The black pearl
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.