For the Term of His Natural Life

by Marcus Andrew Hislop Clarke

  The evening passed as it had passed a hundred times before; and havingsmoked a pipe at the barracks, Captain Frere returned home. His home wasa cottage on the New Town Road--a cottage which he had occupied sincehis appointment as Assistant Police Magistrate, an appointment given tohim as a reward for his exertions in connection with the Osprey mutiny.Captain Maurice Frere had risen in life. Quartered in Hobart Town,he had assumed a position in society, and had held several of thoseexcellent appointments which in the year 1834 were bestowed uponofficers of garrison. He had been Superintendent of Works atBridgewater, and when he got his captaincy, Assistant Police Magistrateat Bothwell. The affair of the Osprey made a noise; and it was tacitlyresolved that the first "good thing" that fell vacant should be given tothe gallant preserver of Major Vickers's child.

  Major Vickers also prospered. He had always been a careful man, andhaving saved some money, had purchased land on favourable terms. The"assignment system" enabled him to cultivate portions of it at a smallexpense, and, following the usual custom, he stocked his run with cattleand sheep. He had sold his commission, and was now a comparativelywealthy man. He owned a fine estate; the house he lived in was purchasedproperty. He was in good odour at Government House, and his office ofSuperintendent of Convicts caused him to take an active part in thatlocal government which keeps a man constantly before the public.Major Vickers, a colonist against his will, had become, by force ofcircumstances, one of the leading men in Van Diemen's Land. His daughterwas a good match for any man; and many ensigns and lieutenants, cursingtheir hard lot in "country quarters", many sons of settlers living ontheir father's station among the mountains, and many dapper clerks onthe civil establishment envied Maurice Frere his good fortune. Some wentso far as to say that the beautiful daughter of "Regulation Vickers" wastoo good for the coarse red-faced Frere, who was noted for his fondnessfor low society, and overbearing, almost brutal demeanour. No onedenied, however, that Captain Frere was a valuable officer. It was saidthat, in consequence of his tastes, he knew more about the tricks ofconvicts than any man on the island. It was said, even, that he was wontto disguise himself, and mix with the pass-holders and convictservants, in order to learn their signs and mysteries. When in charge atBridgewater it had been his delight to rate the chain-gangs in theirown hideous jargon, and to astound a new-comer by his knowledge of hisprevious history. The convict population hated and cringed to him, for,with his brutality, and violence, he mingled a ferocious good humour,that resulted sometimes in tacit permission to go without the letterof the law. Yet, as the convicts themselves said, "a man was never safewith the Captain"; for, after drinking and joking with them, as the SirOracle of some public-house whose hostess he delighted to honour, hewould disappear through a side door just as the constables burst inat the back, and show himself as remorseless, in his next morning'ssentence of the captured, as if he had never entered a tap-room in allhis life. His superiors called this "zeal"; his inferiors "treachery".For himself, he laughed. "Everything is fair to those wretches," he wasaccustomed to say.

  As the time for his marriage approached, however, he had in a measuregiven up these exploits, and strove, by his demeanour, to make hisacquaintances forget several remarkable scandals concerning hisprivate life, for the promulgation of which he once cared little. WhenCommandant at the Maria Island, and for the first two years after hisreturn from the unlucky expedition to Macquarie Harbour, he had notsuffered any fear of society's opinion to restrain his vices, but,as the affection for the pure young girl, who looked upon him as hersaviour from a dreadful death, increased in honest strength, he hadresolved to shut up those dark pages in his colonial experience, and toread therein no more. He was not remorseful, he was not even disgusted.He merely came to the conclusion that, when a man married, he was toconsider certain extravagances common to all bachelors as at an end.He had "had his fling, like all young men", perhaps he had been foolishlike most young men, but no reproachful ghost of past misdeeds hauntedhim. His nature was too prosaic to admit the existence of such phantoms.Sylvia, in her purity and excellence, was so far above him, that inraising his eyes to her, he lost sight of all the sordid creatures towhose level he had once debased himself, and had come in part to regardthe sins he had committed, before his redemption by the love of thisbright young creature, as evil done by him under a past condition ofexistence, and for the consequences of which he was not responsible. Oneof the consequences, however, was very close to him at this moment. Hisconvict servant had, according to his instructions, sat up for him, andas he entered, the man handed him a letter, bearing a superscription ina female hand.

  "Who brought this?" asked Frere, hastily tearing it open to read."The groom, sir. He said that there was a gentleman at the 'George theFourth' who wished to see you."

