Sylvia had become the wife of Maurice Frere. The wedding createdexcitement in the convict settlement, for Maurice Frere, thoughoppressed by the secret shame at open matrimony which affects men of hischaracter, could not in decency--seeing how "good a thing for him" wasthis wealthy alliance--demand unceremonious nuptials. So, after thefashion of the town--there being no "continent" or "Scotland" adjacentas a hiding place for bridal blushes--the alliance was entered into withdue pomp of ball and supper; bride and bridegroom departing through thegolden afternoon to the nearest of Major Vickers's stations. Thence ithad been arranged they should return after a fortnight, and take shipfor Sydney.
Major Vickers, affectionate though he was to the man whom he believedto be the saviour of his child, had no notion of allowing him to liveon Sylvia's fortune. He had settled his daughter's portion--ten thousandpounds--upon herself and children, and had informed Frere that heexpected him to live upon an income of his own earning. After manyconsultations between the pair, it had been arranged that a civilappointment in Sydney would best suit the bridegroom, who was to sellout of the service. This notion was Frere's own. He never cared formilitary duty, and had, moreover, private debts to no inconsiderableamount. By selling his commission he would be enabled at once to paythese debts, and render himself eligible for any well-paid post underthe Colonial Government that the interest of his father-in-law, and hisown reputation as a convict disciplinarian, might procure. Vickers wouldfain have kept his daughter with him, but he unselfishly acquiesced inthe scheme, admitting that Frere's plea as to the comforts she wouldderive from the society to be found in Sydney was a valid one.
"You can come over and see us when we get settled, papa," said Sylvia,with a young matron's pride of place, "and we can come and see you.Hobart Town is very pretty, but I want to see the world."
"You should go to London, Poppet," said Maurice, "that's the place.Isn't it, sir?"
"Oh, London!" cries Sylvia, clapping her hands. "And Westminster Abbey,and the Tower, and St. James's Palace, and Hyde Park, and Fleet-street!'Sir,' said Dr. Johnson, 'let us take a walk down Fleet-street.' Do youremember, in Mr. Croker's book, Maurice? No, you don't I know, becauseyou only looked at the pictures, and then read Pierce Egan's account ofthe Topping Fight between Bob Gaynor and Ned Neal, or some such person."
"Little girls should be seen and not heard," said Maurice, between alaugh and a blush. "You have no business to read my books."
"Why not?" she asked, with a gaiety which already seemed a littlestrained; "husband and wife should have no secrets from each other,sir. Besides, I want you to read my books. I am going to read Shelley toyou."
"Don't, my dear," said Maurice simply. "I can't understand him."
This little scene took place at the dinner-table of Frere's cottage, inNew Town, to which Major Vickers had been invited, in order that futureplans might be discussed.
"I don't want to go to Port Arthur," said the bride, later in theevening. "Maurice, there can be no necessity to go there."
"Well," said Maurice. "I want to have a look at the place. I ought to befamiliar with all phases of convict discipline, you know."
"There is likely to be a report ordered upon the death of a prisoner,"said Vickers. "The chaplain, a fussy but well-meaning person, has beenmemorializing about it. You may as well do it as anybody else, Maurice."
"Ay. And save the expenses of the trip," said Maurice.
"But it is so melancholy," cried Sylvia.
"The most delightful place in the island, my dear. I was there for a fewdays once, and I really was charmed."
It was remarkable--so Vickers thought--how each of these newly-matedones had caught something of the other's manner of speech. Sylvia wasless choice in her mode of utterance; Frere more so. He caught himselfwondering which of the two methods both would finally adopt.
"But those dogs, and sharks, and things. Oh, Maurice, haven't we hadenough of convicts?"
"Enough! Why, I'm going to make my living out of 'em," said Maurice,with his most natural manner.
Sylvia sighed.
