The black pearl
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