have not been well lately. Too much brandy, I
suppose.”
“Well, we will alter all that,” she returned with a laugh, which her
anxious glance at him belied. “You are going to be domestic now, Jack--I
mean Dick.”
“Go on,” said he impatiently. “What then?”
“Then, having settled these little preliminaries, you take me up to
London and introduce me to your relatives and friends.”
He started. “A bold game.”
“Bold! Nonsense! The only safe one. People don't, as a rule, suspect
unless one is mysterious. You must do it; I have arranged for your doing
it. The waiters here all know me as your wife. There is not the least
danger--unless, indeed, you are married already?” she added, with a
quick and angry suspicion.
“You need not be alarmed. I was not such a fool as to marry another
woman while you were alive--had I even seen one I would have cared to
marry. But what of Lady Devine? You say you have told her.”
“I have told her to communicate with Mrs. Carr, Post Office, Torquay,
in order to hear something to her advantage. If you had been rebellious,
John, the 'something' would have been a letter from me telling her who
you really are. Now you have proved obedient, the 'something' will be
a begging letter of a sort which she has already received hundreds, and
which in all probability she will not even answer. What do you think of
that, Mr. Richard Devine?”
“You deserve success, Sarah,” said the old schemer, in genuine
admiration. “By Jove, this is something like the old days, when we were
Mr. and Mrs. Crofton.”
“Or Mr. and Mrs. Skinner, eh, John?” she said, with as much tenderness
in her voice as though she had been a virtuous matron recalling her
honeymoon. “That was an unlucky name, wasn't it, dear? You should have
taken my advice there.” And immersed in recollection of their past
rogueries, the worthy pair pensively smiled. Rex was the first to awake
from that pleasant reverie.
“I will be guided by you, then,” he said. “What next?”
“Next--for, as you say, my presence doubles the danger--we will contrive
to withdraw quietly from England. The introduction to your mother over,
and Mr. Francis disposed of, we will go to Hampstead, and live there for
a while. During that time you must turn into cash as much property as
you dare. We will then go abroad for the 'season'--and stop there. After
a year or so on the Continent you can write to our agent to sell more
property; and, finally, when we are regarded as permanent absentees--and
three or four years will bring that about--we will get rid of
everything, and slip over to America. Then you can endow a charity
if you like, or build a church to the memory of the man you have
displaced.”
John Rex burst into a laugh. “An excellent plan. I like the idea of the
charity--the Devine Hospital, eh?”
“By the way, how did you find out the particulars of this man's life. He
was burned in the Hydaspes, wasn't he?”
“No,” said Rex, with an air of pride. “He was transported in the Malabar
under the name of Rufus Dawes. You remember him. It is a long story. The
particulars weren't numerous, and if the old lady had been half sharp
she would have bowled me out. But the fact was she wanted to find the
fellow alive, and was willing to take a good deal on trust. I'll tell
you all about it another time. I think I'll go to bed now; I'm tired,
and my head aches as though it would split.”
“Then it is decided that you follow my directions?”
“Yes.”
She rose and placed her hand on the bell. “What are you going to do?” he
said uneasily.
“I am going to do nothing. You are going to telegraph to your servants
to have the house in London prepared for your wife, who will return with
you the day after to-morrow.”
John Rex stayed her hand with a sudden angry gesture. “This is all
devilish fine,” he said, “but suppose it fails?”
“That is your affair, John. You need not go on with this business at
all, unless you like. I had rather you didn't.”
“What the deuce am I to do, then?”
“I am not as rich as you are, but, with my station and so on, I am worth
seven thousand a year. Come back to Australia with me, and let these
poor people enjoy their own again. Ah, John, it is the best thing to do,
believe me. We can afford to be honest now.”
“A fine scheme!” cried he. “Give up half a million of money, and go back
to Australia! You must be mad!”
“Then telegraph.”
“But, my dear--”
“Hush, here's the waiter.”
