Part 7

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.