Part 6

Another inmate is an old German employé in a lighting establishment, whether gas or electricity I know not. He appears at meals only on Sundays.

There are casual visitors, too, racing people mostly, but we scarcely see anything of them. The house is full, to the supreme exultation of Mrs. Johnson, the sour-visaged virago whose stony glare fixes us if we dare take more than our wee modicum of butter or sugar.

The sole ambition of her life is to get money. For what? Good heavens! Not for her dress, which is austere beyond description. Not for the benefit of her poor little son, whose life is a daily martyrdom. To save and pinch and scrape, she does all the work of the house herself, with the assistance of a little girl of fourteen, who waits at table. Her son cleans the boots and runs errands.

Rising before daybreak, she does the dining-room and the parlor, a horrid, stuffy room decorated with a horsehair suite, a round table surmounted by a monstrosity having the temerity to style itself wax flowers, glaring, shiny surfaced “chromos” on the walls, and a yellowish carpet on the floor. But the crowning horror is reached in the woollen and cotton crochet antimacassars--a name as horrible as the articles themselves.

Billy Johnson is a small boy of twelve or thirteen. Ugly!--oh, so ugly--one is irresistibly reminded of the Simian theory. A veritable monkey, with elongated face, piercing, crafty eyes set close together, large ears, a flat nose and facial muscles never still for a moment. For the rest, a mischievous, inquisitive, ’cute young rascal, who knows everybody and everything. As soon as a newcomer is installed, the “little monkey,” an apt nickname bestowed by the boarders, does not rest until he has ferreted out all there is to know. Up to the present I have succeeded in baffling him. But he is not at all discouraged. My only fear is that he may rummage my trunks and read my letters. Well, let him! there is no mystery in my simple life, though I should not like it bared to the gaze of the indifferent.

Billy, it seems, has taken a great liking to me, firstly because of the pity in my eyes when his mother ill-treats him, and secondly because I am French.

Not, indeed, that he loves the French. To him all foreigners are inferior beings whom it behoves a little Australian to despise, but because being French I must share his detestation of all “_Deutschers_.” The German boarder is his “_bête noire_,” the only being in the world who inspires him with terror. The German Invasion is the bugbear which causes him sleepless nights.

What tricks he plays on the inoffensive old man, who cannot be other than a “Prussian spy!” He confides his dire suspicions to my ears and the means whereby his plots may be circumvented.

My evenings are dull, so I am giving him lessons in French. He is very elated at his progress.

This morning everything is quiet in the house, the inmates are presumably at Church. Mrs. Johnson is in the kitchen preparing the Sunday dinner, the only meal at which we are allowed to satisfy our hunger.

I open my trunks to get some books and photographs to make my room look less forlorn. The casket containing the necklace is among my treasures. I have never worn it since the night of my betrothal. It recalls too many painful and passionate memories. I love their pure milky beauty even while I fear the strange influence of the pearls. As I touch them caressingly, the door half-opens and Bill’s touzled head frames itself in the aperture. There is no sanctuary from Bill, no spot sacred from his inquisitiveness. Catching sight of my open trunk, he enters, regardless of my remonstrances, pulling such a droll grimace that I have not the heart to put him outside.

“Oh, what boshter pearls, my word! They look like the real thing!”

“They _are_ real pearls,” I reply, thoughtlessly, without reflecting on the anomaly of such a necklace being in the possession of one of his mother’s boarders.

“My word! Real pearls, eh!” exclaims Bill, putting unimaginable expression into his favourite exclamation, varying intonations of which depict faithfully the state of his mind.

“Yes, it’s the real thing, and no mistake.”

The “Little Monkey” is fancying himself a connoisseur in pearls as in everything else.

“Hide it well, miss; if mum sees it she’d twist your neck to get hold of it.”

“Oh, Bill! How can you speak like that of your mother?”

“It’s the truth, Miss,” nodding his head sapiently. “’Taint her fault, poor mum; she loves money like some loves drink. She’d risk her life (he says ‘loife’) for the money she’d get for them pearls. As for yours, she wouldn’t think twice about it.” Bill is right. I have surprised glints of almost criminal covetousness in her eyes when a boarder has worn a bit of jewellery.

However, on principle, I continue to scold Bill, who looks cautiously around, opens the door, winks in a knowing fashion, and placing his finger on his lips, murmurs dramatically,

“Hist! Hide the treasure! Silence and secrecy!”

The idea is worth acting upon. It would be safer to wear the necklace under my dress than leave it in my trunk.

* * * * *

I have had a troubled night, dream chasing dream through my restless brain, leaving only a chaotic jumble of impressions. Am I to ascribe it to the thoughts of yesterday, or to the influence of the pearls around my neck?

Allan Russell seemed to dominate them all, sometimes as he appeared the night of the ball, sometimes as the Rajah of India, and yet again assuming a personality of times more remote. Only one of these visions detached itself clearly. Two men, rough and ferocious in aspect, were fighting savagely. In the heat of the struggle the red hair tied on the top of their heads was tossed back mane-like on their shoulders. They hurled imprecations at each other in a sort of wild chant. I heard the clashing of their short swords. I seemed to contemplate the scene with a dull, apathetic gaze. Finally one was killed. The victor, advancing, cut the thongs which bound me and bore me off in his brawny arms.

The blue eyes plunged into mine were those of Allan Russell, the colouring was changed, that is all. The features were those of a Gael instead of the Rajah or the Australian squatter, but the same soul animated all three, the violent and passionate soul of the man who in my dreams pursues me with a love which one life could not quench.

* * * * *

I have just received a letter from old Meg, full of particulars about my Gwylata friends. Daisy’s father is retained as manager, the new proprietor wishing to profit by his experience.

Meg and Mac have left the station.

“I could not stand,” writes Meg, “seeing a silly little thing like her (it is thus she sums up the wife of the new squatter) flaunting about in my dear mistress’s home. We are living at Wellington. Mac has bought a boat with part of the money you gave us, and Bahloo has become a fine fisherman.”

Atavism, I suppose; all the Blacks love the water; not to the extent, though, of desiring to wash in it. Bahloo used to say, with a certain amount of reason, that it is only dirty people who want to wash; the others, being clean, need not.

Meg, however, was quite deaf to the ingenious line of reasoning, and the little man, despite his tearful protests, was scrubbed daily from head to foot.

“I’m not going to give anyone the chance of calling you ‘a dirty little nigger,’” Meg used to say. It was the only bone of contention between them.

“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.

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....