As he wrote, John Rex felt gloomily that, though he had succeeded in
recalling her affection, that affection was as imperious as of yore.
CHAPTER XI. EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF THE REV. JAMES NORTH.
December 7th.--I have made up my mind to leave this place, to bury
myself again in the bush, I suppose, and await extinction. I try to
think that the reason for this determination is the frightful condition
of misery existing among the prisoners; that because I am daily
horrified and sickened by scenes of torture and infamy, I decide to go
away; that, feeling myself powerless to save others, I wish to spare
myself. But in this journal, in which I bind myself to write nothing
but truth, I am forced to confess that these are not the reasons. I will
write the reason plainly: “I covet my neighbour's wife.” It does not
look well thus written. It looks hideous. In my own breast I find
numberless excuses for my passion. I said to myself, “My neighbour does
not love his wife, and her unloved life is misery. She is forced to live
in the frightful seclusion of this accursed island, and she is dying for
want of companionship. She feels that I understand and appreciate her,
that I could love her as she deserves, that I could render her happy. I
feel that I have met the only woman who has power to touch my heart, to
hold me back from the ruin into which I am about to plunge, to make
me useful to my fellows--a man, and not a drunkard.” Whispering these
conclusions to myself, I am urged to brave public opinion, and make two
lives happy. I say to myself, or rather my desires say to me--“What
sin is there in this? Adultery? No; for a marriage without love is
the coarsest of all adulteries. What tie binds a man and woman
together--that formula of license pronounced by the priest, which the
law has recognized as a 'legal bond'? Surely not this only, for
marriage is but a partnership--a contract of mutual fidelity--and in
all contracts the violation of the terms of the agreement by one of the
contracting persons absolves the other. Mrs. Frere is then absolved, by
her husband's act. I cannot but think so. But is she willing to risk the
shame of divorce or legal offence? Perhaps. Is she fitted by temperament
to bear such a burden of contumely as must needs fall upon her? Will
she not feel disgust at the man who entrapped her into shame? Do not the
comforts which surround her compensate for the lack of affections?” And
so the torturing catechism continues, until I am driven mad with doubt,
love, and despair.
Of course I am wrong; of course I outrage my character as a priest; of
course I endanger--according to the creed I teach--my soul and hers. But
priests, unluckily, have hearts and passions as well as other men. Thank
God, as yet, I have never expressed my madness in words. What a fate is
mine! When I am in her presence I am in torment; when I am absent from
her my imagination pictures her surrounded by a thousand graces that are
not hers, but belong to all the women of my dreams--to Helen, to Juliet,
to Rosalind. Fools that we are of our own senses! When I think of her I
blush; when I hear her name my heart leaps, and I grow pale. Love! What
is the love of two pure souls, scarce conscious of the Paradise into
which they have fallen, to this maddening delirium? I can understand the
poison of Circe's cup; it is the sweet-torment of a forbidden love like
mine! Away gross materialism, in which I have so long schooled myself!
I, who laughed at passion as the outcome of temperament and easy
living--I, who thought in my intellect, to sound all the depths and
shoals of human feeling--I, who analysed my own soul--scoffed at my own
yearnings for an immortality--am forced to deify the senseless power of
my creed, and believe in God, that I may pray to Him. I know now why men
reject the cold impersonality that reason tells us rules the world--it
is because they love. To die, and be no more; to die, and rendered into
dust, be blown about the earth; to die and leave our love defenceless
and forlorn, till the bright soul that smiled to ours is smothered in
the earth that made it! No! To love is life eternal. God, I believe in
Thee! Aid me! Pity me! Sinful wretch that I am, to have denied Thee! See
me on my knees before Thee! Pity me, or let me die!