  Frere smiled, in admiration of the intelligence which had dictated sucha message, and then frowned in anger at the contents of the letter. "Youneedn't wait," he said to the man. "I shall have to go back again, Isuppose."

  Changing his forage cap for a soft hat, and selecting a stick from amiscellaneous collection in a corner, he prepared to retrace his steps."What does she want now?" he asked himself fiercely, as he strode downthe moonlit road; but beneath the fierceness there was an under-currentof petulance, which implied that, whatever "she" did want, she had aright to expect.

  The "George the Fourth" was a long low house, situated in ElizabethStreet. Its front was painted a dull red, and the narrow panes of glassin its windows, and the ostentatious affectation of red curtains andhomely comfort, gave to it a spurious appearance of old Englishjollity. A knot of men round the door melted into air as Captain Frereapproached, for it was now past eleven o'clock, and all persons foundin the streets after eight could be compelled to "show their pass" orexplain their business. The convict constables were not scrupulous inthe exercise of their duty, and the bluff figure of Frere, clad in theblue serge which he affected as a summer costume, looked not unlike thatof a convict constable.

  Pushing open the side door with the confident manner of one wellacquainted with the house, Frere entered, and made his way along anarrow passage to a glass door at the further end. A tap upon this doorbrought a white-faced, pock-pitted Irish girl, who curtsied with servilerecognition of the visitor, and ushered him upstairs. The room intowhich he was shown was a large one. It had three windows looking intothe street, and was handsomely furnished. The carpet was soft, thecandles were bright, and the supper tray gleamed invitingly from a tablebetween the windows. As Frere entered, a little terrier ran barking tohis feet. It was evident that he was not a constant visitor. The rustleof a silk dress behind the terrier betrayed the presence of a woman; andFrere, rounding the promontory of an ottoman, found himself face to facewith Sarah Purfoy.

  "Thank you for coming," she said. "Pray, sit down."

  This was the only greeting that passed between them, and Frere sat down,in obedience to a motion of a plump hand that twinkled with rings.

  The eleven years that had passed since we last saw this woman had dealtgently with her. Her foot was as small and her hand as white as of yore.Her hair, bound close about her head, was plentiful and glossy, andher eyes had lost none of their dangerous brightness. Her figure wascoarser, and the white arm that gleamed through a muslin sleeve showedan outline that a fastidious artist might wish to modify. The mostnoticeable change was in her face. The cheeks owned no longer thatdelicate purity which they once boasted, but had become thicker, whilehere and there showed those faint red streaks--as though the rich bloodthrobbed too painfully in the veins--which are the first signs of thedecay of "fine" women. With middle age and the fullness of figureto which most women of her temperament are prone, had come also thatindescribable vulgarity of speech and manner which habitual absence ofmoral restraint never fails to produce.

  Maurice Frere spoke first; he was anxious to bring his visit to asspeedy a termination as possible. "What do you want of me?" he asked.

  Sarah Purfoy laughed; a forced laugh, that sounded so unn
atural, thatFrere turned to look at her. "I want you to do me a favour--a very greatfavour; that is if it will not put you out of the way."

  "What do you mean?" asked Frere roughly, pursing his lips with a sullenair. "Favour! What do you call this?" striking the sofa on which hesat. "Isn't this a favour? What do you call your precious house and allthat's in it? Isn't that a favour? What do you mean?"

  To his utter astonishment the woman replied by shedding tears. For sometime he regarded her in silence, as if unwilling to be softened by suchshallow device, but eventually felt constrained to say something. "Haveyou been drinking again?" he asked, "or what's the matter with you?Tell me what it is you want, and have done with it. I don't know whatpossessed me to come here at all."

  Sarah sat upright, and dashed away her tears with one passionate hand.

  "I am ill, can't you see, you fool!" said she. "The news has unnervedme. If I have been drinking, what then? It's nothing to you, is it?"

  "Oh, no," returned the other, "it's nothing to me. You are the principalparty concerned. If you choose to bloat yourself with brandy, do it byall means."

  "You don't pay for it, at any rate!" said she, with quickness ofretaliation which showed that this was not the only occasion on whichthey had quarrelled.

  "Come," said Frere, impatiently brutal, "get on. I can't stop here allnight."

  She suddenly rose, and crossed to where he was standing.

  "Maurice, you were very fond of me once."

  "Once," said Maurice.

  "Not so very many years ago."

  "Hang it!" said he, shifting his arm from beneath her hand, "don't letus have all that stuff over again. It was before you took to drinkingand swearing, and going raving mad with passion, any way."

