M. VANDELOUP IS UNJUSTLY SUSPECTED
‘It never rains but it pours’ is an excellent proverb, and a very true
one, for it is remarkable how events of a similar nature follow closely
on one another’s heels when the first that happened has set the ball
a-rolling. Madame Midas believed to a certain extent in this, and
she half expected that when Pierre went he would be followed by M.
Vandeloup, but she certainly did not think that the disappearance of her
husband would be followed by that of Kitty Marchurst. Yet such was the
case, for Mr Marchurst, not seeing Kitty at family prayers, had sent in
the servant to seek for her, and the scared domestic had returned with
a startled face and a letter for her master. Marchurst read the
tear-blotted little note, in which Kitty said she was going down to
Melbourne to appear on the stage. Crushing it up in his hand, he went
on with family prayers in his usual manner, and after dismissing his
servants for the night, he went up to his daughter’s room, and found
that she had left nearly everything behind, only taking a few needful
things with her. Seeing her portrait on the wall he took it down and
placed it in his pocket. Then, searching through her room, he found
some ribbons and lace, a yellow-backed novel, which he handled with the
utmost loathing, and a pair of gloves. Regarding these things as the
instruments of Satan, by which his daughter had been led to destruction,
he carried them downstairs to his dismal study and piled them in the
empty fireplace. Placing his daughter’s portrait on top he put a light
to the little pile of frivolities, and saw them slowly burn away. The
novel curled and cracked in the scorching flame, but the filmy lace
vanished like cobwebs, and the gloves crackled and shrank into mere
wisps of black leather. And over all, through the flames, her face,
bright and charming, looked out with laughing lips and merry eyes--so
like her mother’s, and yet so unlike in its piquant grace--until that
too fell into the hollow heart of the flames, and burned slowly away
into a small pile of white ashes.
Marchurst, leaving the dead ashes cold and grey in the dark fireplace,
went to his writing table, and falling on his knees he passed the rest
of the night in prayer.
Meanwhile, the man who was the primary cause of all this trouble was
working in the office of the Pactolus claim with a light heart and
cool head. Gaston had really managed to get Kitty away in a very clever
manner, inasmuch as he never appeared publicly to be concerned in it,
but directed the whole business secretly. He had given Kitty sufficient
money to keep her for some months in Melbourne, as he was in doubt when
he could leave the Pactolus without being suspected of being concerned
in her disappearance. He also told her what day to leave, and all that
day stayed at the mine working at his accounts, and afterwards spent the
evening very pleasantly with Madame Midas. Next day McIntosh went into
Ballarat on business, and on returning from the city, where he had heard
all about it--rumour, of course, magnifying the whole affair greatly--he
saw Vandeloup come out of the office, and drew up in the trap beside the
young man.
‘Aha, Monsieur,’ said Vandeloup, gaily, rolling a cigarette in his
slender fingers, and shooting a keen glance at Archie; ‘you have had a
pleasant day.’
‘Maybe yes, maybe no,’ returned McIntosh, cautiously, fumbling in the
bag; ‘there’s naething muckle in the toun, but--deil tack the bag,’
he continued, tetchily shaking it. ‘I’ve gotten a letter or so fra’
France.’
‘For me?’ cried Vandeloup, eagerly, holding out his hands.
‘An’ for who else would it be?’ grumbled Archie, giving the letter to
him--a thin, foreign looking envelope with the Parisian post mark on it;
‘did ye think it was for that black-avised freend o’ yours?’
‘Hardly!’ returned Vandeloup, glancing at the letter with satisfaction,
and putting it in his pocket. ‘Pierre couldn’t write himself, and I
doubt very much if he had any friends who could--not that I knew his
friends,’ he said, hastily catching sight of McIntosh’s severe face bent
inquiringly on him, ‘but like always draws to like.’
Archie’s only answer to this was a grunt.
‘Are ye no gangin’ tae read yon?’ he asked sourly.
‘Not at present,’ replied Vandeloup, blowing a thin wreath of blue
smoke, ‘by-and-bye will do. Scandal and oysters should both be fresh to
be enjoyable, but letters--ah, bah,’ with a shrug, ‘they can wait. Come,
tell me the news; anything going on?’
‘Weel,’ said McIntosh, with great gusto, deliberately flicking a fly off
the horse’s back with a whip, ‘she’s ta’en the bit intil her mouth and
gane wrang, as I said she would.’
‘To what special “she” are you alluding to?’ asked Vandeloup, lazily
smoothing his moustache; ‘so many of them go wrong, you see, one likes
to be particular. The lady’s name is--?’
‘Katherine Marchurst, no less,’ burst forth Archie, in triumph; ‘she’s
rin awa’ to be a play-actor.’
