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.