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.”