Chapter IV: Part II: XII (2)

“Mac lets his boat on hire every Saturday,” the letter continues. “Dick and Daisy, now married, often go for a row.”

I let the letter fall. My thoughts revert to that day we spent on the river, the two lovers and myself. They, all in all to each other, I glad and sorry to have avoided Allan Russell. Where is he now? In Europe? Perhaps he is here in Melbourne, where Mrs. Clarke told me he has a house. I live such an isolated life, reading no newspaper, knowing nothing of the whirl of society life, except through the echoes which reach me at the house of Mrs. Forest, who herself lives on its frontiers, as well defined here as in the West End of London or the Old Faubourg St. Germain. The standard is different, rather lower, but the threshold is equally difficult to cross. Mrs. Forest is a “Climber,” one who will arrive at the top by dint of much toadying, but the set to which she belongs has only the vices of the “Smart Set.” The women composing it are always in a whirl, running from a luncheon to a bridge party, from a _matinée_ to a sale, where their frivolous minds exhaust all their energy.

My little pupils, Sylvia and Gladys, are not bad children now, but will they grow up empty headed like their elders, gauging life only by its opportunities for wearing pretty dresses, having a good time, and spending the money their husbands get by every means--even honest ones.

The sovereign power of Mammon is already inculcated in these mites of five and seven years. They ask the price of everything given to them. The other day, Sylvia, who had just received a gold thimble as a reward for her first hem, proceeded immediately to weigh it on the letter balance in order to find out its exact value. What will become of these children 15 or 20 years hence, with hearts as dry and withered as that of their mother, who under her elegant exterior, hides a Shylockian soul ever demanding its pound of flesh?

“Show me your _grands airs_,” demands Sylvia, one morning.

“What do you mean, _Chérie_?”

“Oh, Mamma said for all your ‘_grands airs_’ she didn’t pay you half as much as Bessy the cook. I would so like to see them.”

I kiss the innocent, telling her that the “_grands airs_” are the protection of those who wish to keep their dignity. This leads to a long discussion on the word “dignity.” The children adore long words. Their precocious Australian intelligence grasps the meaning of words without difficulty. If I could only take them away from this “_milieu_” of parade and appraisement where the meaner instincts of their little souls could not be further excited! The evil is not great yet, but a few hours daily is not sufficient to neutralise it.

I take up Meg’s letter again. My thoughts have wandered sadly.

She finishes by telling me how comfortably they are able to live with the proceeds from the fishing, the boat and the little orchard around the cottage. She invites me diffidently, but I know how sincerely, to stay with them a little while. “You will really be in your own house, Miss Joan; we know quite well it was your money that bought it and that the lawyer advised you to keep it yourself.” Mac sends his respects to Miss Mam’selle in a postscript. How it brings back the past! Mac has taken the pledge, and has joined the Temperance Society. Bahloo would like to send me the big fish he caught before Meg sat down to write, and is quite unhappy when he is told that it won’t stand the journey. So he has to content himself with making a superb drawing of it on the margin of the letter. Kind souls! Let them enjoy the few hundreds I gave them. It means abundance for them, the security of their old age. If things come to the worst, if I can no longer support the awful monotony of my life, I have my aunt’s pearls--the black one I will keep always. Is it not an heirloom? And then--then--does it not open to me the ivory gate--the gate of beautiful dreams?

XVII

La
Dinette

Oh! douce illusion, berce moi de tes songes.
Demandant le bonheur à tes riants mensonges
Je me sauve en tremblant de la réalité.

ALFRED DE MUSSET.

The boarding house is deserted. By a happy chance Bill and I are left in sole possession. I don’t count the old German--“The Prussian Spy”--who is fast asleep in his room after his nocturnal duties. Miss Steele is at a tea-meeting, a semi-religious, semi-social function--(what a strange blend!)--given by one of her manifold societies.

The Commercial Traveller has gone with his perennial fiancée to inspect a store at Geelong. The landlady, by a miracle, is out for the day.

Her little drudge having left (they leave as soon as they come), she has gone into the country to interview a farmer’s daughter, and get ocular proof that this much vaunted pearl possesses the virtues she demands but so far has never met. So Billy and I are quite alone. Some cold viands are in the pantry; we shall not die of hunger. The weather is delightful, one of those mild Australian days of early Autumn. The Southern breeze comes straight from the Pole; lingering over the Fitzroy Gardens, it reaches us laden with the rich perfume of flowers. It is good to be alive, to enjoy. Can I not forget my sordid surroundings just for a few hours? I have it. We will play a little comedy, Bill and I, “_Nous allons faire la Dinette_.”

First the preparations.

Followed closely by the “Little Monkey,” I proceed to the florist’s. That is the most important.

A big bunch of native boronia, for love of its exquisite scent, a big sheaf of white chrysanthemums, some autumn leaves and graceful, feathery fronds of asparagus ferns.

Then the fish shop. A tiny lobster and some oyster patties. Cream puffs, chocolate and sweets from the confectioner. I am nearly ruined, and Bill’s arms are overflowing. Something is lacking still, but my purse is empty.

No! Here’s a shilling in the middle pocket--not enough for bubbling champagne. Bill scratches his head for an idea.

“I know, Miss. Gimme the bob.”

The slangy little urchin is never at a loss for long.

“They will gimme a arf pint bottle of claret at the pub. Wine of your country, Miss.”