‘What? that child?’ said Vandeloup, with an admirable expression of
surprise; ‘nonsense! It cannot be true.’
‘D’ye think I would tell a lee?’ said Archie, wrathfully, glowering
down on the tall figure pacing leisurely along. ‘God forbid that my lips
should fa’ tae sic iniquity. It’s true, I tell ye; the lass has rin awa’
an’ left her faither--a godly mon, tho’ I’m no of his way of thinkin--to
curse the day he had sic a bairn born until him. Ah, ‘tis sorrow and
dule she hath brought tae his roof tree, an’ sorrow and dule wull be her
portion at the hands o’ strangers,’ and with this scriptural ending
Mr McIntosh sharply whipped up Rory, and went on towards the stable,
leaving Vandeloup standing in the road.
‘I don’t think he suspects, at all events,’ thought that young man,
complacently. ‘As to Madame Midas--pouf! I can settle her suspicions
easily; a little virtuous indignation is most effective as a blind;’
and M. Vandeloup, with a gay laugh, strolled on towards the house in the
gathering twilight.
Suddenly he recollected the letter, which had escaped his thoughts, in
his desire to see how McIntosh would take the disappearance of Kitty,
so as there was still light to see, he leaned up against a fence, and,
having lighted another cigarette, read it through carefully. It appeared
to afford him considerable satisfaction, and he smiled as he put it in
his pocket again.
‘It seems pretty well forgotten, this trouble about Adele,’ he said,
musingly, as he resumed his saunter; ‘I might be able to go back again
in a few years, if not to Paris at least to Europe--one can be very
happy in Monaco or Vienna, and run no risk of being found out; and,
after all,’ he muttered, thoughtfully, fingering his moustache, ‘why
not to Paris? The Republic has lasted too long already. Sooner or later
there will be a change of Government, and then I can go back a free man,
with a fortune of Australian gold. Emperor, King, or President, it’s all
the same to me, as long as I am left alone.’
He walked on slowly, thinking deeply all the time, and when he arrived
at the door of Mrs Villiers’ house, this clever young man, with his
accustomed promptitude and decision, had settled what he was going to
do.
‘Up to a certain point, of course,’ he said aloud, following his
thoughts, ‘after that, chance must decide.’
Madame Midas was very much grieved at the news of Kitty’s Escapade,
particularly as she could not see what motive she had for running away,
and, moreover, trembled to think of the temptations the innocent girl
would be exposed to in the metropolis. After tea, when Archie had gone
outside to smoke his pipe, and Selina was busy in the kitchen washing
the dishes, she spoke to Vandeloup on the subject. The young Frenchman
was seated at the piano in the darkness, striking a few random chords,
while Madame was by the fire in the arm-chair. It was quite dark, with
only the rosy glow of the fire shining through the room. Mrs Villiers
felt uneasy; was it likely that Vandeloup could have any connection with
Kitty’s disappearance? Impossible! he had given her his word of honour,
and yet--it was very strange. Mrs Villiers was not, by any means,
a timid woman, so she determined to ask Gaston right out, and get a
decided answer from him, so as to set her mind at rest.
‘M. Vandeloup,’ she said, in her clear voice, ‘will you kindly come here
a moment?
‘Certainly, Madame,’ said Gaston, rising with alacrity from the piano,
and coming to the fireside; ‘is there anything I can do?’
‘You have heard of Miss Marchurst’s disappearance?’ she asked, looking
up at him.
Vandeloup leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece, and looked down into the
fire, so that the full blaze of it could strike his face. He knew Madame
Midas prided herself on being a reader of character, and knowing he
could command his features admirably, he thought it would be politic to
let her see his face, and satisfy herself as to his innocence.
‘Yes, Madame,’ he answered, in his calm, even tones, looking down
inquiringly at the statuesque face of the woman addressing him;
‘Monsieur,’ nodding towards the door, ‘told me, but I did not think it
true.’
‘I’m afraid it is,’ sighed Madame, shaking her head. ‘She is going on
the stage, and her father will never forgive her.’
‘Surely, Madame--’ began Vandeloup, eagerly.
‘No,’ she replied, decisively, ‘he is not a hard man, but his way of
looking at things through his peculiar religious ideas has warped his
judgment--he will make no attempt to save her, and God knows what she
will come to.’
‘There are good women on the stage,’ said Vandeloup, at a loss for a
reply.
‘Certainly,’ returned Madame, calmly, ‘there are black and white sheep
in every flock, but Kitty is so young and inexperienced, that she may
become the prey of the first handsome scoundrel she meets.’
Madame had intuitively guessed the whole situation, and Vandeloup could
not help admiring her cleverness. Still his face remained the same, and
his voice was as steady as ever as he answered--
‘It is much to be regretted; but still we must hope for the best.’