  "Well, dear," said she, with her great glittering eyes belying the softtones of her voice, "I suffered for it, didn't I? Didn't you turn me outinto the streets? Didn't you lash me with your whip like a dog? Didn'tyou put me in gaol for it, eh? It's hard to struggle against you,Maurice."

  The compliment to his obstinacy seemed to please him--perhaps the craftywoman intended that it should--and he smiled.

  "Well, there; let old times be old times, Sarah. You haven't done badly,after all," and he looked round the well-furnished room. "What do youwant?"

  "There was a transport came in this morning."

  "Well?"

  "You know who was on board her, Maurice!"

  Maurice brought one hand into the palm of the other with a rough laugh.

  "Oh, that's it, is it! 'Gad, what a flat I was not to think of itbefore! You want to see him, I suppose?" She came close to him, and, inher earnestness, took his hand. "I want to save his life!"

  "Oh, that be hanged, you know! Save his life! It can't be done."

  "You can do it, Maurice."

  "I save John Rex's life?" cried Frere. "Why, you must be mad!"

  "He is the only creature that loves me, Maurice--the only man who caresfor me. He has done no harm. He only wanted to be free--was it notnatural? You can save him if you like. I only ask for his life. Whatdoes it matter to you? A miserable prisoner--his death would be of nouse. Let him live, Maurice."

  Maurice laughed. "What have I to do with it?"

  "You are the principal witness against him. If you say that he behavedwell--and he did behave well, you know: many men would have left you tostarve--they won't hang him."

  "Oh, won't they! That won't make much difference."

  "Ah, Maurice, be merciful!" She bent towards him, and tried to retainhis hand, but he withdrew it.

  "You're a nice sort of woman to ask me to help your lover--a man wholeft me on that cursed coast to die, for all he cared," he said, with agalling recollection of his humiliation of five years back. "Save him!Confound him, not I!"

  "Ah, Maurice, you will." She spoke with a suppressed sob in her voice."What is it to you? You don't care for me now. You beat me, and turnedme out of doors, though I never did you wrong. This man was a husbandto me--long, long before I met you. He never did you any harm; he neverwill. He will bless you if you save him, Maurice."

  Frere jerked his head impatiently. "Bless me!" he said. "I don't wanthis blessings. Let him swing. Who cares?"

  Still she persisted, with tears streaming from her eyes, with white armsupraised, on her knees even, catching at his coat, and beseeching himin broken accents. In her wild, fierce beauty and passionate abandonmentshe might have been a deserted Ariadne--a suppliant Medea. Anythingrather than what she was--a dissolute, half-maddened woman, praying forthe pardon of her convict husband.

  Maurice Frere flung her off with an oath. "Get up!" he cried brutally,"and stop that nonsense. I tell you the man's as good as dead for all Ishall do to save him."

  At this repulse, her pent-up passion broke forth. She sprang to herfeet, and, pushing back the hair that in her frenzied pleading hadfallen about her face, poured out upon him a torrent of abuse. "You! Whoare you, that you dare to speak to me like that? His little finger isworth your whole body. He is a man, a brave man, not a coward, like you.A coward! Yes, a coward! a coward! A coward! You are very brave withdefenceless men and weak women. You have beaten me until I was bruisedblack, you cur; but who ever saw you attack a man unless he waschained or bound? Do not I know you? I have seen you taunt a man atthe triangles, until I wished the screaming wretch could get loose,and murder you as you deserve! You will be murdered one of these days,Maurice Frere--take my word for it. Men are flesh and blood, and fleshand blood won't endure the torments you lay on it!"

  "There, that'll do," says Frere, growing paler. "Don't excite yourself."

  "I know you, you brutal coward. I have not been your mistress--Godforgive me!--without learning you by heart. I've seen your ignorance andyour conceit. I've seen the men who ate your food and drank yourwine laugh at you. I've heard what your friends say; I've heard thecomparisons they make. One of your dogs has more brains than you, andtwice as much heart. And these are the men they send to rule us! Oh,Heaven! And such an animal as this has life and death in his hand! Hemay hang, may he? I'll hang with him, then, and God will forgive me formurder, for I will kill you!"

  Frere had cowered before this frightful torrent of rage, but, at thescream which accompanied the last words, he stepped forward as thoughto seize her. In her desperate courage, she flung herself before him."Strike me! You daren't! I defy you! Bring up the wretched creatures wholearn the way to Hell in this cursed house, and let them see you do it.Call them! They are old friends of yours. They all know Captain MauriceFrere."

  "Sarah!"