“Well, mind you get true Bordeaux; don’t let them give you colonial wine.”

Billy winks. I take the parcels and he is off in a trice.

He will be clever who outwits this Australian gamin.

He is back in a few minutes, the neck of the precious little bottle peeping from his pocket. We return to Gipps-street.

Now for the transformation of the Parlor.

I throw all the atrocious antimacassars in a heap. The wax monstrosity and the mantelpiece ornaments (?) are deposited in Miss Steele’s room. Opening my trunks, I unfold some oriental draperies and silken scarves.

Quickly, let us drape the hideous horsehair chairs and sofa upon which we have piled all the cushions of the house. Now the infamous oleographs. Cover them up with the autumn leaves and trails of asparagus. Billy enters into the fun with keen zest, and brings in a big earthenware pot for the white chrysanthemums. The dining-room cloth covers the painted cedar table, and we set out the _Dinette_.

“Oh, Billy, we have forgotten the lemon for the mayonnaise.”

“Princess, you shall have it.” This is the name he has bestowed on me since the episode of the pearl necklace. His brain, always in ebullition, has conjured up a whole series of thrilling adventures. He is fully persuaded that I am a princess in disguise, patronising his mother’s abode for romantic reasons of my own.

Billy returns triumphantly with a lemon. Where has he unearthed it? From the room of some unfortunate lodger who indulges in “a night cap,” the drink you must take going to bed, as Billy authoritatively informed me. Under his tutelage I shall soon know as much Australian slang as he of French.

I take the lemon without questioning aloud its mysterious appearance, only too happy to consider it a gift of the fairies, and quite determined to commit every crime, if necessary, to make the dinette complete.

The chrysanthemums are in the centre. The dessert plates are white fortunately, and innocent of the atrocious design on the dinner service. The boronia is placed at intervals in little bunches. I have kept some for my corsage and Billy’s button-hole. Now for my toilette. What can I wear? Ah! the surah peignoir which used to so scandalise poor Meg. The very thing for the occasion. Quick, too, the silk stockings and high-heeled shoes which go with it. Here is my big feather fan, mounted in pale tortoise-shell, with my monogram carved on it. That will occupy Bill, who can fan me after the dinette.

1900

BERTHE MOUCHETTE.]

But Bill! I must transform him also somehow. He cannot remain in my enchanted palace in that horrible jacket.

One of my aunt’s cashmeres. I pull it out and drape it around his shoulders, and wind a long white scarf spangled with silver around his head. He shall be the Genie of the Feast.

His queer simian features shining with repeated applications of soap and water look so droll under the turban that I dub him Hanuman on the spot. The name flatters him, and recalls vague recollections of the Arabian Nights. This book, picked up heaven knows where, and a copy of Sherlock Holmes compose his library, and are his favourite reading.

After the repast, to which we do full honour--I even suspect Bill of eating as _hors d’oeuvre_ the full plate of sandwiches left for us by his mother--we uncork the little bottle of Bordeaux, and filling our glasses, drink to the fairies, to the benevolent Genii, and to the Prince who is to deliver the Princess from the prison of the wicked Enchanter.

That is Bill’s idea, not mine.

Alas, the “Enchanter” is Destiny, and the “Prison” is Life.... No, no, no sad reflexions to-day; I want to enjoy every minute of it.

While Billy clears away the remnants of our feast--he is a treasure when he likes--I recline on the sofa, transformed for the nonce into a turkish divan, and give myself to reverie.

Hanuman brings me a pile of books, the legacy of various boarders. The title of one attracts me--The Flower of Forgiveness.

Opening it, I notice the scenes of the short stories are laid in India, the land of my golden dreams.

Bill has opened the bag of sweets, spread out the boronia on the cushions, and is now squatting on the floor in true Oriental fashion. He begins to fan me gravely with one hand, while the other dives into the bag at regular intervals to make the contents hold out longer.

The hours pass. The waning light grows too dim to read. I awaken Hanuman, who has fallen asleep at his post. The fairy story is over. The princess must don her black serge dress, the little genie his soiled jacket. Together we silently restore the room to its squalid order, put the monstrosity on the table, the crochet abominations on the chairs, and leave the blatant chromos in their native crudity.

There remain nothing of our enchanted hour but the great chrysanthemums and the suave, penetrating perfume of the dying boronia.

XVIII

Allan
Russell

“Our deeds carry their terrible consequences, consequences that are
hardly ever confined to ourselves.”

GEORGE ELIOT (“Adam Bede.”)

A letter from Mrs. Clarke recalls me to the stern realities of life. She cannot return yet. Her husband’s affairs, hindered by his illness, will keep them in England until the end of the year, perhaps longer.

Feeling wretchedly dejected, I wend my way to Mrs. Forest’s.

* * * * *

The children have been detestable, owing, no doubt to my depression and the frightful headache caused by Kate’s letter. At last, in despair and to avoid having to punish them, I let them chatter at their sweet will. There is an air of subdued excitement about the house. A visitor is expected at lunch.

“Un Monsieur tres chic, tres chic,” says Sylvia, imitating her mother’s expression. Gladys, who is practical, discloses the fact that heaps of delicious things are being prepared in the kitchen. Her little pink tongue passes appreciatively over her lips.

“There is going to be an iced _bombe_ with passion fruit,” she informs us, with a long-drawn Ah! of satisfaction.