Was he guilty? Madame could not make up her mind, so determined to speak
boldly.
‘Do you remember that day I introduced her to you?’
Vandeloup bowed.
‘And you gave me your word of honour you would not try to turn her
head,’ pursued Madame, looking at him; ‘have you kept your word?’
‘Madame,’ said Vandeloup, gravely, ‘I give you my word of honour that
I have always treated Mlle Kitty as a child and your friend. I did not
know that she had gone until I was told, and whatever happens to her, I
can safely say that it was not Gaston Vandeloup’s fault.’
An admirable actor this man, not a feature of his face moved, not a
single deviation from the calmness of his speech--not a quickening of
the pulse, nor the rush of betraying blood to his fair face--no! Madame
withdrew her eyes quite satisfied, M. Vandeloup was the soul of honour
and was innocent of Kitty’s disgrace.
‘Thank God!’ she said, reverently, as she looked away, for she would
have been bitterly disappointed to have found her kindness to this man
repaid by base treachery towards her friend; ‘I cannot tell you how
relieved I feel.’
M. Vandeloup withdrew his face into the darkness, and smiled in a
devilish manner to himself. How these women believed--was there any lie
too big for the sex to swallow? Evidently not--at least, so he thought.
But now that Kitty was disposed of, he had to attend to his own private
affairs, and put his hand in his pocket for the letter.
‘I wanted to speak to you on business, Madame,’ he said, taking out the
letter; ‘the long-expected has come at last.’
‘You have heard from Paris?’ asked Madame, in an eager voice.
‘I have,’ answered the Frenchman, calmly; ‘I have now the letter in my
hand, and as soon as Mlle Selina brings in the lights I will show it to
you.’
At this moment, as if in answer to his request, Selina appeared with the
lamp, which she had lighted in the kitchen and now brought in to place
on the table. When she did so, and had retired again, Vandeloup placed
his letter in Madame’s hand, and asked her to read it.
‘Oh, no, Monsieur,’ said Mrs Villiers, offering it back, ‘I do not wish
to read your private correspondence.’
Vandeloup had calculated on this, for, as a matter of fact, there was a
good deal of private matter in the letter, particularly referring to his
trip to New Caledonia, which he would not have allowed her to see. But
he knew it would inspire her with confidence in him if he placed it
wholly in her hands, and resolved to boldly venture to do so. The result
was as he guessed; so, with a smile, he took it back again.
‘There is nothing private in it, Madame,’ he said, opening the letter;
‘I wanted you to see that I had not misrepresented myself--it is from my
family lawyer, and he has sent me out a remittance of money, also some
letters of introduction to my consul in Melbourne and others; in fact,’
said M. Vandeloup, with a charming smile, putting the letter in his
pocket, ‘it places me in my rightful position, and I shall assume it as
soon as I have your permission.’
‘But why my permission ?’ asked Madame, with a faint smile, already
regretting bitterly that she was going to lose her pleasant companion.
‘Madame,’ said Vandeloup, impressively, bending forward, ‘in the words
of the Bible--when I was hungry you gave me food; when I was naked you
gave me raiment. You took me on, Madame, an unknown waif, without money,
friends, or a character; you believed in me when no one else did; you
have been my guardian angel: and do you think that I can forget your
goodness to me for the last six months? No! Madame,’ rising, ‘I have a
heart, and while I live that heart will ever remember you with gratitude
and love;’ and bending forward he took her hand and kissed it gallantly.
‘You think too much of what I have done,’ said Madame, who was,
nevertheless, pleased at this display of emotion, albeit, according to
her English ideas, it seemed to savour too much of the footlights. ‘I
only did to you what I would do to all men. I am glad, in this instance,
to find my confidence has not been misplaced; when do you think of
leaving us?’
‘In about two or three weeks,’ answered Vandeloup, carelessly, ‘but not
till you find another clerk; besides, Madame, do not think you have
lost sight of me for ever; I will go down to Melbourne, settle all my
affairs, and come up and see you again.’
‘So you say,’ replied Mrs Villiers, sceptically smiling.
‘Well,’ replied M. Vandeloup, with a shrug, ‘we will see--at all
events, gratitude is such a rare virtue that there is decided novelty in
possessing it.’
‘M. Vandeloup,’ said Madame, suddenly, after they had been chatting for
a few moments, ‘one thing you must do for me in Melbourne.’
‘I will do anything you wish,’ said Vandeloup, gravely.
‘Then,’ said Madame, earnestly, rising and looking him in the face, ‘you
must find Kitty, and send her back to me.’
‘Madame,’ said Vandeloup, solemnly, ‘it will be the purpose of my life
to restore her to your arms.’