  "You remember Lucy Barnes--poor little Lucy Barnes that stolesixpennyworth of calico. She is downstairs now. Would you know her ifyou saw her? She isn't the bright-faced baby she was when they sent herhere to 'reform', and when Lieutenant Frere wanted a new housemaid fromthe Factory! Call for her!--call! do you hear? Ask any one of thosebeasts whom you lash and chain for Lucy Barnes. He'll tell you allabout her--ay, and about many more--many more poor souls that are atthe bidding of any drunken brute that has stolen a pound note to fee theDevil with! Oh, you good God in Heaven, will You not judge this man?"

  Frere trembled. He had often witnessed this creature's whirlwindsof passion, but never had he seen her so violent as this. Her frenzyfrightened him. "For Heaven's sake, Sarah, be quiet. What is it youwant? What would you do?"

  "I'll go to this girl you want to marry, and tell her all I know of you.I have seen her in the streets--have seen her look the other way whenI passed her--have seen her gather up her muslin skirts when my silkstouched her--I that nursed her, that heard her say her baby-prayers (OJesus, pity me!)--and I know what she thinks of women like me. She isgood--and virtuous--and cold. She would shudder at you if she knew whatI know. Shudder! She would hate you! And I will tell her! Ay, I will!You will be respectable, will you? A model husband! Wait till I tell hermy story--till I send some of these poor women to tell theirs. You killmy love; I'll blight and ruin yours!"

  Frere caught her by both wrists, and
with all his strength forced her toher knees. "Don't speak her name," he said in a hoarse voice, "or I'lldo you a mischief. I know all you mean to do. I'm not such a fool as notto see that. Be quiet! Men have murdered women like you, and now I knowhow they came to do it."

  For a few minutes a silence fell upon the pair, and at last Frere,releasing her hands, fell back from her.

  "I'll do what you want, on one condition."

  "What?"

  "That you leave this place."

  "Where for?"

  "Anywhere--the farther the better. I'll pay your passage to Sydney, andyou go or stay there as you please."

  She had grown calmer, hearing him thus relenting. "But this house,Maurice?"

  "You are not in debt?"

  "No."

  "Well, leave it. It's your own affair, not mine. If I help you, you mustgo."

  "May I see him?"

  "No."

  "Ah, Maurice!"

  "You can see him in the dock if you like," says Frere, with a laugh, cutshort by a flash of her eyes. "There, I didn't mean to offend you."

  "Offend me! Go on."

  "Listen here," said he doggedly. "If you will go away, and promise neverto interfere with me by word or deed, I'll do what you want."

  "What will you do?" she asked, unable to suppress a smile at the victoryshe had won.

  "I will not say all I know about this man. I will say he befriended me.I will do my best to save his life."

  "You can save it if you like."

  "Well, I will try. On my honour, I will try."

  "I must believe you, I suppose?" said she doubtfully; and then, witha sudden pitiful pleading, in strange contrast to her former violence,"You are not deceiving me, Maurice?"

  "No. Why should I? You keep your promise, and I'll keep mine. Is it abargain?"

  "Yes."

  He eyed her steadfastly for some seconds, and then turned on his heel.As he reached the door she called him back. Knowing him as she did,she felt that he would keep his word, and her feminine nature could notresist a parting sneer.

  "There is nothing in the bargain to prevent me helping him to escape!"she said with a smile.

  "Escape! He won't escape again, I'll go bail. Once get him in doubleirons at Port Arthur, and he's safe enough."

  The smile on her face seemed infectious, for his own sullen featuresrelaxed. "Good night, Sarah," he said.

  She put out her hand, as if nothing had happened. "Good night, CaptainFrere. It's a bargain, then?"

  "A bargain."

  "You have a long walk home. Will you have some brandy?"

  "I don't care if I do," he said, advancing to the table, and filling hisglass. "Here's a good voyage to you!"

  Sarah Purfoy, watching him, burst into a laugh. "Human beings are queercreatures," she said. "Who would have thought that we had been callingeach other names just now? I say, I'm a vixen when I'm roused, ain't I,Maurice?"

  "Remember what you've promised," said he, with a threat in his voice,as he moved to the door. "You must be out of this by the next ship thatleaves."

  "Never fear, I'll go."

  Getting into the cool street directly, and seeing the calm starsshining, and the placid water sleeping with a peace in which he hadno share, he strove to cast off the nervous fear that was on him. Thatinterview had frightened him, for it had made him think. It was hardthat, just as he had turned over a new leaf, this old blot shouldcome through to the clean page. It was cruel that, having comfortablyforgotten the past, he should be thus rudely reminded of it.

  CHAPTER III. THE STORY OF TWO BIRDS OF PREY.