Mrs. Forest does me the honour to rely on my taste, and asks me to arrange the flowers. The little girls help to remove the rose thorns, their tongues going busily all the time.

“He has a big yacht as big as a ship,” says Gladys, extending her small arms.

“Mamma went on board last week, and she says the saloon is gilded and panelled with pictures.”

“Perhaps he will invite us too,” returns Sylvia. “Mother says he adores children and insists on our remaining to lunch.”

The flowers finished, I try in vain to coax my pupils back to their lessons. However, the gong sounds soon, and we are in our places, when Mr. and Mrs. Forest enter with--Allan Russell. I recognise him even before he turns round. His presence scarcely affects me. I am so accustomed to seeing him in my dreams. The luncheon begins. The governess is not deemed of sufficient importance to be presented. Replying to one of the children, he turns, and his eyes meet mine. A flame leaps into them, but Sylvia is between us, and he contents himself with bowing deferentially, and explaining to his astonished hostess--

“I have the honour to know Mademoiselle Deslandes. Her uncle was one of my dearest friends,” he adds, with a look of sympathy as he notices my black dress. “I heard of his death during my last voyage to Europe. I was in your beloved Paris,” he resumes quickly, to remove the impression of sadness his words have left on me. “It is always the same, gay and brilliant. You know Paris, do you not?” turning towards Mrs. Forest, who does not like being left out of the conversation, even for an instant.

He does not speak to me again. I follow his rapid, clever, and slightly cynical talk. I am fully conscious of the charm of the moment. Since my arrival in Melbourne I have never met _un homme comme il faut_. The guests of the boarding house can scarcely aspire to that title, and Mr. Forest, worthy man, when he finds time to lunch at home, only talks about Bulls and Bears, animals whose jumps and capers seem to interest him keenly.

I learn that Mr. Russell is due at Adelaide in a few weeks for the regatta. A race between his yacht and that of another squatter has been arranged. Turning towards the children, Mr. Russell invites them on board the “Sita” the following day.

“To-morrow is the garden-party at Government House,” reminds Mrs. Forest, for whom these semi-official functions are the great events of life, the only chance she has of mingling with the “vrai monde,” whose threshold she would fain cross. Smiling ironically, he replies,

“I am not invited. I am rather ostracised just now, you know. Virtuous people, it seems, would be contaminated by my presence. One must have a charitable heart like yours, dear Madam, to be willing to receive a hardened sinner like me.”

“If you cannot come yourself,” he resumes quickly, “perhaps Mademoiselle Deslandes would bring the children, and do me the honour of visiting the yacht. It would make up for the bad luck I had in going to Gwylata just the day you were out.”

His rather mocking smile as he turns to me suggests that he saw through my motive in absenting myself.

“Or perhaps you are afraid of compromising yourself by being seen in such bad company, caressing the head of the little girl who has come to take the bonbons he has brought for her. You shall be a guarantee of my good conduct, Sylvia.”

Why should I refuse? Am I not ostracised also by poverty and isolation? As to the danger the calmness with which I meet and talk to him assure me there is none now.

I accept the invitation, and we arrange the details of the visit, to which the girls look forward with frantic delight.

Luncheon over, I take my pupils away. Mr. Russell rises to open the door, a ceremony Mr. Forest, the dear man, generally omits. As I pass out he whispers in a tone vibrating with triumph, “A demain.”

* * * * *

After a dreamless night, I awaken fresh and happy, ready to enjoy the pleasure awaiting me, heedless of the future.

Mr. Russell wants us to lunch on board, so it has been arranged that a boat shall leave the St. Kilda jetty at eleven o’clock.

To avoid a long detour, the children, in charge of their nurse, are to meet me on the beach. We dismiss Fanny, overjoyed at the prospect of a day’s holiday, and lightheartedly we three proceed to the end of the jetty, where a motor launch is waiting for us.

The bay is as calm as a lake, and the yacht is soon reached.

Mr. Russell receives us at the gangway. As soon as we step on deck the flag of France is suddenly unfurled to the breeze, and a hidden orchestra strikes up the _Marseillaise_. I am overwhelmed and quite speechless at this reception. Our host, smilingly, gives me time to recover by saying:

“I should have liked to fire off a cannon in honour of your visit, but, as the celebrated Burgomaster said after he had enumerated ninety-nine other reasons for not doing it, ‘I have no cannon.’ ‘But we have some crackers,’ he adds, turning to the little ones, ‘and we’ll fire them off at dessert in honour of Mademoiselle Jeanne.’” The steward conducts us to a state room, where we remove our wraps. Sylvia utters a cry of astonishment as I throw off my grey silk dust coat.

I could not resist the temptation to leave off my black serge dress for a day and wear in its stead one of my pretty dresses. It is only a costume of white cloth, but the cut and the discretion of the pale gold embroidery reveal the master-hand to the eyes of the child, an expert already in matters of fashion.

Is it wicked to want to appear before Allan Russell in one of the dresses of my past life, a crime to wish to leave an attractive picture in his eyes? He will go in a few days, and perhaps I shall never see him again....

Our host is waiting for us at the dining-room door. The table is decorated with _La France_ roses.

“Your flowers,” says Allan, indicating a most perfect one placed beside my plate. This new proof of the tender thought and solicitude underlying these preparations sends a wave of hot blood to my cheeks.

The lunch is very gay. The girls are delighted with the dainties and sweets provided in their honour, and the crackers contain pretty souvenirs, which are greeted with shrieks of joy.

