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.