December 9th.--I have been visiting the two condemned prisoners, Dawes
and Bland, and praying with them. O Lord, let me save one soul that may
plead with Thee for mine! Let me draw one being alive out of this pit! I
weep--I weary Thee with my prayers, O Lord! Look down upon me. Grant me
a sign. Thou didst it in old times to men who were not more fervent
in their supplications than am I. So says Thy Book. Thy Book which I
believe--which I believe. Grant me a sign--one little sign, O Lord!--I
will not see her. I have sworn it. Thou knowest my grief--my agony--my
despair. Thou knowest why I love her. Thou knowest how I strive to make
her hate me. Is that not a sacrifice? I am so lonely--a lonely man, with
but one creature that he loves--yet, what is mortal love to Thee? Cruel
and implacable, Thou sittest in the heavens men have built for Thee, and
scornest them! Will not all the burnings and slaughters of the saints
appease Thee? Art Thou not sated with blood and tears, O God of
vengeance, of wrath, and of despair! Kind Christ, pity me. Thou
wilt--for Thou wast human! Blessed Saviour, at whose feet knelt the
Magdalen! Divinity, who, most divine in Thy despair, called on Thy cruel
God to save Thee--by the memory of that moment when Thou didst deem
Thyself forsaken--forsake not me! Sweet Christ, have mercy on Thy sinful
servant.
I can write no more. I will pray to Thee with my lips. I will shriek my
supplications to Thee. I will call upon Thee so loud that all the world
shall hear me, and wonder at Thy silence--unjust and unmerciful God!
December 14th.--What blasphemies are these which I have uttered in my
despair? Horrible madness that has left me prostrate, to what heights of
frenzy didst thou not drive my soul! Like him of old time, who wandered
among the tombs, shrieking and tearing himself, I have been possessed
by a devil. For a week I have been unconscious of aught save torture.
I have gone about my daily duties as one who in his dreams repeats the
accustomed action of the day, and knows it not. Men have looked at me
strangely. They look at me strangely now. Can it be that my disease of
drunkenness has become the disease of insanity? Am I mad, or do I but
verge on madness? O Lord, whom in my agonies I have confessed, leave me
my intellect--let me not become a drivelling spectacle for the curious
to point at or to pity! At least, in mercy, spare me a little. Let not
my punishment overtake me here. Let her memories of me be clouded with
a sense of my rudeness or my brutality; let me for ever seem to her
the ungrateful ruffian I strive to show myself--but let her not behold
me--that!
CHAPTER XII. THE STRANGE BEHAVIOUR OF Mr. NORTH.
On or about the 8th of December, Mrs. Frere noticed a sudden and
unaccountable change in the manner of the chaplain. He came to her one
afternoon, and, after talking for some time, in a vague and unconnected
manner, about the miseries of the prison and the wretched condition of
some of the prisoners, began to question her abruptly concerning Rufus
Dawes.
“I do not wish to think of him,” said she, with a shudder. “I have the
strangest, the most horrible dreams about him. He is a bad man. He tried
to murder me when a child, and had it not been for my husband, he would
have done so. I have only seen him once since then--at Hobart Town, when
he was taken.” “He sometimes speaks to me of you,” said North, eyeing
her. “He asked me once to give him a rose plucked in your garden.”
Sylvia turned pale. “And you gave it him?”
“Yes, I gave it him. Why not?”
“It was valueless, of course, but still--to a convict?”
“You are not angry?”
“Oh, no! Why should I be angry?” she laughed constrainedly. “It was a
strange fancy for the man to have, that's all.”
“I suppose you would not give me another rose, if I asked you.”
“Why not?” said she, turning away uneasily. “You? You are a gentleman.”
“Not I--you don't know me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that it would be better for you if you had never seen me.”
“Mr. North!” Terrified at the wild gleam in his eyes, she had risen
hastily. “You are talking very strangely.”
“Oh, don't be alarmed, madam. I am not drunk!”--he pronounced the word
with a fierce energy. “I had better leave you. Indeed, I think the less
we see of each other the better.”