“Sylvia,” says Allan addressing the elder, “What shall we do now? Would you rather go to the engine room or fish?”

“Fish, fish,” comes the excited reply.

“James, take charge of these little girls and give them some fishing tackle. We shall join you, kiddies, after coffee, and we’ll see who has caught the most fish.”

I ought, perhaps, to follow the children but ... Mr. Russell evidently wants to talk to me, and I don’t like to offend him by a ridiculous exhibition of prudery. He conducts me to a long chair under the awning, where our coffee is served. He begins abruptly:

“Please explain how it is I find you here in Melbourne among these shoddy people, in surroundings so unworthy of you?”

“You are among them yourself,” I cannot refrain from retorting.

“Oh, I’m an outcast,” he replies sadly, “but you.... What has happened? Who or what has forced you into this dependent position?”

“My position is honourable.”

“Quite so, I had no intention of hurting your feelings.... Permit me a rather indiscreet question.... It’s only natural I should take an interest in my old friend’s niece even if ... I had no other reason.”

“Speak,” I reply, simply.

“Well.... I thought you were married.”

“Married.”

“Yes, to Mrs. Deslandes’ son, the Reverend Hector. Your uncle certainly led me to suppose that you were engaged that day I saw him at Gwylata ... and that was my only reason for leaving so suddenly for England.”

“Well, you see the Reverend Hector didn’t want me,” I say flippantly, playing with the _La France_ rose Allan has given me.

“What do you mean?”

“What I say. I was not thought good enough for a clergyman’s wife.” It is wrong of me to speak like this, but all the unchecked bitterness wells up in my heart. “I do not wish to blame Hector; he is a Saint, and like all Saints, he sacrifices himself and other people as well. He only did what his conscience dictated. Goody-goody people look askance at me as at you. In religion at least, I have left the beaten track.”

“Then you are free, quite free?”

“Yes, I am free; are you?” I query, looking at him fixedly.

“Yes, a thousand times yes. Before my conscience, I am free to give what remains of my life to the woman who will have the courage to brave public opinion: to you, Jeanne, you whom I have loved from the first moment I saw you.”

“A love which has not prevented you from seeking others”; I cannot repress the retort.

“Oh! don’t profane the love I bear you by speaking of those idle flirtations. I am not so culpable as you think, Jeanne. If my name has been associated with that of women I have never deliberately deceived anyone. Remember, I am a homeless man. Believe me,” he resumes after a pause, “I have never betrayed a woman’s trust.”

“Jeanne,” the slumbering passion in his eyes blazes forth, “you loved me as I loved you that night of our first meeting. Don’t try to deny it. I saw it in your eyes, felt it in your trembling limbs as I clasped you in that waltz. The lightning flash of passion struck us both. Love at first sight! How I used to jeer at it as a poet’s phantasy. Be sincere, Jeanne, are you not brave enough to avow your love?” His voice is supplicating, his eyes masterful. My heart will not be denied; my whole being, body, soul, spirit, rushes towards him.... Striving to regain composure, I murmur:

“You went away, notwithstanding....”

“My departure was the greatest proof of love a man may give to a woman. I sacrificed myself to leave you in peace, in the calm happiness I thought awaiting you. I knew the memory of one night’s passionate emotion would soon be effaced from your life.”

He does not know, he must never know, how profound, how intense, is my love for him; how our souls are drawn together resistlessly, inexorably in ties woven who knows how many ages back.

His hand seeks mine, his arm encircles me, his voice murmurs loving words.... With a brusque movement I tear myself free and retreat a few steps. I feel neither anger or indignation at his impassioned words; his love is too sincere to offend me. But free love! that life of outward pleasure and inward shame; I cannot accept it.

My sound moral training rises up against it. The honour of my father’s name, the thought of Hector, whose sacrifice my shame would render worthless.... No, no, I cannot.

I move towards Allan.

“I love you, Allan. At this moment when our hearts are unveiled I could not, even if I wished, deny it; I love you as deeply, as ardently as you love me, but I cannot accept the life you offer.... Call me narrow, bourgeoise, cowardly, what you will. Let us part keeping our affection pure, the ideal of love which nothing has tarnished.”

Silently he grips the hand I tender, and we rejoin the children, who are too engrossed to have noticed our defection.

“I’ve caught two flatheads,” exclaims Sylvia.

“Flatheads?” rejoins her sister contemptuously. “I’ve got three garfish. I’m going to put them in a glass bowl and keep them alive.”

I assure her they won’t live in fresh water.

“I’ll put some salt in it.”

The children’s chatter helped to restore our composure. Allan becomes again the courteous host, the man of the world whose smile is just a trifle blasé.

He interests himself in the fishing, and has a glass bowl filled with sea water for the fish. As we are preparing to leave, Allan says, half in jest, half in earnest:

“There is time still; the yacht is well provisioned. Steam is up. Say the word, one only, and off we start for the countries you love ... Japan, India, Italy....”

“And the children, what are we to do with them?” I query, pretending to treat his words as a joke.

“The children? Oh, we can put them off at Queenscliff, and send them home by train. Or we’ll throw them overboard.”

He speaks lightly, but there is the glint of cold steel in his eyes, the glitter of the blue-eyed Gael. Beneath the careless exterior of the modern I have caught a glimpse of the primitive man.

