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.