"Play something, darling," said her father; and so the girl, sittingdown to the piano, trilled and warbled in her pure young voice, untilthe Port Arthur question floated itself away upon waves of melody,and was heard of no more for that time. But upon pursuing the subject,Sylvia found her husband firm. He wanted to go, and he would go. Havingonce assured himself that it was advantageous to him to do a certainthing, the native obstinacy of the animal urged him to do it despite allopposition from others, and Sylvia, having had her first "cry" over thequestion of the visit, gave up the point. This was the first differenceof their short married life, and she hastened to condone it. In thesunshine of Love and Marriage--for Maurice at first really loved her;and love, curbing the worst part of him, brought to him, as it bringsto all of us, that gentleness and abnegation of self which is the onlytoken and assurance of a love aught but animal--Sylvia's fears anddoubts melted away, as the mists melt in the beams of morning. A younggirl, with passionate fancy, with honest and noble aspiration, but withthe dark shadow of her early mental sickness brooding upon her childlikenature, Marriage made her a woman, by developing in her a woman's trustand pride in the man to whom she had voluntarily given herself. Yetby-and-by out of this sentiment arose a new and strange source ofanxiety. Having accepted her position as a wife, and put away from herall doubts as to her own capacity for loving the man to whom she hadallied herself, she began to be haunted by a dread lest he might dosomething which would lessen the affection she bore him. On one or twooccasions she had been forced to confess that her husband was more ofan egotist than she cared to think. He demanded of her no greatsacrifices--had he done so she would have found, in making them,the pleasure that women of her nature always find in suchself-mortification--but he now and then intruded on her that disregardfor the feeling of others which was part of his character. He was fondof her--almost too passionately fond, for her staider liking--but he wasunused to thwart his own will in anything, least of all in those seemingtrifles, for the consideration of which true selfishness bethinksitself. Did she want to read when he wanted to walk, he good-humouredlyput aside her book, with an assumption that a walk with him must, ofnecessity, be the most pleasing thing in the world. Did she want towalk when he wanted to rest, he laughingly set up his laziness as anall-sufficient plea for her remaining within doors. He was at no painsto conceal his weariness when she read her favourite books to him. Ifhe felt sleepy when she sang or played, he slept without apology. Ifshe talked about a subject in which he took no interest, he turned theconversation remorselessly. He would not have wittingly offended her,but it seemed to him natural to yawn when he was weary, to sleep whenhe was fatigued, and to talk only about those subjects which interestedhim. Had anybody told him that he was selfish, he would have beenastonished. Thus it came about that Sylvia one day discovered that sheled two lives--one in the body, and one in the spirit--and that withher spiritual existence her husband had no share. This discovery alarmedher, but then she smiled at it. "As if Maurice could be expected to takeinterest in all my silly fancies," said she; and, despite a harassingthought that these same fancies were not foolish, but were the best andbrightest portion of her, she succeeded in overcoming her uneasiness."A man's thoughts are different from a woman's," she said; "he has hisbusiness and his worldly cares, of which a woman knows nothing. I mustcomfort him, and not worry him with my follies."
As for Maurice, he grew sometimes rather troubled in his mind. He couldnot understand his wife. Her nature was an enigma to him; her mind wasa puzzle which would not be pieced together with the rectangularcorrectness of ordinary life. He had known her from a child, had lovedher from a child, and had committed a mean and cruel crime to obtainher; but having got her, he was no nearer to the mystery of her thanbefore. She was all his own, he thought. Her golden hair was for hisfingers, her lips were for his caress, her eyes looked love upon himalone. Yet there were times when her lips were cold to his kisses, andher eye
s looked disdainfully upon his coarser passion. He would catchher musing when he spoke to her, much as she would catch him sleepingwhen she read to him--but she awoke with a start and a blush at herforgetfulness, which he never did. He was not a man to brood over thesethings; and, after some reflective pipes and ineffectual rubbings of hishead, he "gave it up". How was it possible, indeed, for him to solve themental enigma when the woman herself was to him a physical riddle? Itwas extraordinary that the child he had seen growing up by his side dayby day should be a young woman with little secrets, now to be revealedto him for the first time. He found that she had a mole on her neck, andremembered that he had noticed it when she was a child. Then it was athing of no moment, now it was a marvellous discovery. He was in dailywonderment at the treasure he had obtained. He marvelled at her femininedevices of dress and adornment. Her dainty garments seemed to himperfumed with the odour of sanctity.
The fact was that the patron of Sarah Purfoy had not met with manyvirtuous women, and had but just discovered what a dainty morsel Modestywas.
CHAPTER XVIII. IN THE HOSPITAL.
For the Term of His Natural Life Page 48