“Too piratical, I’m afraid, to suit me,” I rejoin, hiding my agitation under a smile. “In case you have any other murderous designs, I think it’s time we went on shore. It is getting late, and Mrs. Forest will be uneasy.”

Calling the girls, I bid them thank Mr. Russell for the day’s pleasure.

One of the sailors takes the bowl of fish. While Sylvia and Gladys are saying good-bye to the sailors who showed them how to fish, Allan approaches, and glancing at the steward laden with a huge box, says simply:

“Your roses. He will take them to your lodgings.”

Then dropping his voice, he holds out his hand to the wilted flower in my corsage. “Give me that one, will you? It is a small thing to grant, after what you have refused.”

An expression of melancholy, of profound discouragement, steals across his face, and acting on an impulse stronger than my will and quicker than thought, I raise the rose to my lips before holding it out to him.

He seizes it with a low exclamation, and breathes in the kiss from the drooping petals.

* * * * *

At the boarding house, I find Bill eagerly watching for my arrival.

“A sailor brought a big box of roses for you, Miss. Has the Prince come in his magic boat to deliver the Princess?”

“Oh! Billy, the poor Prince is also a prisoner in the power of the wicked witch.”

“Quick, Miss, tell me where she hangs out, and I’ll rescue him.”

He would be as good as his word, my little Australian page, who hides a romantic soul under the speech of a larrikin.

XIX

A
“Fedora”

Take heed lest passions sway thy judgment to do aught which else free
will would not admit.
MILTON (“Paradise Lost”).

I have just received a note from Allan. He wants to see me before he leaves for Adelaide, and asks if he may call.

Receive him here! In this dingy abode, this squalid room! Besides, what good would result? We have said all there is to say. So I send a stiff reply, saying that it is better he should not call, and bidding him adieu.

Will he feel the passionate kisses imprinted on the cold words? Or see the trace of the tear I cannot repress on the stereotyped words with which I conclude?

Another note from Allan. Since I will not receive him at my lodging, will I meet him elsewhere on some neutral ground. He cannot leave without seeing me. Is it not cruelty to refuse this small boon?

“I am leaving to-morrow,” he writes, “so as to be in Adelaide on the 15th of June. Will you go with me this evening to the theatre? Fedora is on at the Princess. You know that Australian custom permits a lady to go with a friend unchaperoned. It will not be like a private interview; but at any rate we can spend these last hours together isolated by the crowd. Don’t reply. My carriage will fetch you at 7.20. I shall wait for you at the door of the theatre. Of course if you prefer to have a chaperon bring whom you please; I have a box. But it really is not necessary.”

“Can one refuse a glass of water to a poor prisoner, Bill?”

My little page is anxiously regarding the traces of emotion on my face.

I am so utterly desolate; my feelings are so pent up that I am fain to partly confide in him. He is the only friend I have, and his sympathy is sincere at any rate. His eyes, brilliant windows of the soul imprisoned in his stunted graceless body, glow at this proof of confidence.

Whom can I ask to accompany me? Miss Steele? She would be horrified. To her the theatre is the house of Satan. Besides, I remember now, she is away, at some congress probably. Mrs. Johnson? Horror! That woman sitting between me and Allan. Absurd! Odious! Except Mrs. Forest, these are the only women I know in Melbourne.

Well I will go alone. We will share these last moments of happiness together. To-morrow he will be gone.

At tea, which I have alone with the landlady and Billy, I tell the former that I am going to the theatre, and shall return late. Not to have to sit up, she gives me the key, and says that I shall find matches and a candle on the hall table. These insignificant details help me to compose myself, and presently I proceed to my room to dress. I do not want Allan to be ashamed of me. The only evening dress I have is the rose-coloured frock I wore at the Hunt Club ball two years ago. I have never had it on since that night. Mrs. Clarke had insisted on my bringing it.

“Melbourne is very dressy; you are sure to be asked to some dinner or evening.”

Poor darling, she does not know how my timidity, my pride perhaps, has thrown me back on myself. Certainly Mrs. Forest, the only society woman I know, would not dream of asking her children’s governess to a ball or a dinner.

Bill rushes up frantically to tell me that the carriage is waiting. I strongly suspect he intends to take a seat beside the coachman. Well, I shall be glad to know him near me, the devoted little fellow.

Allan is at the door of the theatre. He thanks me for having come, and amused by the drolleries of my funny attendant, he gives him a shilling to go to the gallery. Everybody in Melbourne society knows each other, and the apparition of a girl in a stage box with the “notorious” Mr. Russell causes a certain flutter. Several lorgnettes are levelled at us, but what matter? We are together. It is our last meeting, and I am jealous of every moment. Not a word, not a gesture makes me regret having come. The pallor of his face, the fire in his eyes, alone betray the repression of his feelings.

We speak little of the play. The spectacle of the woman sacrificing every thing for love’s sake is too fraught with the responsive emotion of our own hearts to make any comment.

In the middle of the play, Allan leaves me, excusing himself, but assigning no reason for his absence. Alone during the entr’acte I catch sight of Mrs. Forest in the dress circle. I endeavour to meet her eye, but evidently she does not want to recognise me. It troubles me for a moment, but Allan is back, a changed man. His dejection has disappeared; his eyes are glowing, and even before the curtain falls he hurries me away.

