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 I shall do to save him.”
At this repulse, her pent-up passion broke forth. She sprang to her feet, and, pushing back the hair that in her frenzied pleading had fallen about her face, poured out upon him a torrent of abuse. “You! Who are you, that you dare to speak to me like that? His little finger is worth 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 with defenceless men and weak women. You have beaten me until I was bruised black, you cur; but who ever saw you attack a man unless he was chained or bound? Do not I know you? I have seen you taunt a man at the 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 flesh and 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– God forgive me!–without learning you by heart. I’ve seen your ignorance and your conceit. I’ve seen the men who ate your food and drank your wine laugh at you. I’ve heard what your friends say; I’ve heard the comparisons they make. One of your dogs has more brains than you, and twice 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! He may hang, may he? I’ll hang with him, then, and God will forgive me for murder, for I will kill you!”
Frere had cowered before this frightful torrent of rage, but, at the scream which accompanied the last words, he stepped forward as though to seize her. In her desperate courage, she flung herself before him. “Strike me! You daren’t! I defy you! Bring up the wretched creatures who learn 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 Maurice Frere.”
“Sarah!”
“You remember Lucy Barnes–poor little Lucy Barnes that stole sixpennyworth of calico. She is downstairs now. Would you know her if you saw her? She isn’t the bright-faced baby she was when they sent her here to ‘reform’, and when Lieutenant Frere wanted a new housemaid from the Factory! Call for her!–call! do you hear? Ask any one of those beasts whom you lash and chain for Lucy Barnes. He’ll tell you all about her–ay, and about many more–many more poor souls that are at the bidding of any drunken brute that has stolen a pound note to fee the Devil with! Oh, you good God in Heaven, will You not judge this man?”
Frere trembled. He had often witnessed this creature’s whirlwinds of passion, but never had he seen her so violent as this. Her frenzy frightened him. “For Heaven’s sake, Sarah, be quiet. What is it you want? 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 when I passed her–have seen her gather up her muslin skirts when my silks touched her–I that nursed her, that heard her say her baby-prayers (O Jesus, pity me!)–and I know what she thinks of women like me. She is good–and virtuous–and cold. She would shudder at you if she knew what I 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 her my story–till I send some of these poor women to tell theirs. You kill my love; I’ll blight and ruin yours!”
Frere caught her by both wrists, and with all his strength forced her to her knees. “Don’t speak her name,” he said in a hoarse voice, “or I’ll do you a mischief. I know all you mean to do. I’m not such a fool as not to see that. Be quiet! Men have murdered women like you, and now I know how 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, and you 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 must go.”
“May I see him?”
“No.”
“Ah, Maurice!”
“You can see him in the dock if you like,” says Frere, with a laugh, cut short 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 never to 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 victory she 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, with a 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 a bargain?”
“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 not resist 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 double irons at Port Arthur, and he’s safe enough.”
The smile on her face seemed infectious, for his own sullen features relaxed. “Good night, Sarah,” he said.
She put out her hand, as if nothing had happened. “Good night, Captain Frere. 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 his glass. “Here’s a good voyage to you!”
Sarah Purfoy, watching him, burst into a laugh. “Human beings are queer creatures,” she said. “Who would have thought that we had been calling each 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 that leaves.”
“Never fear, I’ll go.”
Getting into the cool street directly, and seeing the calm stars shining, and the placid water sleeping with a peace in which he had no share, he strove to cast off the nervous fear that was on him. That interview had frightened him, for it had made him think. It was hard that, just as he had turned over a new leaf, this old blot should come through to the clean page. It was cruel that, having comfortably forgotten the past, he should be thus rudely reminded of it.
Chapter III.
The Story Of Two Birds Of Prey
The reader of the foregoing pages has doubtless asked himself, “what is the link which binds together John Rex and Sarah Purfoy?”
In the year 1825 there lived at St. Heliers, Jersey, an old watchmaker, named Urban Purfoy. He was a hard-working man, and had amassed a little money–sufficient to give his grand-daughter an education above the common in those days. At sixteen, Sarah Purfoy was an empty-headed, strong-willed, precocious girl, with big brown eyes. She had a bad opinion of her own sex, and an immense admiration for the young and handsome members of the other. The neighbours said that she was too high and mighty for her rank in life. Her grandfather said she was a “beauty”, and like her poor dear mother. She herself thought rather meanly of her personal attractions, and rather highly of her mental ones. She was brimful of vitality, with strong passions, and little religious sentiment. She had not much respect for moral courage, for she did not understand it; but she was a profound admirer of personal prowess. Her distaste for the humdrum life she was leading found expression in a rebellion against social usages. She courted notoriety by eccentricities of dress, and was never so happy as when she was misunderstood. She was the sort of girl of whom women say– “It is a pity she has no mother”; and men, “It is a pity she does not get a husband”; and who say to themselves, “When shall I have a lover?” There was no lack of beings of this latter class among the officers quartered in Fort Royal and Fort Henry; but the female population of the island was free and numerous, and in the embarrassment of riches, Sarah was overlooked. Though she adored the soldiery, her first lover was a civilian. Walking one day on the cliff, she met a young man. He was tall, well-looking, and well-dressed. His name was Lemoine; he was the son of a somewhat wealthy resident of the island, and had come down from London to recruit his health and to see his friends. Sarah was struck by his appearance, and looked back at him. He had been struck by hers, and looked back also. He followed her, and spoke to her–some remark about the wind or the weather– and she thought his voice divine. They got into conversation–about scenery, lonely walks, and the dullness of St. Heliers. “Did she often walk there?” “Sometimes.” “Would she be there tomorrow?” “She might.” Mr. Lemoine lifted his hat, and went back to dinner, rather pleased with himself.