Deeply wounded and astonished at this extraordinary outburst, Sylvia
allowed him to stride away without a word. She saw him pass through the
garden and slam the little gate, but she did not see the agony on his
face, or the passionate gesture with which--when out of eyeshot--he
lamented the voluntary abasement of himself before her. She thought
over his conduct with growing fear. It was not possible that he was
intoxicated--such a vice was the last one of which she could have
believed him guilty. It was more probable that some effects of the
fever, which had recently confined him to his house, yet lingered.
So she thought; and, thinking, was alarmed to realize of how much
importance the well-being of this man was to her.
The next day he met her, and, bowing, passed swiftly. This pained her.
Could she have offended him by some unlucky word? She made Maurice ask
him to dinner, and, to her astonishment, he pleaded illness as an excuse
for not coming. Her pride was hurt, and she sent him back his books and
music. A curiosity that was unworthy of her compelled her to ask the
servant who carried the parcel what the clergyman had said. “He said
nothing--only laughed.” Laughed! In scorn of her foolishness! His
conduct was ungentlemanly and intemperate. She would forget, as speedily
as possible, that such a being had ever existed. This resolution taken,
she was unusually patient with her husband.
So a week passed, and Mr. North did not return. Unluckily for the poor
wretch, the very self-sacrifice he had made brought about the precise
condition of things which he was desirous to avoid. It is possible that,
had the acquaintance between them continued on the same staid footing,
it would have followed the lot of most acquaintanceships of the
kind--other circumstances and other scenes might have wiped out the
memory of all but common civilities between them, and Sylvia might never
have discovered that she had for the chaplain any other feeling but
that of esteem. But the very fact of the sudden wrenching away of her
soul-companion, showed her how barren was the solitary life to which
she had been fated. Her husband, she had long ago admitted, with bitter
self-communings, was utterly unsuited to her. She could find in
his society no enjoyment, and for the sympathy which she needed was
compelled to turn elsewhere. She understood that his love for her had
burnt itself out--she confessed, with intensity of self-degradation,
that his apparent affection had been born of sensuality, and had
perished in the fires it had itself kindled. Many women have, unhappily,
made some such discovery as this, but for most women there is some
distracting occupation. Had it been Sylvia's fate to live in the midst
of fashion and society, she would have found relief in the conversation
of the witty, or the homage of the distinguished. Had fortune cast her
lot in a city, Mrs. Frere might have become one of those charming women
who collect around their supper-tables whatever of male intellect is
obtainable, and who find the husband admirably useful to open his own
champagne bottles. The celebrated women who have stepped out of
their domestic circles to enchant or astonish the world, have almost
invariably been cursed with unhappy homes. But poor Sylvia was not
destined to this fortune. Cast back upon herself, she found no surcease
of pain in her own imaginings, and meeting with a man sufficiently her
elder to encourage her to talk, and sufficiently clever to induce her
to seek his society and his advice, she learnt, for the first time, to
forget her own griefs; for the first time she suffered her nature
to expand under the sun of a congenial influence. This sun, suddenly
withdrawn, her soul, grown accustomed to the warmth and light, shivered
at the gloom, and she looked about her in dismay at the dull and barren
prospect of life which lay before her. In a word, she found that the
society of North had become so far necessary to her that to be deprived
of it was a grief--notwithstanding that her husband remained to console
her.
After a week of such reflections, the barrenness of life grew
insupportable to her, and one day she came to Maurice and begged to be
sent back to Hobart Town. “I cannot live in this horrible island,”
she said. “I am getting ill. Let me go to my father for a few months,
Maurice.” Maurice consented. His wife was looking ill, and Major Vickers
was an old man--a rich old man--who loved his only daughter. It was not
undesirable that Mrs. Frere should visit her father; indeed, so little
sympathy was there between the pair that, the first astonishment over,
Maurice felt rather glad to get rid of her for a while. “You can go back
in the Lady Franklin if you like, my dear,” he said. “I expect her every
day.” At this decision--much to his surprise--she kissed him with more
show of affection than she had manifested since the death of her child.