This eager haste to curtail the few precious minutes left to us rather astonishes me. If it depended on me I should want to lengthen them out indefinitely. However, I follow Allan without a murmur to the foot of the staircase, where he leaves me for an instant to beckon the coachman. I find myself suddenly face to face with Mrs. Forest. I bow. Instead of responding, she turns her head aside, and with a contemptuous sneer, remarks just loud enough for me to hear,

“These creatures are insolent enough to bow to people they don’t know.”

Good Mr. Forest sends me furtively a compassionate glance, but the blow has struck home. When Allan finds me I am still trembling.

The carriage rolls along to Gipps-street. My companion is silent during the drive. His hand seeks mine, but after a close clasp I withdraw it. The encounter with Mrs. Forest has unnerved me. I shall never be able to return to this woman who has publicly insulted me. The carriage stops in front of my lodging.

All is in darkness, but I have the key.

When I try to open the door it resists my pressure. The bolt is shot back, and the chain fastened.

XX

The
Storm
Breaks

“Je hais le monde lâche, hypocrite, menteur,
Qui se rit de nos pleurs, en feignant de les plaindre.
Sa vaine loi d’honneur, il me plaît de l’enfreindre.
N’ai-je point pour m’absoudre un amour immortel?

* * * * *

Aimer d’abord, c’est le devoir essentiel.”

MARTHE DUPUY.

One or two windows of the next house are opened, and curious eyes turned upon us, but nobody stirs in the boarding house.

“Bill, Bill, open the door. It is I.” No reply.

“You’ll have to give it up. They won’t open,” says Allan. “You can’t stay all night in the rain, before a closed door. Let me take you somewhere.”

Almost by force he takes me back to the carriage, and giving an order to the coachman, jumps in beside me. His voice is low and caressing as he wraps the rugs around me, pulls off my wet gloves, and chafes my numbed fingers with his burning palms. But I have gone through so much, the insult, the closed door, the thought of the unknown place to which I am being taken at this late hour, that I burst into tears. Allan reproaches himself with being their cause, and murmurs that they are the last I shall ever need to shed. His voice soothes me, though a sob shakes me now and again. After some minutes, which seem interminable, the carriage turns into a drive bordered with trees, and stops before a brilliantly lit mansion. The hall door is thrown open, and Allan carries rather than leads me into a small room opening off the spacious hall. Drawing an easy chair to the fire crackling in the grate, he kneels to pull off my satin shoes, soiled with mud during the long wait in Gipps-street.

The soft luxury of the room, the well-trained, noiseless servants rouse my suspicions and shaking off the torpor into which fatigue and distress have plunged me, I exclaim, “Where are we? Whose house is this?”

“Mine,” replies Allan, bluntly, his dark eyes ablaze in his white face.

“I don’t want to deceive you; I bribed Mrs. Johnson not to open the door. I want to compel you against your will to be happy, to leave Melbourne with me.”

Anger gives me strength to dominate my weakness. I rise, my body tense as a steel blade.

“So this is a trap, then?”

“True; all is fair in a love like mine.”

“You are mistaken in me, Allan. I am not a woman to be carried by storm.” Our eyes meet in a silent conflict of wills. His are the first to drop. Their expression changes, grows softer.

“Don’t be afraid, Jeanne, you are as safe here as under your uncle’s roof. My great love makes you sacred to me. But I cannot go away alone. I cannot live without you. Jeanne, beloved, my soul, will you not yield? You love me, I feel it. I have read it in your eyes--in that kiss you pressed on the rose. Let us go away together to some far-off spot, where no one will bother whether we are united by a formal ceremony or not.”

“You will be my wife,” he continues, his ardent voice sinking into a low, persuasive murmur; “my true mate, wife of my soul as well as the adored of my heart.”

His hands caress me. His lips seek mine. The charm and magnetism of his personality envelop me. It seems as if the passion of long bygone ages had awakened and was coursing through my burning veins. With a supreme effort of revolt, I regain mastery of myself.

“I beseech you, leave me. I appeal to your honour.”

He rises and retreats a few steps. “Ah, well, I’m ready to sacrifice the honour you invoke. I will break my promise to the woman who bears my name. I will demand a divorce. I shall probably get it. The proofs are overwhelming. She will defend the suit, other names will be dragged in; other women compromised. I shall have only a dishonoured name to offer. But what will that matter to you? You will remain impeccable--a statue whose white draperies are unstained. If your love is so poor a thing, so cold and inanimate that to gain it I must lose the only possession left to me--my word of honour--well, so be it. I submit. I’ll start for England at once, and in a few months--money hastens these things--I shall return to offer you the legal ceremony you exact. But if you have one spark of generosity, if you really love me, Jeanne, you won’t drive me to this step. You will give yourself to me unreservedly, as a woman, strong, loving and courageous, gives herself to the man of her choice.”

Without another word, without a look, Allan goes.

A brief order to the servant, and the clang of the hall door and the rumble of retreating wheels fall upon my ears.

A housemaid enters and shows me to a bedroom. Silently, except for the few necessary words of service, she helps me to undress and get into the huge bed, where, almost unconscious, I fall into the heavy sleep of complete exhaustion.

I am awakened next morning by the maid entering with a letter and writing materials.

