Page 559 - for-the-term-of-his-natural-life

A long low white house, surrounded by a blooming gar-
den. Wide windows opening on a lawn. The ever glorious,
ever changing sea beneath. It is evening. I am talking with
Mrs. Frere, of theories of social reform, of picture galleries,
of sunsets, and new books. There comes a sound of wheels
on the gravel. It is the magistrate returned from his convict-
discipline. We hear him come briskly up the steps, but we
go on talking. (I fancy there was a time when the lady would
have run to meet him.) He enters, coldly kisses his wife, and
disturbs at once the current of our thoughts. ‘It has been
hot to-day. What, still no letter from head-quarters, Mr.
North! I saw Mrs. Golightly in town, Sylvia, and she asked
for you. There is to be a ball at Government House. We must
go.’ Then he departs, and is heard in the distance indistinct-
ly cursing because the water is not hot enough, or because
Dawkins, his convict servant, has not brushed his trousers
sufficiently. We resume our chat, but he returns all hungry,
and bluff, and whisker-brushed. ‘Dinner. Ha-ha! I’m ready
for it. North, take Mrs. Frere.’ By and by it is, ‘North, some
sherry? Sylvia, the soup is spoilt again. Did you go out to-
day? No?’ His eyebrows contract here, and I know he says
inwardly, ‘Reading some trashy novel, I suppose.’ However,
he grins, and obligingly relates how the police have cap-
tured Cockatoo Bill, the noted bushranger.
After dinner the disciplinarian and I converse—of dogs
and horses, gamecocks, convicts, and moving accidents by
flood and field. I remember old college feats, and strive to
keep pace with him in the relation of athletics. What hypo-
crites we are!—for all the time I am longing to get to the

For the Term of His Natural Life