“Our fate is in your hands,” writes Allan. “I shall accept your decision, whatever it is, without a murmur, without even trying to influence you again by my presence. It is the only reparation I can offer you for my conduct last night. I realise this morning the indignity of my action. I ask your pardon, Jeanne. Decide, you are quite free. Shall I start at once, get the divorce, and come back for you? Perhaps, though, you would rather join me in some spot chosen by yourself, where our union may be consecrated by all the legal formalities you deem necessary, or, dear one, shall not our love prove the great conqueror? Let us go together. Is it not the easiest solution? You could leave this afternoon for Adelaide, where I am less known than here. Rooms will be ready for you at the South Australian Hotel. In three days I shall be at Glenelg with the yacht whence we can depart without exciting any comment. Barker will attend to all your wants. She is discreet and intelligent, and will follow you on board the ‘Sita.’ I shall leave here myself this evening, a few hours after your departure; that is, if you will go, my darling. I shall see you off at the station--oh, nothing but a glimpse, my Jeanne, just to make sure that you won’t turn back at the last minute. If you won’t consent to follow my wishes, at the least remain here. In this house, which is yours, until the moment I am a free man, you will be quite safe. You cannot return to the woman who sold you. I shudder at the thought of another daring to do what....

“Just one word, Jeanne, to learn your decision.”

The silent maid hands me the tray of writing materials. With trembling fingers, I scrawl these words:

“I cannot fight against you and myself any longer. I will start for Adelaide as you wish.”

The struggle is over. By four o’clock Barker has finished packing, and a cab takes us to the station. Allan is there, his eyes glowing with joy. He conducts me to the sleeper he has had reserved.

“My whole life will not be long enough to thank you, cherie.” His voice is low and vibrating with the intoxication of a great triumph. “Three days, three days only, and we shall be united, beyond the power of anyone to separate us. By the way,” he adds, “here is a young man who wants to say au revoir.”

Billy steps forward with a huge bunch of roses, which he offers me with an uncertain look in his cunning eyes.

“Billy is coming with me. He has brought your trunks. They are all here, Billy, I suppose?”

Dropping his voice, he resumes, “He threatened to open the door when his mother fastened the chain. I could only obtain his neutrality by promising to let him go with his ‘Princess.’”

Billy has evidently been telling him about our fairy tales.

“Anyhow, I thought you would like to have the little fellow with you. He is quite devoted.”

Poor Billy! It was his devotion, then, which made him betray me. Well! since the die is cast, there is no good in saddening the heart of the unconscious little mortal. So I accept Billy’s flowers, his face grows serene, and the train starts as Allan from the footboard murmurs his last adieu, “je t’aime.”

XXI

Annie
Besant

“One soul that went out alone into the darkness and on the other side
found Light, that struggled through storm and on the other side found
Peace.”
ANNIE BESANT.

On our arrival at Adelaide--how different from that of barely two years ago, when I was so merry, so full of youth and glowing hopes--we are driven to the hotel. Our rooms are ready and luncheon is set in the little sitting-room adjoining. Allan has anticipated everything. Will his watchful love, his tender forethought attend me always like this?

I place myself under his guidance, even as I surrender my will to his. I am borne along by the current of his desire, as a leaf is swept by the tempest.

I had grown so weary of my solitude, of the utter forlornness of my outlook. It is sweet to feel this protecting love, enveloping and watching over me even from afar.

He will be here soon, my handsome lover, in two days, three at the most. Then, forgetting everything, the world and its empty conventions, its superficial duties, we shall set forth for the land of my dreams, Ceylon, with its palms and pearls; India, with its palaces and strange temples.

After a few hours’ rest, the rays of the setting sun gleaming on the sea whereon is Allan’s yacht, lure me to the balcony. The heavens are ablaze as with fire. Clouds of reddish violet are massed against the background of gold, and the red disc of the sun is sinking rapidly into the waves. While I am seeking intently for a glimpse of the green ray of the legend, the presage of happiness--love is making me superstitious--a familiar voice, the clear sonorous tones of Dick Power falls upon my ear.

“Daisy, the baby is awake, come quickly and take her.”

My first impulse is to rush through the half-opened French window whence Dick’s voice issues.

They are here, my dear Gwylata friends, and with them the little one of whose birth they wrote me some months ago, and whom they wished to name after me. But a second thought piercing my heart like an arrow, makes me recoil. How can I explain my presence at this hotel, where my rooms have been taken by Allan. How can I tell them that I am awaiting my lover, and that the luxury around me is the price of my shame. A wave of hot blood mounts to my forehead as the thought presents itself to me. This, then, is the future a forbidden love will entail! Constrained to hide from all those I have known and loved, to blush before the daughter of my uncle’s employé! And will not some echo of my guilt reach Hector, saddening his last years of suffering, bringing remorse for having left me to the perils of life. I close the window gently, drawing the thick curtains, but the sight of the formal sitting-room, and the numerous boxes Barker has had sent from the shops in order that I may select an outfit for a long voyage, the aspect of this prim, enigmatical woman, who, under a veneer of respect conceals perhaps contempt, and who probably laughs and jests about me with the hotel servants, all revolt me.

I am stifling. I cannot breathe here. A short walk in the fresh air for a few minutes, lost in a crowd of strangers, will help me to regain composure, tranquillity.

Declining Barker’s companionship, I leave the hotel and mingle with the throng streaming from the railway station opposite, and find myself in the main artery, King William-street, I remember. I force myself to note details--the straight, wide thoroughfare, suggestive, as in many new towns, of a great future, looks cheerful and animated under the electric lights. The flower and fruit shops and the brilliantly illuminated hotel bars are open to the happy-looking folk hurrying along, citizens of a free and rich country. It is the boulevard of this city of the Antipodes, a treeless boulevard true, but with wide pavements covered with verandahs as a shield from the ardent sun. Its temples adorn the street corners--monumental banks erected for the cult of the Golden Calf. Higher up two twin towers are detached against the dark sapphire sky. Twice I ascend and descend the street, striving to get away from my thoughts; to forget myself if only for a moment, in the interest of watching the night life of the Australian city, new to me, for I know only the tranquil evening stillness of the Bush. In Melbourne I never found courage to go out alone after daylight.

A blare of instruments from one of the cross streets! It is the Salvation Army, calling to repentant sinners. Well! I don’t want to repent. Besides, the appeal is too noisy. It may touch less exacting natures. What can it offer me?

Opposite the Post Office, the Town Hall displays its illuminated facade. A big poster bears a well-known name--Annie Besant.

It is the name of the celebrated woman whose eloquence Mrs. Clarke, my dear Kate, used to extol.

Large capitals announce the title of the evening’s lecture-- Re-incarnation.

Who knows! Perhaps it may solve the mystery of my dreams, and those haunting resemblances. I enter. The room is already full; only under the balcony are there some empty seats. Two young girls make room for me. I gaze round. The audience is in some respects an extraordinary one. More than 2000 people, belonging to all classes of society, are packed closely together without distinction of rank. The clock strikes eight. A young man with ascetic features and the brow of a thinker introduces the lecturer in a few words. Everything about her is white, the snowy hair, the long statuesque folds of her dress, even her flesh has the purity and transparency of alabaster. Her voice is pure, clear and resonant, filling the great hall. In simple, lucid language, she gives a brief outline of the principles of that ancient science of which she is the modern exponent, the basic unity of religions, the brotherhood of Man, the Law of Justice controlling the universe, human perfectibility built up from the germ which, descending from its Divine source, re-ascends to God, fully developed and perfected. Then confining herself to the theme of the evening, she explains the doctrine of re-incarnation, its antiquity, its philosophy, the belief in it by all the ancient nations of the earth and by modern countries of the Orient, by many of the great minds in past ages, and by poets and thinkers of later centuries. Above all, she depicts it as the only reasonable solution of the great enigmas of evil and seeming injustice.

In concise phrases she continues:--

“Every man is a living spirit; he is part of the life of the supreme, he is the offspring of Deity. As sparks come forth from a fire, so comes he forth from the Divine Spirit. He comes to earth to learn. All are equally ignorant when plunged into human life. Ignorance is the only original sin, and it is not criminal but inevitable. As the powers of the Deity within him are unfolded he grows into the stature of the Perfect Man. Passing out of the first human life, ignorant, helpless, having committed what we should call crimes, but which were no crimes, to that new soul without knowledge to distinguish between good and evil, but were only experiences--the man passes into the intermediate world. There he learns that these things are not the best to do because they bring trouble on the other side. He takes his cravings and his passions with him; he is tormented by them until they are worn out, starved out, and then he passes on to a higher world, where everything in him of good is nourished and increased; then back to earth he comes again with the gained experience, the added knowledge to learn further lessons, every life adding some necessary experience, every re-birth bringing with it larger and wider powers, learning righteousness by the suffering that treads on the heels of evil, learning compassion by the sorrow which is endured under the yoke of oppression, learning all lessons by experience and transmuting them into character until perfection is reached, until the Perfect Man shines out in all the splendour of man become divine.

“Then compulsory re-incarnation is over; unless the man returns as Saviour he passes on, all earth’s lessons learnt, into wider life and more splendid opportunities.”

How can I give an idea of the impression these vivid words leave upon me?

If I could only give back to them the sound of that voice vibrating with emotion, alternately convincing and dominating, but more than all, restore the accents of truth, of profound conviction, which distinguish the woman who believes, the Seer who knows!

Is it a mirage, the play of my imagination, or the magnetic influences of these thousands of hearts and spirits strained towards her in the tense and breathless silence of the vast hall?

Is it the involuntary effort with which my whole being rushes forth to receive the message of Faith and Hope which her marvellous voice carries to my heart, filled with dark forebodings? I am oblivious to all but that white figure, majestic, almost superhuman in its spiritual strength. A light seems to envelop her, radiating as in an aureole.

Yes, it is the true evangel she preaches, the Gospel of Love, taught by the Christ to his brothers, but broadened, expanded, enfolding all Humanity as it toils upward, life on life, towards its final goal.

The voice of the orator drops as she explains simply and lucidly how the contradictions of life, and the presence of evil, are consequent upon the different ages of the souls born into the world. She dwells on the widely divergent ideals of morality, which, obviously, cannot be the same for the infant souls of the criminal and the savage, and for the man of genius, the saint, and seer, those elder brothers of humanity.

The final proof of the doctrine interests me keenly--that strange memory of past existences, glimpsed by some only in intermittent flashes, but to others recalled and recognised as the links of a complete and continuous chain throughout the ages.

She cites the words of Edward Carpenter, a poet, too little known--“Every pain that I suffered in one body became a power which I wielded in the next,” and those of Christ, “Be perfect, even as your Father in Heaven is perfect.”

She points out the mockery of this mandate when applied to only one short life.

“But,” she resumes, “He who spoke knew there was time enough; knew that you could grow from strength to strength; knew that divine perfection is your destiny, and urged you to step forward on the road that leads thereto.